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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: English Critical Essays + Nineteenth Century + +Author: Various + +Editor: Edmund D. Jones + +Release Date: February 15, 2010 [EBook #31283] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ENGLISH CRITICAL ESSAYS *** + + + + +Produced by Marilynda Fraser-Cunliffe, Irma Spehar and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<h3 class="classics">The World’s Classics</h3> + + +<h2 class="ccvi"><small>CCVI</small><br /><br /> + +ENGLISH<br /> +CRITICAL ESSAYS<br /> + +<small>NINETEENTH CENTURY</small></h2> + +<p class="publisher"> +<span style="letter-spacing: 0.20ex">OXFORD</span><br /> +<span style="letter-spacing: 0.20ex">UNIVERSITY PRESS</span><br /> +LONDON: AMEN HOUSE, E.C. 4<br /> +EDINBURGH GLASGOW LEIPZIG<br /> +COPENHAGEN NEW YORK TORONTO<br /> +MELBOURNE CAPETOWN BOMBAY<br /> +CALCUTTA MADRAS SHANGHAI<br /> +HUMPHREY MILFORD<br /> +PUBLISHER TO THE<br /> +UNIVERSITY<br /> +</p> + + + +<h2 class="cvii"><a name="ENGLISH" id="ENGLISH"></a>ENGLISH<br /> +CRITICAL ESSAYS<br /> +<small>NINETEENTH CENTURY</small></h2> + + +<p class="jones"><span style="font-size: 80%">SELECTED AND EDITED BY</span><br /> +EDMUND D. JONES</p> + + +<p class="publisher">OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS<br /> +LONDON: HUMPHREY MILFORD</p> + +<p class="edition"><i>The present selection of English Critical Essays (Nineteenth +Century) was first published in ‘The World’s Classics’ +in 1916 and reprinted in 1919, 1920, 1921, 1924 and 1928.</i></p> + + +<p class="printer">PRINTED IN ENGLAND AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS OXFORD<br /> +BY JOHN JOHNSON PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY</p> + + + +<h2><a name="PREFACE" id="PREFACE"></a>PREFACE<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_v" id="Page_v">[v]</a></span></h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> essays here brought together are meant to +illustrate English literary criticism during the nineteenth +century. A companion volume representative +of Renaissance and Neo-classic criticism will, +it is hoped, be issued at a future date. Meanwhile +this volume may well go forth alone. For the nineteenth +century forms an epoch in English literature +whose beginnings are more clearly defined +than those of most literary epochs. The publication +of the <i>Lyrical Ballads</i> in 1798, and of Wordsworth’s +Preface to the second edition in 1800, show +the Romantic Movement grown conscious and deliberate, +with results that have coloured the whole +stream of English poetry and criticism ever since.</p> + +<p>The greater part of the present collection deals +with general principles rather than with criticisms +of individual books or authors. The nineteenth +century, having discarded the dogmas and ‘rules’ +of Neo-classicism, had perforce to investigate +afresh the Theory of Poetry, and though no systematic +treatment of the subject in all its bearings +appeared, some valuable contributions were made, +the most notable of which came from the poets +themselves.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_vi" id="Page_vi">[vi]</a></span></p> + +<p>The extracts from the <i>Biographia Literaria</i> are +placed next to the Wordsworthian doctrines +which they criticize; otherwise the arrangement +of the essays is chronological.</p> + +<p>American criticism is represented—inadequately, +but, it is hoped, not unworthily—by the last two +essays.</p> + +<p>In the preparation of this volume I have received +much valuable help from Mr. J. C. Smith, +which I now gratefully acknowledge.</p> + +<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Edmund D. Jones.</span></p> + + + +<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">[vii]</a></span></h2> + + +<table summary="contents"> +<tr><td class="ral" colspan="2"><span class="smcap" style="font-size: 80%">Page</span></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="aname"><a href="#WILLIAM_WORDSWORTH">William Wordsworth, 1770-1850</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="awork">Poetry and Poetic Diction. (1800)</td><td class="ral"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="aname" colspan="2"><a href="#SAMUEL_TAYLOR_COLERIDGE">Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 1772-1834</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="awork">Wordsworth’s Theory of Diction. (1817)</td><td class="ral"><a href="#Page_40">40</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="awork">Metrical Composition. (1817)</td><td class="ral"><a href="#Page_57">57</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="aname" colspan="2"><a href="#WILLIAM_BLAKE">William Blake, 1757-1827</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="awork">The Canterbury Pilgrims. (1809)</td><td class="ral"><a href="#Page_85">85</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="aname" colspan="2"><a href="#CHARLES_LAMB">Charles Lamb, 1775-1834</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="awork">On the Tragedies of Shakespeare, Considered + with Reference to their Fitness for Stage + Representation. (1811)</td><td class="ral"><a href="#Page_95">95</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="aname" colspan="2"><a href="#PERCY_BYSSHE_SHELLEY">Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1792-1822</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="awork">A Defence of Poetry. (1821)</td><td class="ral"><a href="#Page_120">120</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="aname" colspan="2"><a href="#WILLIAM_HAZLITT">William Hazlitt, 1778-1830</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="awork">My First Acquaintance with Poets. (1823)</td><td class="ral"><a href="#Page_164">164</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="aname" colspan="2"><a href="#JOHN_KEBLE">John Keble, 1792-1866</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="awork">Sacred Poetry. (1825)</td><td class="ral"><a href="#Page_191">191</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="aname" colspan="2"><a href="#JOHN_HENRY_NEWMAN">John Henry Newman, 1801-1890</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="awork">Poetry with reference to Aristotle’s Poetics. (1829)</td><td class="ral"><a href="#Page_223">223</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="aname" colspan="2"><a href="#THOMAS_CARLYLE">Thomas Carlyle, 1795-1881</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="awork">The Hero as Poet. Dante; Shakespeare. (1840)</td><td class="ral"><a href="#Page_254">254</a><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_viii" id="Page_viii">[viii]</a></span></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="aname" colspan="2"><a href="#JAMES_HENRY_LEIGH_HUNT">James Henry Leigh Hunt, 1784-1859</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="awork">An Answer to the Question: What is Poetry? (1844)</td><td class="ral"><a href="#Page_300">300</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="aname" colspan="2"><a href="#MATTHEW_ARNOLD">Matthew Arnold, 1822-1888</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="awork">The Choice of Subjects in Poetry. (1853)</td><td class="ral"><a href="#Page_356">356</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="aname" colspan="2"><a href="#JOHN_RUSKIN">John Ruskin, 1819-1900</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="awork">Of the Pathetic Fallacy. (1856)</td><td class="ral"><a href="#Page_378">378</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="aname" colspan="2"><a href="#JOHN_STUART_MILL">John Stuart Mill, 1806-1873</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="awork">Thoughts on Poetry and its Varieties. (1833, revised 1859)</td><td class="ral"><a href="#Page_398">398</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="aname" colspan="2"><a href="#WALTER_BAGEHOT">Walter Bagehot, 1826-1877</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="awork">Wordsworth, Tennyson, and Browning; or, Pure, + Ornate and Grotesque Art in English Poetry. (1864)</td><td class="ral"><a href="#Page_430">430</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="aname" colspan="2"><a href="#WALTER_HORATIO_PATER">Walter Horatio Pater, 1839-1894</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="awork">Coleridge’s Writings. (1866)</td><td class="ral"><a href="#Page_492">492</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="aname" colspan="2"><a href="#RALPH_WALDO_EMERSON">Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1803-1882</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="awork">Shakespeare; or, the Poet. (1850)</td><td class="ral"><a href="#Page_535">535</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="aname" colspan="2"><a href="#JAMES_RUSSELL_LOWELL">James Russell Lowell, 1819-1891</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="awork">Wordsworth. (1875)</td><td class="ral"><a href="#Page_558">558</a></td></tr> +</table> + + + +<h2><a name="WILLIAM_WORDSWORTH" id="WILLIAM_WORDSWORTH"></a>WILLIAM WORDSWORTH<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></h2> + +<h3>1770-1850</h3> + +<h3>POETRY AND POETIC DICTION</h3> + +<h4>[Preface to the Second Edition of <i>Lyrical Ballads</i>, 1800]</h4> + + +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> first Volume of these Poems has already +been submitted to general perusal. It was published, +as an experiment, which, I hoped, might +be of some use to ascertain, how far, by fitting +to metrical arrangement a selection of the real +language of men in a state of vivid sensation, that +sort of pleasure and that quantity of pleasure +may be imparted, which a Poet may rationally +endeavour to impart.</p> + +<p>I had formed no very inaccurate estimate of +the probable effect of those Poems: I flattered +myself that they who should be pleased with +them would read them with more than common +pleasure: and, on the other hand, I was well +aware, that by those who should dislike them, +they would be read with more than common +dislike. The result has differed from my expectation +in this only, that a greater number have +been pleased than I ventured to hope I should +please.</p> + +<p class="dotted"> </p> + +<p>Several of my Friends are anxious for the +success of these Poems, from a belief, that, if the +views with which they were composed were indeed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span> +realized, a class of Poetry would be produced, well +adapted to interest mankind permanently, and not +unimportant in the quality, and in the multiplicity +of its moral relations: and on this account they +have advised me to prefix a systematic defence of +the theory upon which the Poems were written. +But I was unwilling to undertake the task, knowing +that on this occasion the Reader would look coldly +upon my arguments, since I might be suspected of +having been principally influenced by the selfish +and foolish hope of <i>reasoning</i> him into an approbation +of these particular Poems: and I was still +more unwilling to undertake the task, because, +adequately to display the opinions, and fully to +enforce the arguments, would require a space +wholly disproportionate to a preface. For, to +treat the subject with the clearness and coherence +of which it is susceptible, it would be necessary +to give a full account of the present state of the +public taste in this country, and to determine +how far this taste is healthy or depraved; which, +again, could not be determined, without pointing +out in what manner language and the human +mind act and re-act on each other, and without +retracing the revolutions, not of literature alone, +but likewise of society itself. I have therefore +altogether declined to enter regularly upon this +defence; yet I am sensible, that there would be +something like impropriety in abruptly obtruding +upon the Public, without a few words of introduction, +Poems so materially different from those +upon which general approbation is at present +bestowed.</p> + +<p>It is supposed, that by the act of writing in +verse an Author makes a formal engagement that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span> +he will gratify certain known habits of association; +that he not only thus apprises the Reader that +certain classes of ideas and expressions will be +found in his book, but that others will be carefully +excluded. This exponent or symbol held forth +by metrical language must in different eras of +literature have excited very different expectations: +for example, in the age of Catullus, Terence, and +Lucretius, and that of Statius or Claudian; and +in our own country, in the age of Shakespeare and +Beaumont and Fletcher, and that of Donne and +Cowley, or Dryden, or Pope. I will not take upon +me to determine the exact import of the promise +which, by the act of writing in verse, an Author +in the present day makes to his reader: but it +will undoubtedly appear to many persons that +I have not fulfilled the terms of an engagement +thus voluntarily contracted. They who have been +accustomed to the gaudiness and inane phraseology +of many modern writers, if they persist in reading +this book to its conclusion, will, no doubt, frequently +have to struggle with feelings of strangeness and +awkwardness: they will look round for poetry, +and will be induced to inquire by what species of +courtesy these attempts can be permitted to +assume that title. I hope therefore the reader +will not censure me for attempting to state what +I have proposed to myself to perform; and also +(as far as the limits of a preface will permit) to +explain some of the chief reasons which have +determined me in the choice of my purpose: that +at least he may be spared any unpleasant feeling +of disappointment, and that I myself may be +protected from one of the most dishonourable +accusations which can be brought against an<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span> +Author; namely, that of an indolence which +prevents him from endeavouring to ascertain +what is his duty, or, when his duty is ascertained, +prevents him from performing it.</p> + +<p>The principal object, then, proposed in these +Poems was to choose incidents and situations +from common life, and to relate or describe them, +throughout, as far as was possible in a selection +of language really used by men, and, at the same +time, to throw over them a certain colouring of +imagination, whereby ordinary things should be +presented to the mind in an unusual aspect; and, +further, and above all, to make these incidents +and situations interesting by tracing in them, +truly though not ostentatiously, the primary laws +of our nature: chiefly, as far as regards the +manner in which we associate ideas in a state of +excitement. Humble and rustic life was generally +chosen, because, in that condition, the essential +passions of the heart find a better soil in which +they can attain their maturity, are less under +restraint, and speak a plainer and more emphatic +language; because in that condition of life our +elementary feelings coexist in a state of greater +simplicity, and, consequently, may be more +accurately contemplated, and more forcibly +communicated; because the manners of rural +life germinate from those elementary feelings, +and, from the necessary character of rural +occupations, are more easily comprehended, and +are more durable; and, lastly, because in that +condition the passions of men are incorporated +with the beautiful and permanent forms of nature. +The language, too, of these men has been adopted +(purified indeed from what appear to be its real<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span> +defects, from all lasting and rational causes of +dislike or disgust) because such men hourly +communicate with the best objects from which +the best part of language is originally derived; +and because, from their rank in society and the +sameness and narrow circle of their intercourse, +being less under the influence of social vanity, +they convey their feelings and notions in simple +and unelaborated expressions. Accordingly, such +a language, arising out of repeated experience and +regular feelings, is a more permanent, and a far +more philosophical language, than that which is +frequently substituted for it by Poets, who think +that they are conferring honour upon themselves +and their art, in proportion as they separate +themselves from the sympathies of men, and +indulge in arbitrary and capricious habits of +expression, in order to furnish food for fickle tastes, +and fickle appetites, of their own creation.<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></p> + +<p>I cannot, however, be insensible to the present +outcry against the triviality and meanness, both +of thought and language, which some of my +contemporaries have occasionally introduced into +their metrical compositions; and I acknowledge +that this defect, where it exists, is more dishonourable +to the Writer’s own character than false +refinement or arbitrary innovation, though I should +contend at the same time, that it is far less pernicious +in the sum of its consequences. From such verses +the Poems in these volumes will be found distinguished +at least by one mark of difference, that each +of them has a worthy <i>purpose</i>. Not that I always +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span>began to write with a distinct purpose formally +conceived; but habits of meditation have, I trust, +so prompted and regulated my feelings, that my +descriptions of such objects as strongly excite those +feelings, will be found to carry along with them +a <i>purpose</i>. If this opinion be erroneous, I can have +little right to the name of a Poet. For all good +poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful +feelings: and though this be true, Poems to which +any value can be attached were never produced +on any variety of subjects but by a man who, +being possessed of more than usual organic +sensibility, had also thought long and deeply. +For our continued influxes of feeling are modified +and directed by our thoughts, which are indeed +the representatives of all our past feelings; and, +as by contemplating the relation of these general +representatives to each other, we discover what +is really important to men, so, by the repetition +and continuance of this act, our feelings will be +connected with important subjects, till at length, +if we be originally possessed of much sensibility, +such habits of mind will be produced, that, by +obeying blindly and mechanically the impulses of +those habits, we shall describe objects, and utter +sentiments, of such a nature, and in such connexion +with each other, that the understanding of the +Reader must necessarily be in some degree +enlightened, and his affections strengthened and +purified.</p> + +<p>It has been said that each of these poems +has a purpose. Another circumstance must be +mentioned which distinguishes these Poems from +the popular Poetry of the day; it is this, that +the feeling therein developed gives importance to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span> +the action and situation, and not the action and +situation to the feeling.</p> + +<p>A sense of false modesty shall not prevent me +from asserting, that the Reader’s attention is +pointed to this mark of distinction, far less for +the sake of these particular Poems than from the +general importance of the subject. The subject +is indeed important! For the human mind is +capable of being excited without the application +of gross and violent stimulants; and he must +have a very faint perception of its beauty and +dignity who does not know this, and who does +not further know, that one being is elevated above +another, in proportion as he possesses this capability. +It has therefore appeared to me, that to +endeavour to produce or enlarge this capability is +one of the best services in which, at any period, +a Writer can be engaged; but this service, +excellent at all times, is especially so at the +present day. For a multitude of causes, unknown +to former times, are now acting with a combined +force to blunt the discriminating powers of the +mind, and, unfitting it for all voluntary exertion, +to reduce it to a state of almost savage torpor. +The most effective of these causes are the great +national events which are daily taking place, and +the increasing accumulation of men in cities, +where the uniformity of their occupations produces +a craving for extraordinary incident, which the +rapid communication of intelligence hourly gratifies. +To this tendency of life and manners the literature +and theatrical exhibitions of the country have +conformed themselves. The invaluable works of +our elder writers, I had almost said the works of +Shakespeare and Milton, are driven into neglect<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span> +by frantic novels, sickly and stupid German +Tragedies, and deluges of idle and extravagant +stories in verse.—When I think upon this degrading +thirst after outrageous stimulation, I am almost +ashamed to have spoken of the feeble endeavour +made in these volumes to counteract it; and, +reflecting upon the magnitude of the general evil, +I should be oppressed with no dishonourable +melancholy, had I not a deep impression of certain +inherent and indestructible qualities of the human +mind, and likewise of certain powers in the great +and permanent objects that act upon it, which +are equally inherent and indestructible; and were +there not added to this impression a belief, that +the time is approaching when the evil will be +systematically opposed, by men of greater powers, +and with far more distinguished success.</p> + +<p>Having dwelt thus long on the subjects and +aim of these Poems, I shall request the Reader’s +permission to apprise him of a few circumstances +relating to their <i>style</i>, in order, among other +reasons, that he may not censure me for not +having performed what I never attempted. The +Reader will find that personifications of abstract +ideas rarely occur in these volumes; and are +utterly rejected, as an ordinary device to elevate +the style, and raise it above prose. My purpose +was to imitate, and, as far as possible, to adopt +the very language of men; and assuredly such +personifications do not make any natural or regular +part of that language. They are, indeed, a figure +of speech occasionally prompted by passion, and +I have made use of them as such; but have +endeavoured utterly to reject them as a mechanical +device of style, or as a family language which<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span> +Writers in metre seem to lay claim to by prescription. +I have wished to keep the Reader in +the company of flesh and blood, persuaded that +by so doing I shall interest him. Others who +pursue a different track will interest him likewise; +I do not interfere with their claim, but wish to +prefer a claim of my own. There will also be found +in these volumes little of what is usually called +poetic diction; as much pains has been taken to +avoid it as is ordinarily taken to produce it; this +has been done for the reason already alleged, to +bring my language near to the language of men; +and further, because the pleasure which I have +proposed to myself to impart, is of a kind very +different from that which is supposed by many +persons to be the proper object of poetry. Without +being culpably particular, I do not know how to +give my Reader a more exact notion of the style +in which it was my wish and intention to write, +than by informing him that I have at all times +endeavoured to look steadily at my subject; +consequently, there is I hope in these Poems +little falsehood of description, and my ideas are +expressed in language fitted to their respective +importance. Something must have been gained +by this practice, as it is friendly to one property +of all good poetry, namely, good sense: but it +has necessarily cut me off from a large portion of +phrases and figures of speech which from father +to son have long been regarded as the common +inheritance of Poets. I have also thought it +expedient to restrict myself still further, having +abstained from the use of many expressions, in +themselves proper and beautiful, but which have +been foolishly repeated by bad Poets, till such<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span> +feelings of disgust are connected with them as it +is scarcely possible by any art of association to +overpower.</p> + +<p>If in a poem there should be found a series of +lines, or even a single line, in which the language, +though naturally arranged, and according to the +strict laws of metre, does not differ from that of +prose, there is a numerous class of critics, who, +when they stumble upon these prosaisms, as they +call them, imagine that they have made a notable +discovery, and exult over the Poet as over a man +ignorant of his own profession. Now these men +would establish a canon of criticism which the +Reader will conclude he must utterly reject, if he +wishes to be pleased with these volumes. And it +would be a most easy task to prove to him, that +not only the language of a large portion of every +good poem, even of the most elevated character, +must necessarily, except with reference to the +metre, in no respect differ from that of good prose, +but likewise that some of the most interesting +parts of the best poems will be found to be strictly +the language of prose when prose is well written. +The truth of this assertion might be demonstrated +by innumerable passages from almost all the +poetical writings, even of Milton himself. To +illustrate the subject in a general manner, I will +here adduce a short composition of Gray, who +was at the head of those who, by their reasonings, +have attempted to widen the space of separation +betwixt Prose and Metrical composition, and was +more than any other man curiously elaborate in +the structure of his own poetic diction.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In vain to me the smiling mornings shine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And reddening Phoebus lifts his golden fire:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The birds in vain their amorous descant join,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or cheerful fields resume their green attire.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">These ears, alas! for other notes repine;<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>A different object do these eyes require;</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine;</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>And in my breast the imperfect joys expire;</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And new-born pleasure brings to happier men;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The fields to all their wonted tribute bear;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To warm their little loves the birds complain.<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>And weep the more because I weep in vain</i>.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>It will easily be perceived, that the only part of +this Sonnet which is of any value is the lines printed +in Italics; it is equally obvious, that, except in the +rhyme, and in the use of the single word ‘fruitless’ +for fruitlessly, which is so far a defect, the language +of these lines does in no respect differ from that of +prose.</p> + +<p>By the foregoing quotation it has been shown +that the language of Prose may yet be well +adapted to Poetry; and it was previously asserted, +that a large portion of the language of every good +poem can in no respect differ from that of good +Prose. We will go further. It may be safely +affirmed, that there neither is, nor can be, any +<i>essential</i> difference between the language of prose +and metrical composition. We are fond of tracing +the resemblance between Poetry and Painting, +and, accordingly, we call them Sisters: but where +shall we find bonds of connexion sufficiently strict +to typify the affinity betwixt metrical and prose +composition? They both speak by and to the +same organs; the bodies in which both of them +are clothed may be said to be of the same substance, +their affections are kindred, and almost identical,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span> +not necessarily differing even in degree; Poetry<a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> +sheds no tears ‘such as Angels weep’, but natural +and human tears; she can boast of no celestial +ichor that distinguishes her vital juices from those +of prose; the same human blood circulates through +the veins of them both.</p> + +<p>If it be affirmed that rhyme and metrical +arrangement of themselves constitute a distinction +which overturns what has just been said on the +strict affinity of metrical language with that of +prose, and paves the way for other artificial +distinctions which the mind voluntarily admits, +I answer that the language of such Poetry as is +here recommended is, as far as is possible, a selection +of the language really spoken by men; that this +selection, wherever it is made with true taste and +feeling, will of itself form a distinction far greater +than would at first be imagined, and will entirely +separate the composition from the vulgarity and +meanness of ordinary life; and, if metre be +superadded thereto, I believe that a dissimilitude +will be produced altogether sufficient for the +gratification of a rational mind. What other +distinction would we have? Whence is it to +come? And where is it to exist? Not, surely, +where the Poet speaks through the mouths of his +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span>characters: it cannot be necessary here, either +for elevation of style, or any of its supposed +ornaments: for, if the Poet’s subject be judiciously +chosen, it will naturally, and upon fit occasion, +lead him to passions the language of which, if +selected truly and judiciously, must necessarily +be dignified and variegated, and alive with +metaphors and figures. I forbear to speak of an +incongruity which would shock the intelligent +Reader, should the Poet interweave any foreign +splendour of his own with that which the passion +naturally suggests: it is sufficient to say that such +addition is unnecessary. And, surely, it is more +probable that those passages, which with propriety +abound with metaphors and figures, will have their +due effect, if, upon other occasions where the +passions are of a milder character, the style also +be subdued and temperate.</p> + +<p>But, as the pleasure which I hope to give by +the Poems now presented to the Reader must +depend entirely on just notions upon this subject, +and, as it is in itself of high importance to our +taste and moral feelings, I cannot content myself +with these detached remarks. And if, in what I +am about to say, it shall appear to some that my +labour is unnecessary, and that I am like a man +fighting a battle without enemies, such persons +may be reminded, that, whatever be the language +outwardly holden by men, a practical faith in the +opinions which I am wishing to establish is almost +unknown. If my conclusions are admitted, and +carried as far as they must be carried if admitted +at all, our judgements concerning the works of +the greatest Poets both ancient and modern will +be far different from what they are at present,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span> +both when we praise, and when we censure: and +our moral feelings influencing and influenced by +these judgements will, I believe, be corrected and +purified.</p> + +<p>Taking up the subject, then, upon general +grounds, let me ask, what is meant by the word +Poet? What is a Poet? To whom does he +address himself? And what language is to be +expected from him?—He is a man speaking to +men: a man, it is true, endowed with more +lively sensibility, more enthusiasm and tenderness, +who has a greater knowledge of human nature, +and a more comprehensive soul, than are supposed +to be common among mankind; a man pleased +with his own passions and volitions, and who +rejoices more than other men in the spirit of life +that is in him; delighting to contemplate similar +volitions and passions as manifested in the goings-on +of the Universe, and habitually impelled to +create them where he does not find them. To +these qualities he has added a disposition to be +affected more than other men by absent things as if +they were present; an ability of conjuring up in +himself passions, which are indeed far from being +the same as those produced by real events, yet +(especially in those parts of the general sympathy +which are pleasing and delightful) do more nearly +resemble the passions produced by real events, +than anything which, from the motions of their +own minds merely, other men are accustomed to +feel in themselves:—whence, and from practice, +he has acquired a greater readiness and power in +expressing what he thinks and feels, and especially +those thoughts and feelings which, by his own +choice, or from the structure of his own mind,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span> +arise in him without immediate external excitement.</p> + +<p>But whatever portion of this faculty we may +suppose even the greatest Poet to possess, there +cannot be a doubt that the language which it will +suggest to him, must often, in liveliness and truth, +fall short of that which is uttered by men in real +life, under the actual pressure of those passions, +certain shadows of which the Poet thus produces, +or feels to be produced, in himself.</p> + +<p>However exalted a notion we would wish to +cherish of the character of a Poet, it is obvious, +that while he describes and imitates passions, +his employment is in some degree mechanical, +compared with the freedom and power of real +and substantial action and suffering. So that it +will be the wish of the Poet to bring his feelings +near to those of the persons whose feelings he +describes, nay, for short spaces of time, perhaps, +to let himself slip into an entire delusion, and +even confound and identify his own feelings with +theirs; modifying only the language which is +thus suggested to him by a consideration that he +describes for a particular purpose, that of giving +pleasure. Here, then, he will apply the principle +of selection which has been already insisted upon. +He will depend upon this for removing what would +otherwise be painful or disgusting in the passion; +he will feel that there is no necessity to trick out +or to elevate nature: and, the more industriously +he applies this principle, the deeper will be his +faith that no words, which <i>his</i> fancy or imagination +can suggest, will be to be compared with those +which are the emanations of reality and truth.</p> + +<p>But it may be said by those who do not object<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span> +to the general spirit of these remarks, that, as it +is impossible for the Poet to produce upon all +occasions language as exquisitely fitted for the +passion as that which the real passion itself +suggests, it is proper that he should consider +himself as in the situation of a translator, who +does not scruple to substitute excellencies of +another kind for those which are unattainable +by him; and endeavours occasionally to surpass +his original, in order to make some amends for +the general inferiority to which he feels that he +must submit. But this would be to encourage +idleness and unmanly despair. Further, it is the +language of men who speak of what they do not +understand; who talk of Poetry as of a matter +of amusement and idle pleasure; who will converse +with us as gravely about a <i>taste</i> for Poetry, +as they express it, as if it were a thing as indifferent +as a taste for rope-dancing, or Frontiniac or Sherry. +Aristotle, I have been told, has said, that Poetry +is the most philosophic of all writing: it is so: +its object is truth, not individual and local, but +general, and operative; not standing upon external +testimony, but carried alive into the heart by +passion; truth which is its own testimony, which +gives competence and confidence to the tribunal +to which it appeals, and receives them from the +same tribunal. Poetry is the image of man and +nature. The obstacles which stand in the way of +the fidelity of the Biographer and Historian, and +of their consequent utility, are incalculably greater +than those which are to be encountered by the +Poet who comprehends the dignity of his art. +The Poet writes under one restriction only, +namely, the necessity of giving immediate pleasure<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span> +to a human Being possessed of that information +which may be expected from him, not as a lawyer, +a physician, a mariner, an astronomer, or a natural +philosopher, but as a Man. Except this one +restriction, there is no object standing between +the Poet and the image of things; between this, +and the Biographer and Historian, there are +a thousand.</p> + +<p>Nor let this necessity of producing immediate +pleasure be considered as a degradation of the +Poet’s art. It is far otherwise. It is an acknowledgement +of the beauty of the universe, an +acknowledgement the more sincere, because not +formal, but indirect; it is a task light and easy +to him who looks at the world in the spirit of +love: further, it is a homage paid to the native +and naked dignity of man, to the grand elementary +principle of pleasure, by which he knows, and feels, +and lives, and moves. We have no sympathy but +what is propagated by pleasure: I would not be +misunderstood; but wherever we sympathize with +pain, it will be found that the sympathy is produced +and carried on by subtle combinations with pleasure. +We have no knowledge, that is, no general principles +drawn from the contemplation of particular facts, +but what has been built up by pleasure, and exists +in us by pleasure alone. The Man of science, the +Chemist and Mathematician, whatever difficulties +and disgusts they may have had to struggle with, +know and feel this. However painful may be the +objects with which the Anatomist’s knowledge is +connected, he feels that his knowledge is pleasure; +and where he has no pleasure he has no knowledge. +What then does the Poet? He considers man +and the objects that surround him as acting and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span> +re-acting upon each other, so as to produce an +infinite complexity of pain and pleasure; he +considers man in his own nature and in his ordinary +life as contemplating this with a certain quantity +of immediate knowledge, with certain convictions, +intuitions, and deductions, which from habit +acquire the quality of intuitions; he considers +him as looking upon this complex scene of ideas +and sensations, and finding everywhere objects +that immediately excite in him sympathies which, +from the necessities of his nature, are accompanied +by an overbalance of enjoyment.</p> + +<p>To this knowledge which all men carry about +with them, and to these sympathies in which, +without any other discipline than that of our +daily life, we are fitted to take delight, the Poet +principally directs his attention. He considers +man and nature as essentially adapted to each +other, and the mind of man as naturally the +mirror of the fairest and most interesting properties +of nature. And thus the Poet, prompted by this +feeling of pleasure, which accompanies him through +the whole course of his studies, converses with +general nature, with affections akin to those, which, +through labour and length of time, the Man of +science has raised up in himself, by conversing +with those particular parts of nature which are +the objects of his studies. The knowledge both of +the Poet and the Man of science is pleasure; but +the knowledge of the one cleaves to us as a necessary +part of our existence, our natural and unalienable +inheritance; the other is a personal and individual +acquisition, slow to come to us, and by no habitual +and direct sympathy connecting us with our fellow-beings. +The Man of science seeks truth as a remote<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span> +and unknown benefactor; he cherishes and loves +it in his solitude: the Poet, singing a song in which +all human beings join with him, rejoices in the +presence of truth as our visible friend and hourly +companion. Poetry is the breath and finer spirit +of all knowledge; it is the impassioned expression +which is in the countenance of all Science. Emphatically +may it be said of the Poet, as Shakespeare +hath said of man, ‘that he looks before and after.’ +He is the rock of defence for human nature; an +upholder and preserver, carrying everywhere with +him relationship and love. In spite of difference +of soil and climate, of language and manners, of +laws and customs: in spite of things silently gone +out of mind, and things violently destroyed; the +Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the +vast empire of human society, as it is spread over +the whole earth, and over all time. The objects +of the Poet’s thoughts are everywhere; though +the eyes and senses of man are, it is true, his +favourite guides, yet he will follow wheresoever +he can find an atmosphere of sensation in which +to move his wings. Poetry is the first and last of all +knowledge—it is as immortal as the heart of man. +If the labours of Men of science should ever create +any material revolution, direct or indirect, in our +condition, and in the impressions which we +habitually receive, the Poet will sleep then no +more than at present; he will be ready to follow +the steps of the Man of science, not only in those +general indirect effects, but he will be at his side, +carrying sensation into the midst of the objects +of the science itself. The remotest discoveries of +the Chemist, the Botanist, or Mineralogist, will +be as proper objects of the Poet’s art as any upon<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span> +which it can be employed, if the time should ever +come when these things shall be familiar to us, and +the relations under which they are contemplated +by the followers of these respective sciences shall +be manifestly and palpably material to us as +enjoying and suffering beings. If the time should +ever come when what is now called science, thus +familiarized to men, shall be ready to put on, as +it were, a form of flesh and blood, the Poet will +lend his divine spirit to aid the transfiguration, +and will welcome the Being thus produced, as +a dear and genuine inmate of the household of +man.—It is not, then, to be supposed that any +one, who holds that sublime notion of Poetry +which I have attempted to convey, will break in +upon the sanctity and truth of his pictures by +transitory and accidental ornaments, and endeavour +to excite admiration of himself by arts, +the necessity of which must manifestly depend +upon the assumed meanness of his subject.</p> + +<p>What has been thus far said applies to Poetry +in general; but especially to those parts of +composition where the Poet speaks through the +mouths of his characters; and upon this point +it appears to authorize the conclusion that there +are few persons of good sense, who would not +allow that the dramatic parts of composition are +defective, in proportion as they deviate from the +real language of nature, and are coloured by +a diction of the Poet’s own, either peculiar to him +as an individual Poet or belonging simply to Poets +in general; to a body of men who, from the circumstance +of their compositions being in metre, +it is expected will employ a particular language.</p> + +<p>It is not, then, in the dramatic parts of composition<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span> +that we look for this distinction of +language; but still it may be proper and necessary +where the Poet speaks to us in his own person +and character. To this I answer by referring the +Reader to the description before given of a Poet. +Among the qualities there enumerated as principally +conducing to form a Poet, is implied nothing +differing in kind from other men, but only in +degree. The sum of what was said is, that the +Poet is chiefly distinguished from other men by +a greater promptness to think and feel without +immediate external excitement, and a greater +power in expressing such thoughts and feelings +as are produced in him in that manner. But +these passions and thoughts and feelings are the +general passions and thoughts and feelings of men. +And with what are they connected? Undoubtedly +with our moral sentiments and animal sensations, +and with the causes which excite these; with the +operations of the elements, and the appearances +of the visible universe; with storm and sunshine, +with the revolutions of the seasons, with cold and +heat, with loss of friends and kindred, with injuries +and resentments, gratitude and hope, with fear and +sorrow. These, and the like, are the sensations +and objects which the Poet describes, as they are +the sensations of other men, and the objects which +interest them. The Poet thinks and feels in the +spirit of human passions. How, then, can his +language differ in any material degree from that +of all other men who feel vividly and see clearly? +It might be <i>proved</i> that it is impossible. But +supposing that this were not the case, the Poet +might then be allowed to use a peculiar language +when expressing his feelings for his own gratification,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span> +or that of men like himself. But Poets do +not write for Poets alone, but for men. Unless +therefore we are advocates for that admiration +which subsists upon ignorance, and that pleasure +which arises from hearing what we do not understand, +the Poet must descend from this supposed +height; and, in order to excite rational sympathy, +he must express himself as other men express +themselves. To this it may be added, that while +he is only selecting from the real language of men, +or, which amounts to the same thing, composing +accurately in the spirit of such selection, he is +treading upon safe ground, and we know what we +are to expect from him. Our feelings are the same +with respect to metre; for, as it may be proper +to remind the Reader, the distinction of metre is +regular and uniform, and not, like that which is +produced by what is usually called <small>POETIC DICTION</small>, +arbitrary, and subject to infinite caprices upon +which no calculation whatever can be made. +In the one case, the Reader is utterly at the mercy +of the Poet, respecting what imagery or diction +he may choose to connect with the passion; +whereas, in the other, the metre obeys certain +laws, to which the Poet and Reader both willingly +submit because they are certain, and because no +interference is made by them with the passion, +but such as the concurring testimony of ages has +shown to heighten and improve the pleasure +which co-exists with it.</p> + +<p>It will now be proper to answer an obvious +question, namely, Why, professing these opinions, +have I written in verse? To this, in addition to +such answer as is included in what has been +already said, I reply, in the first place, Because,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span> +however I may have restricted myself, there is +still left open to me what confessedly constitutes +the most valuable object of all writing, whether +in prose or verse; the great and universal passions +of men, the most general and interesting of their +occupations, and the entire world of nature before +me—to supply endless combinations of forms and +imagery. Now, supposing for a moment that +whatever is interesting in these objects may be as +vividly described in prose, why should I be condemned +for attempting to superadd to such +description the charm which, by the consent of +all nations, is acknowledged to exist in metrical +language? To this, by such as are yet unconvinced, +it may be answered that a very small part of the +pleasure given by Poetry depends upon the metre, +and that it is injudicious to write in metre, +unless it be accompanied with the other artificial +distinctions of style with which metre is usually +accompanied, and that, by such deviation, more will +be lost from the shock which will thereby be given +to the Reader’s associations than will be counterbalanced +by any pleasure which he can derive +from the general power of numbers. In answer to +those who still contend for the necessity of accompanying +metre with certain appropriate colours +of style in order to the accomplishment of its +appropriate end, and who also, in my opinion, +greatly underrate the power of metre in itself, it +might, perhaps, as far as relates to these Volumes, +have been almost sufficient to observe, that poems +are extant, written upon more humble subjects, +and in a still more naked and simple style, which +have continued to give pleasure from generation +to generation. Now, if nakedness and simplicity<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span> +be a defect, the fact here mentioned affords +a strong presumption that poems somewhat less +naked and simple are capable of affording pleasure +at the present day; and, what I wished <i>chiefly</i> +to attempt, at present, was to justify myself for +having written under the impression of this belief.</p> + +<p>But various causes might be pointed out why, +when the style is manly, and the subject of some +importance, words metrically arranged will long +continue to impart such a pleasure to mankind +as he who proves the extent of that pleasure will +be desirous to impart. The end of Poetry is to +produce excitement in co-existence with an +overbalance of pleasure; but, by the supposition, +excitement is an unusual and irregular state of +the mind; ideas and feelings do not, in that +state, succeed each other in accustomed order. +If the words, however, by which this excitement +is produced be in themselves powerful, or the +images and feelings have an undue proportion of +pain connected with them, there is some danger +that the excitement may be carried beyond its +proper bounds. Now the co-presence of something +regular, something to which the mind has been +accustomed in various moods and in a less excited +state, cannot but have great efficacy in tempering +and restraining the passion by an intertexture of +ordinary feeling, and of feeling not strictly and +necessarily connected with the passion. This is +unquestionably true; and hence, though the +opinion will at first appear paradoxical, from the +tendency of metre to divest language, in a certain +degree, of its reality, and thus to throw a sort of +half-consciousness of unsubstantial existence over +the whole composition, there can be little doubt<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span> +but that more pathetic situations and sentiments, +that is, those which have a greater proportion of +pain connected with them, may be endured in +metrical composition, especially in rhyme, than in +prose. The metre of the old ballads is very artless; +yet they contain many passages which would +illustrate this opinion; and, I hope, if the following +Poems be attentively perused, similar instances +will be found in them. This opinion may be +further illustrated by appealing to the Reader’s +own experience of the reluctance with which he +comes to the re-perusal of the distressful parts +of <i>Clarissa Harlowe</i>, or the <i>Gamester</i>; while +Shakespeare’s writings, in the most pathetic scenes, +never act upon us, as pathetic, beyond the bounds +of pleasure—an effect which, in a much greater +degree than might at first be imagined, is to be +ascribed to small, but continual and regular +impulses of pleasurable surprise from the metrical +arrangement.—On the other hand (what it must +be allowed will much more frequently happen) if +the Poet’s words should be incommensurate with +the passion, and inadequate to raise the Reader +to a height of desirable excitement, then (unless +the Poet’s choice of his metre has been grossly +injudicious), in the feelings of pleasure which the +Reader has been accustomed to connect with +metre in general, and in the feeling, whether +cheerful or melancholy, which he has been accustomed +to connect with that particular movement +of metre, there will be found something which will +greatly contribute to impart passion to the words, +and to effect the complex end which the Poet +proposes to himself.</p> + +<p>If I had undertaken a <small>SYSTEMATIC</small> defence of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span> +the theory here maintained, it would have been +my duty to develop the various causes upon +which the pleasure received from metrical language +depends. Among the chief of these causes is to be +reckoned a principle which must be well known +to those who have made any of the Arts the object +of accurate reflection; namely, the pleasure which +the mind derives from the perception of similitude +in dissimilitude. This principle is the great spring +of the activity of our minds, and their chief feeder. +From this principle the direction of the sexual +appetite, and all the passions connected with it, +take their origin: it is the life of our ordinary +conversation; and upon the accuracy with which +similitude in dissimilitude, and dissimilitude in +similitude are perceived, depend our taste and +our moral feelings. It would not be a useless +employment to apply this principle to the consideration +of metre, and to show that metre is hence +enabled to afford much pleasure, and to point out +in what manner that pleasure is produced. But +my limits will not permit me to enter upon this +subject, and I must content myself with a general +summary.</p> + +<p>I have said that poetry is the spontaneous +overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin +from emotion recollected in tranquillity: the +emotion is contemplated till, by a species of reaction, +the tranquillity gradually disappears, and an +emotion, kindred to that which was before the +subject of contemplation, is gradually produced, +and does itself actually exist in the mind. In +this mood successful composition generally begins, +and in a mood similar to this it is carried on; +but the emotion, of whatever kind, and in whatever<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span> +degree, from various causes, is qualified by +various pleasures, so that in describing any +passions whatsoever, which are voluntarily described, +the mind will, upon the whole, be in +a state of enjoyment. If Nature be thus cautious +to preserve in a state of enjoyment a being so +employed, the Poet ought to profit by the lesson +held forth to him, and ought especially to take +care, that, whatever passions he communicates to +his Reader, those passions, if his Reader’s mind +be sound and vigorous, should always be accompanied +with an overbalance of pleasure. Now +the music of harmonious metrical language, the +sense of difficulty overcome, and the blind +association of pleasure which has been previously +received from works of rhyme or metre of the +same or similar construction, an indistinct perception +perpetually renewed of language closely +resembling that of real life, and yet, in the +circumstance of metre, differing from it so widely—all +these imperceptibly make up a complex +feeling of delight, which is of the most important +use in tempering the painful feeling always found +intermingled with powerful descriptions of the +deeper passions. This effect is always produced +in pathetic and impassioned poetry; while, in +lighter compositions, the ease and gracefulness +with which the Poet manages his numbers are +themselves confessedly a principal source of the +gratification of the Reader. All that it is <i>necessary</i> +to say, however, upon this subject, may be effected +by affirming, what few persons will deny, that, of +two descriptions, either of passions, manners, or +characters, each of them equally well executed, +the one in prose and the other in verse, the verse<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span> +will be read a hundred times where the prose is +read once.</p> + +<p>Having thus explained a few of my reasons for +writing in verse, and why I have chosen subjects +from common life, and endeavoured to bring my +language near to the real language of men, if I +have been too minute in pleading my own cause, +I have at the same time been treating a subject +of general interest; and for this reason a few +words shall be added with reference solely to +these particular poems, and to some defects which +will probably be found in them. I am sensible +that my associations must have sometimes been +particular instead of general, and that, consequently, +giving to things a false importance, I may +have sometimes written upon unworthy subjects; +but I am less apprehensive on this account, than +that my language may frequently have suffered +from those arbitrary connexions of feelings and +ideas with particular words and phrases, from +which no man can altogether protect himself. +Hence I have no doubt, that, in some instances, +feelings, even of the ludicrous, may be given to +my Readers by expressions which appeared to +me tender and pathetic. Such faulty expressions, +were I convinced they were faulty at present, and +that they must necessarily continue to be so, +I would willingly take all reasonable pains to +correct. But it is dangerous to make these +alterations on the simple authority of a few +individuals, or even of certain classes of men; +for where the understanding of an Author is not +convinced, or his feelings altered, this cannot be +done without great injury to himself: for his own +feelings are his stay and support; and, if he set<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span> +them aside in one instance, he may be induced to +repeat this act till his mind shall lose all confidence +in itself, and become utterly debilitated. To this +it may be added, that the critic ought never to +forget that he is himself exposed to the same errors +as the Poet, and, perhaps, in a much greater degree: +for there can be no presumption in saying of most +readers, that it is not probable they will be so well +acquainted with the various stages of meaning +through which words have passed, or with the +fickleness or stability of the relations of particular +ideas to each other; and, above all, since they are +so much less interested in the subject, they may +decide lightly and carelessly.</p> + +<p>Long as the Reader has been detained, I hope +he will permit me to caution him against a mode +of false criticism which has been applied to Poetry, +in which the language closely resembles that of life +and nature. Such verses have been triumphed +over in parodies, of which Dr. Johnson’s stanza is +a fair specimen:—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I put my hat upon my head<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And walked into the Strand,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And there I met another man<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose hat was in his hand.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Immediately under these lines let us place one +of the most justly-admired stanzas of the ‘Babes +in the Wood.’</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">These pretty Babes with hand in hand<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Went wandering up and down;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But never more they saw the Man<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Approaching from the Town.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>In both these stanzas the words, and the order +of the words, in no respect differ from the most<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span> +unimpassioned conversation. There are words +in both, for example, ‘the Strand’, and ‘the +Town’, connected with none but the most familiar +ideas; yet the one stanza we admit as admirable, +and the other as a fair example of the superlatively +contemptible. Whence arises this difference? +Not from the metre, not from the language, not +from the order of the words; but the <i>matter</i> +expressed in Dr. Johnson’s stanza is contemptible. +The proper method of treating trivial and simple +verses, to which Dr. Johnson’s stanza would be +a fair parallelism, is not to say, this is a bad kind +of poetry, or, this is not poetry; but, this wants +sense; it is neither interesting in itself, nor can +<i>lead</i> to anything interesting; the images neither +originate in that sane state of feeling, which arises +out of thought, nor can excite thought or feeling +in the Reader. This is the only sensible manner +of dealing with such verses. Why trouble yourself +about the species till you have previously decided +upon the genus? Why take pains to prove that +an ape is not a Newton, when it is self-evident +that he is not a man?</p> + +<p>One request I must make of my reader, which +is, that in judging these Poems he would decide +by his own feelings genuinely, and not by reflection +upon what will probably be the judgement of +others. How common is it to hear a person say, +I myself do not object to this style of composition, +or this or that expression, but, to such and such +classes of people it will appear mean or ludicrous! +This mode of criticism, so destructive of all sound +unadulterated judgement, is almost universal: +let the Reader then abide, independently, by his +own feelings, and, if he finds himself affected, let<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span> +him not suffer such conjectures to interfere with +his pleasure.</p> + +<p>If an Author, by any single composition, has +impressed us with respect for his talents, it is +useful to consider this as affording a presumption, +that on other occasions where we have been +displeased, he, nevertheless, may not have written +ill or absurdly; and further, to give him so much +credit for this one composition as may induce us +to review what has displeased us, with more care +than we should otherwise have bestowed upon it. +This is not only an act of justice, but, in our +decisions upon poetry especially, may conduce, +in a high degree, to the improvement of our own +taste; for an <i>accurate</i> taste in poetry, and in +all the other arts, as Sir Joshua Reynolds has +observed, is an <i>acquired</i> talent, which can only +be produced by thought and a long-continued +intercourse with the best models of composition. +This is mentioned, not with so ridiculous a purpose +as to prevent the most inexperienced Reader from +judging for himself, (I have already said that I wish +him to judge for himself;) but merely to temper the +rashness of decision, and to suggest, that, if Poetry +be a subject on which much time has not been +bestowed, the judgement may be erroneous; and +that, in many cases, it necessarily will be so.</p> + +<p>Nothing would, I know, have so effectually +contributed to further the end which I have in +view, as to have shown of what kind the pleasure +is, and how that pleasure is produced, which is +confessedly produced by metrical composition +essentially different from that which I have here +endeavoured to recommend: for the Reader will +say that he has been pleased by such composition;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span> +and what more can be done for him? The power +of any art is limited; and he will suspect, that, +if it be proposed to furnish him with new friends, +that can be only upon condition of his abandoning +his old friends. Besides, as I have said, the Reader +is himself conscious of the pleasure which he has +received from such composition, composition to +which he has peculiarly attached the endearing +name of Poetry; and all men feel an habitual +gratitude, and something of an honourable bigotry, +for the objects which have long continued to please +them: we not only wish to be pleased, but to be +pleased in that particular way in which we have +Been accustomed to be pleased. There is in these +feelings enough to resist a host of arguments; and +I should be the less able to combat them successfully, +as I am willing to allow, that, in order entirely +to enjoy the Poetry which I am recommending, it +would be necessary to give up much of what is +ordinarily enjoyed. But, would my limits have +permitted me to point out how this pleasure is +produced, many obstacles might have been removed, +and the Reader assisted in perceiving that +the powers of language are not so limited as he may +suppose; and that it is possible for poetry to give +other enjoyments, of a purer, more lasting, and +more exquisite nature. This part of the subject +has not been altogether neglected, but it has not +been so much my present aim to prove, that the +interest excited by some other kinds of poetry is +less vivid, and less worthy of the nobler powers of +the mind, as to offer reasons for presuming, that +if my purpose were fulfilled, a species of poetry +would be produced, which is genuine poetry; in its +nature well adapted to interest mankind permanently,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span> +and likewise important in the multiplicity +and quality of its moral relations.</p> + +<p>From what has been said, and from a perusal of +the Poems, the Reader will be able clearly to perceive +the object which I had in view: he will +determine how far it has been attained; and, what +is a much more important question, whether it be +worth attaining: and upon the decision of these +two questions will rest my claim to the approbation +of the Public.</p> + + +<h3 style="padding-top: 1em">APPENDIX</h3> + +<h4>ON POETIC DICTION</h4> + +<p>Perhaps, as I have no right to expect that attentive +perusal, without which, confined, as I have +been, to the narrow limits of a preface, my meaning +cannot be thoroughly understood, I am anxious to +give an exact notion of the sense in which the +phrase poetic diction has been used; and for this +purpose, a few words shall here be added, concerning +the origin and characteristics of the phraseology, +which I have condemned under that name.</p> + +<p>The earliest poets of all nations generally wrote +from passion excited by real events; they wrote +naturally, and as men: feeling powerfully as they +did, their language was daring, and figurative. In +succeeding times, Poets, and Men ambitious of the +fame of Poets, perceiving the influence of such language, +and desirous of producing the same effect +without being animated by the same passion, set +themselves to a mechanical adoption of these +figures of speech, and made use of them, sometimes +with propriety, but much more frequently applied<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span> +them to feelings and thoughts with which they had +no natural connexion whatsoever. A language +was thus insensibly produced, differing materially +from the real language of men in <i>any situation</i>. +The Reader or Hearer of this distorted language +found himself in a perturbed and unusual state of +mind: when affected by the genuine language of +passion he had been in a perturbed and unusual +state of mind also: in both cases he was willing +that his common judgement and understanding +should be laid asleep, and he had no instinctive and +infallible perception of the true to make him reject +the false; the one served as a passport for the +other. The emotion was in both cases delightful, +and no wonder if he confounded the one with the +other, and believed them both to be produced +by the same, or similar causes. Besides, the Poet +spake to him in the character of a man to be looked +up to, a man of genius and authority. Thus, and +from a variety of other causes, this distorted language +was received with admiration; and Poets, +it is probable, who had before contented themselves +for the most part with misapplying only +expressions which at first had been dictated by +real passion, carried the abuse still further, and +introduced phrases composed apparently in the +spirit of the original figurative language of passion, +yet altogether of their own invention, and characterized +by various degrees of wanton deviation +from good sense and nature.</p> + +<p>It is indeed true, that the language of the earliest +Poets was felt to differ materially from ordinary +language, because it was the language of extraordinary +occasions; but it was really spoken by +men, language which the Poet himself had uttered<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span> +when he had been affected by the events which he +described, or which he had heard uttered by +those around him. To this language it is probable +that metre of some sort or other was early superadded. +This separated the genuine language of +Poetry still further from common life, so that whoever +read or heard the poems of these earliest +Poets felt himself moved in a way in which he had +not been accustomed to be moved in real life, and +by causes manifestly different from those which +acted upon him in real life. This was the great +temptation to all the corruptions which have followed: +under the protection of this feeling succeeding +Poets constructed a phraseology which had +one thing, it is true, in common with the genuine +language of poetry, namely, that it was not heard +in ordinary conversation; that it was unusual. +But the first Poets, as I have said, spake a language +which, though unusual, was still the language of +men. This circumstance, however, was disregarded +by their successors; they found that they +could please by easier means: they became proud +of modes of expression which they themselves had +invented, and which were uttered only by themselves. +In process of time metre became a symbol +or promise of this unusual language, and whoever +took upon him to write in metre, according as he +possessed more or less of true poetic genius, +introduced less or more of this adulterated phraseology +into his compositions, and the true and the +false were inseparably interwoven until, the taste +of men becoming gradually perverted, this language +was received as a natural language: and at length, +by the influence of books upon men, did to a certain +degree really become so. Abuses of this kind were<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span> +imported from one nation to another, and with the +progress of refinement this diction became daily +more and more corrupt, thrusting out of sight +the plain humanities of nature by a motley +masquerade of tricks, quaintnesses, hieroglyphics, +and enigmas.</p> + +<p>It would not be uninteresting to point out the +causes of the pleasure given by this extravagant +and absurd diction. It depends upon a great +variety of causes, but upon none, perhaps, more +than its influence in impressing a notion of the +peculiarity and exaltation of the Poet’s character, +and in flattering the Reader’s self-love by bringing +him nearer to a sympathy with that character; an +effect which is accomplished by unsettling ordinary +habits of thinking, and thus assisting the Reader +to approach to that perturbed and dizzy state of +mind in which if he does not find himself, he +imagines that he is <i>balked</i> of a peculiar enjoyment +which poetry can and ought to bestow.</p> + +<p>The sonnet quoted from Gray, in the Preface, +except the lines printed in Italics, consists of little +else but this diction, though not of the worst kind; +and indeed, if one may be permitted to say so, it is +far too common in the best writers both ancient +and modern. Perhaps in no way, by positive example, +could more easily be given a notion of what +I mean by the phrase <i>poetic diction</i> than by referring +to a comparison between the metrical paraphrase +which we have of passages in the Old and +New Testament, and those passages as they exist +in our common Translation. See Pope’s ‘Messiah’ +throughout; Prior’s ‘Did sweeter sounds adorn +my flowing tongue,’ &c. &c. ‘Though I speak +with the tongues of men and of angels,’ &c. <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span>&c. +1 Corinthians, chap. xiii. By way of immediate +example take the following of Dr. Johnson:—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Turn on the prudent Ant thy heedless eyes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Observe her labours, Sluggard, and be wise;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No stern command, no monitory voice,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Prescribes her duties, or directs her choice;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet, timely provident, she hastes away<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To snatch the blessings of a plenteous day;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When fruitful Summer loads the teeming plain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She crops the harvest, and she stores the grain.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How long shall sloth usurp thy useless hours,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Unnerve thy vigour, and enchain thy powers?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While artful shades thy downy couch enclose,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And soft solicitation courts repose,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Amidst the drowsy charms of dull delight,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Year chases year with unremitted flight,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till Want now following, fraudulent and slow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shall spring to seize thee, like an ambush’d foe.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>From this hubbub of words pass to the original. +‘Go to the Ant, thou Sluggard, consider her ways, +and be wise: which having no guide, overseer, or +ruler, provideth her meat in the summer, and +gathereth her food in the harvest. How long wilt +thou sleep, O Sluggard? when wilt thou arise out +of thy sleep? Yet a little sleep, a little slumber, +a little folding of the hands to sleep. So shall thy +poverty come as one that travelleth, and thy want +as an armed man.’ Proverbs, chap. vi.</p> + +<p>One more quotation, and I have done. It is +from Cowper’s <i>Verses supposed to be written by +Alexander Selkirk</i>:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Religion! what treasure untold<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Resides in that heavenly word!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">More precious than silver and gold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or all that this earth can afford.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But the sound of the church-going bell<br /></span> +<span class="i0">These valleys and rocks never heard,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ne’er sighed at the sound of a knell,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or smiled when a sabbath appeared.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Ye winds, that have made me your sport,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Convey to this desolate shore<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some cordial endearing report<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of a land I must visit no more.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My Friends, do they now and then send<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A wish or a thought after me?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O tell me I yet have a friend,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though a friend I am never to see.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>This passage is quoted as an instance of three +different styles of composition. The first four +lines are poorly expressed; some Critics would call +the language prosaic; the fact is, it would be bad +prose, so bad, that it is scarcely worse in metre. +The epithet ‘church-going’ applied to a bell, and +that by so chaste a writer as Cowper, is an instance +of the strange abuses which Poets have introduced +into their language, till they and their Readers +take them as matters of course, if they do not +single them out expressly as objects of admiration. +The two lines ‘Ne’er sighed at the sound’, &c., +are, in my opinion, an instance of the language +of passion wrested from its proper use, and, from +the mere circumstance of the composition being +in metre, applied upon an occasion that does not +justify such violent expressions; and I should +condemn the passage, though perhaps few Readers +will agree with me, as vicious poetic diction. The +last stanza is throughout admirably expressed: it +would be equally good whether in prose or verse, +except that the Reader has an exquisite pleasure +in seeing such natural language so naturally connected +with metre. The beauty of this stanza +tempts me to conclude with a principle which +ought never to be lost sight of, and which has been +my chief guide in all I have said,—namely, that in +works of <i>imagination and sentiment</i>, for of these<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span> +only have I been treating, in proportion as ideas +and feelings are valuable, whether the composition +be in prose or in verse, they require and exact one +and the same language. Metre is but adventitious +to composition, and the phraseology for which that +passport is necessary, even where it may be graceful +at all, will be little valued by the judicious.</p> + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> It is worth while here to observe, that the affecting +parts of Chaucer are almost always expressed in language +pure and universally intelligible even to this day.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> I here use the word ‘Poetry’ (though against my own +judgement) as opposed to the word Prose, and synonymous +with metrical composition. But much confusion has been +introduced into criticism by this contradistinction of +Poetry and Prose, instead of the more philosophical one of +Poetry and Matter of Fact, or Science. The only strict +antithesis to Prose is Metre; nor is this, in truth, a <i>strict</i> +antithesis, because lines and passages of metre so naturally +occur in writing prose, that it would be scarcely possible +to avoid them, even were it desirable.</p></div> +</div> + + +<h2><a name="SAMUEL_TAYLOR_COLERIDGE" id="SAMUEL_TAYLOR_COLERIDGE"></a>SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span></h2> + +<h3>1772-1834</h3> + +<h3>WORDSWORTH’S THEORY OF DICTION</h3> + +<h4>[<i>Biographia Literaria</i>, chap. xvii, 1817]</h4> + + +<p><span class="smcap">As</span> far as Mr. Wordsworth in his preface contended, +and most ably contended, for a reformation +in our poetic diction, as far as he has evinced the +truth of passion, and the <i>dramatic</i> propriety of +those figures and metaphors in the original poets, +which, stripped of their justifying reasons, and converted +into mere artifices of connexion or ornament, +constitute the characteristic falsity in the poetic +style of the moderns; and as far as he has, with +equal acuteness and clearness, pointed out the +process by which this change was effected, and the +resemblances between that state into which the +reader’s mind is thrown by the pleasureable confusion +of thought from an unaccustomed train of +words and images; and that state which is induced +by the natural language of impassioned +feeling; he undertook a useful task, and deserves +all praise, both for the attempt and for the execution. +The provocations to this remonstrance in +behalf of truth and nature were still of perpetual +recurrence before and after the publication of this +preface. I cannot likewise but add, that the comparison +of such poems of merit, as have been given +to the public within the last ten or twelve years, +with the majority of those produced previously to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span> +the appearance of that preface, leave no doubt on +my mind, that Mr. Wordsworth is fully justified in +believing his efforts to have been by no means +ineffectual. Not only in the verses of those who +have professed their admiration of his genius, but +even of those who have distinguished themselves +by hostility to his theory, and depreciation of his +writings, are the impressions of his principles +plainly visible. It is possible, that with these principles +others may have been blended, which are +not equally evident; and some which are unsteady +and subvertible from the narrowness or imperfection +of their basis. But it is more than possible, +that these errors of defect or exaggeration, by +kindling and feeding the controversy, may have +conduced not only to the wider propagation of the +accompanying truths, but that, by their frequent +presentation to the mind in an excited state, they +may have won for them a more permanent and +practical result. A man will borrow a part from +his opponent the more easily, if he feels himself +justified in continuing to reject a part. While +there remain important points in which he can still +feel himself in the right, in which he still finds firm +footing for continued resistance, he will gradually +adopt those opinions, which were the least remote +from his own convictions, as not less congruous +with his own theory than with that which he reprobates. +In like manner with a kind of instinctive +prudence, he will abandon by little and little his +weakest posts, till at length he seems to forget that +they had ever belonged to him, or affects to consider +them at most as accidental and ‘petty +annexments’, the removal of which leaves the +citadel unhurt and unendangered.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span></p> + +<p>My own differences from certain supposed parts +of Mr. Wordsworth’s theory ground themselves on +the assumption, that his words had been rightly +interpreted, as purporting that the proper diction +for poetry in general consists altogether in a language +taken, with due exceptions, from the mouths +of men in real life, a language which actually constitutes +the natural conversation of men under the +influence of natural feelings. My objection is, first, +that in any sense this rule is applicable only to +certain classes of poetry; secondly, that even to +these classes it is not applicable, except in such a +sense, as hath never by any one (as far as I know +or have read) been denied or doubted; and lastly, +that as far as, and in that degree in which it is +practicable, yet as a rule it is useless, if not injurious, +and therefore either need not, or ought not to be +practised. The poet informs his reader that he +had generally chosen low and rustic life; but not +<i>as</i> low and rustic, or in order to repeat that pleasure +of doubtful moral effect, which persons of elevated +rank and of superior refinement oftentimes derive +from a happy imitation of the rude unpolished +manners and discourse of their inferiors. For the +pleasure so derived may be traced to three exciting +causes. The first is the naturalness, in fact, of the +things represented. The second is the apparent +naturalness of the representation, as raised and +qualified by an imperceptible infusion of the +author’s own knowledge and talent, which infusion +does, indeed, constitute it an imitation as distinguished +from a mere copy. The third cause may +be found in the reader’s conscious feeling of his +superiority awakened by the contrast presented +to him; even as for the same purpose the kings<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span> +and great barons of yore retained sometimes actual +clowns and fools, but more frequently shrewd and +witty fellows in that character. These, however, +were not Mr. Wordsworth’s objects. He chose low +and rustic life, ‘because in that condition the +essential passions of the heart find a better soil, in +which they can attain their maturity, are less under +restraint, and speak a plainer and more emphatic +language; because in that condition of life our +elementary feelings coexist in a state of greater +simplicity, and consequently may be more accurately +contemplated, and more forcibly communicated; +because the manners of rural life germinate +from those elementary feelings; and from the +necessary character of rural occupations are more +easily comprehended, and are more durable; and +lastly, because in that condition the passions of +men are incorporated with the beautiful and permanent +forms of nature.’</p> + +<p>Now it is clear to me, that in the most interesting +of the poems, in which the author is more or less +dramatic, as the <i>Brothers</i>, <i>Michael</i>, <i>Ruth</i>, the <i>Mad +Mother</i>, &c., the persons introduced are by no +means taken from low or rustic life in the common +acceptation of those words; and it is not less +clear, that the sentiments and language, as far as +they can be conceived to have been really transferred +from the minds and conversation of such +persons, are attributable to causes and circumstances +not necessarily connected with ‘their occupations +and abode’. The thoughts, feelings, language, +and manners of the shepherd-farmers in the +vales of Cumberland and Westmoreland, as far as +they are actually adopted in those poems, may be +accounted for from causes, which will and do produce<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span> +the same results in every state of life, whether +in town or country. As the two principal I rank +that <small>INDEPENDENCE</small>, which raises a man above +servitude, or daily toil for the profit of others, yet +not above the necessity of industry and a frugal +simplicity of domestic life; and the accompanying +unambitious, but solid and religious, <small>EDUCATION</small>, +which has rendered few books familiar, but the +Bible, and the liturgy or hymnbook. To the latter +cause, indeed, which is so far accidental, that it is +the blessing of particular countries and a particular +age, not the product of particular places or employments, +the poet owes the show of probability, that +his personages might really feel, think, and talk +with any tolerable resemblance to his representation. +It is an excellent remark of Dr. Henry More’s +that ‘a man of confined education, but of good parts, +by constant reading of the Bible will naturally +form a more winning and commanding rhetoric +than those that are learned: the intermixture of +tongues and of artificial phrases debasing their +style’.</p> + +<p>It is, moreover, to be considered that to the +formation of healthy feelings, and a reflecting mind, +negations involve impediments not less formidable +than sophistication and vicious intermixture. I am +convinced, that for the human soul to prosper +in rustic life a certain vantage-ground is pre-requisite. +It is not every man that is likely to be +improved by a country life or by country labours. +Education, or original sensibility, or both, must +pre-exist, if the changes, forms, and incidents of +nature are to prove a sufficient stimulant. And +where these are not sufficient, the mind contracts +and hardens by want of stimulants: and the man<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span> +becomes selfish, sensual, gross, and hard-hearted. +Let the management of the <small>POOR LAWS</small> in Liverpool, +Manchester, or Bristol be compared with the +ordinary dispensation of the poor rates in agricultural +villages, where the farmers are the overseers +and guardians of the poor. If my own experience +have not been particularly unfortunate, as well as +that of the many respectable country clergymen +with whom I have conversed on the subject, the +result would engender more than scepticism concerning +the desirable influences of low and rustic +life in and for itself. Whatever may be concluded +on the other side, from the stronger local attachments +and enterprising spirit of the Swiss, and +other mountaineers, applies to a particular mode +of pastoral life, under forms of property that permit +and beget manners truly republican, not to +rustic life in general, or to the absence of artificial +cultivation. On the contrary the mountaineers, +whose manners have been so often eulogized, are +in general better educated and greater readers +than men of equal rank elsewhere. But where this +is not the case, as among the peasantry of North +Wales, the ancient mountains, with all their terrors +and all their glories, are pictures to the blind, and +music to the deaf.</p> + +<p>I should not have entered so much into detail +upon this passage, but here seems to be the point, +to which all the lines of difference converge as to +their source and centre;—I mean, as far as, and in +whatever respect, my poetic creed does differ from +the doctrines promulgated in this preface. I adopt +with full faith the principle of Aristotle, that poetry, +as poetry, is essentially ideal, that it avoids and +excludes all accident; that its apparent individualities<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span> +of rank, character, or occupation must be +representative of a class; and that the persons of +poetry must be clothed with generic attributes, +with the common attributes of the class: not with +such as one gifted individual might possibly possess, +but such as from his situation it is most probable +beforehand that he would possess. If my premises +are right and my deductions legitimate, it follows +that there can be no poetic medium between the +swains of Theocritus and those of an imaginary +golden age.</p> + +<p>The characters of the vicar and the shepherd-mariner +in the poem of <i>The Brothers</i>, that of the +shepherd of Green-head Ghyll in the <i>Michael</i>, +have all the verisimilitude and representative +quality, that the purposes of poetry can require. +They are persons of a known and abiding class, and +their manners and sentiments the natural product +of circumstances common to the class. Take +Michael for instance:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">An old man stout of heart, and strong of limb:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His bodily frame had been from youth to age<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of an unusual strength: his mind was keen,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And in his shepherd’s calling he was prompt<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And watchful more than ordinary men.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hence he had learned the meaning of all winds,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of blasts of every tone; and oftentimes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When others heeded not, he heard the South<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Make subterraneous music, like the noise<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The shepherd, at such warning, of his flock<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bethought him, and he to himself would say,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The winds are now devising work for me!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And truly at all times the storm, that drives<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The traveller to a shelter, summon’d him<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Up to the mountains. He had been alone<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Amid the heart of many thousand mists,<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span> +<span class="i0">That came to him and left him on the heights.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So liv’d he, until his eightieth year was pass’d.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And grossly that man errs, who should suppose<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Were things indifferent to the shepherd’s thoughts.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fields, where with chearful spirits he had breath’d<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The common air; the hills, which he so oft<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had climb’d with vigorous steps; which had impress’d<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So many incidents upon his mind<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which, like a book, preserved the memory<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the dumb animals, whom he had sav’d,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had fed or shelter’d, linking to such acts,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So grateful in themselves, the certainty<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of honourable gain; these fields, these hills<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which were his living being, even more<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Than his own blood—what could they less? had laid<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Strong hold on his affections, were to him<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A pleasureable feeling of blind love.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The pleasure which there is in life itself.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">On the other hand, in the poems which are pitched +at a lower note, as the <i>Harry Gill</i>, <i>Idiot Boy</i>, the +feelings are those of human nature in general; +though the poet has judiciously laid the scene in +the country, in order to place himself in the vicinity +of interesting images, without the necessity of +ascribing a sentimental perception of their beauty +to the persons of his drama. In <i>The Idiot Boy</i>, +indeed, the mother’s character is not so much a +real and native product of a ‘situation where the +essential passions of the heart find a better soil, in +which they can attain their maturity and speak +a plainer and more emphatic language’, as it is an +impersonation of an instinct abandoned by judgement. +Hence the two following charges seem to +me not wholly groundless: at least, they are the +only plausible objections, which I have heard to +that fine poem. The one is, that the author has<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span> +not, in the poem itself, taken sufficient care to preclude +from the reader’s fancy the disgusting images +of ordinary morbid idiocy, which yet it was by no +means his intention to represent. He has even +by the ‘burr, burr, burr’, uncounteracted by any +preceding description of the boy’s beauty, assisted +in recalling them. The other is, that the idiocy +of the boy is so evenly balanced by the folly of the +mother, as to present to the general reader rather +a laughable burlesque on the blindness of anile +dotage, than an analytic display of maternal affection +in its ordinary workings.</p> + +<p>In <i>The Thorn</i>, the poet himself acknowledges +in a note the necessity of an introductory poem, +in which he should have portrayed the character +of the person from whom the words of the poem +are supposed to proceed: a superstitious man +moderately imaginative, of slow faculties and deep +feelings, ‘a captain of a small trading vessel, for +example, who, being past the middle age of life, +had retired upon an annuity, or small independent +income, to some village or country town of which +he was not a native, or in which he had not been +accustomed to live. Such men having nothing to +do become credulous and talkative from indolence’. +But in a poem, still more in a lyric poem—and the +Nurse in Shakespeare’s <i>Romeo and Juliet</i> alone +prevents me from extending the remark even to +dramatic poetry, if indeed even the Nurse itself +can be deemed altogether a case in point—it is not +possible to imitate truly a dull and garrulous discourser, +without repeating the effects of dullness +and garrulity. However this may be, I dare assert, +that the parts—(and these form the far larger portion +of the whole)—which might as well or still<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span> +better have proceeded from the poet’s own imagination, +and have been spoken in his own character, +are those which have given, and which will continue +to give, universal delight; and that the +passages exclusively appropriate to the supposed +narrator, such as the last couplet of the third +stanza;<a name="FNanchor_3_3" id="FNanchor_3_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> the seven last lines of the tenth;<a name="FNanchor_4_4" id="FNanchor_4_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a> and +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span>the five following stanzas, with the exception of +the four admirable lines at the commencement of +the fourteenth, are felt by many unprejudiced and +unsophisticated hearts, as sudden and unpleasant +sinkings from the height to which the poet had +previously lifted them, and to which he again re-elevates +both himself and his reader.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span></p><p>If then I am compelled to doubt the theory, by +which the choice of characters was to be directed, +not only <i>à priori</i>, from grounds of reason, but both +from the few instances in which the poet himself +need be supposed to have been governed by it, and +from the comparative inferiority of those instances; +still more must I hesitate in my assent to the sentence +which immediately follows the former citation; +and which I can neither admit as particular +fact, nor as general rule. ‘The language, too, of +these men is adopted (purified indeed from what +appear to be its real defects, from all lasting and +rational causes of dislike or disgust) because such +men hourly communicate with the best objects +from which the best part of language is originally +derived; and because, from their rank in society +and the sameness and narrow circle of their intercourse, +being less under the action of social vanity, +they convey their feelings and notions in simple +and unelaborated expressions.’ To this I reply; +that a rustic’s language, purified from all provincialism +and grossness, and so far reconstructed as +to be made consistent with the rules of grammar—(which +are in essence no other than the laws of +universal logic, applied to psychological materials)—will +not differ from the language of any other +man of common sense, however learned or refined +he may be, except as far as the notions, which the +rustic has to convey, are fewer and more indiscriminate. +This will become still clearer, if we add +the consideration—(equally important though less +obvious)—that the rustic, from the more imperfect +development of his faculties, and from the lower +state of their cultivation, aims almost solely to +convey insulated facts, either those of his scanty<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span> +experience or his traditional belief; while the educated +man chiefly seeks to discover and express +those connexions of things, or those relative bearings +of fact to fact, from which some more or less general +law is deducible. For facts are valuable to a wise +man, chiefly as they lead to the discovery of the +indwelling law, which is the true being of things, +the sole solution of their modes of existence, and +in the knowledge of which consists our dignity and +our power.</p> + +<p>As little can I agree with the assertion, that from +the objects with which the rustic hourly communicates +the best part of language is formed. For +first, if to communicate with an object implies such +an acquaintance with it, as renders it capable of +being discriminately reflected on; the distinct +knowledge of an uneducated rustic would furnish +a very scanty vocabulary. The few things and +modes of action requisite for his bodily conveniences +would alone be individualized; while all the +rest of nature would be expressed by a small +number of confused general terms. Secondly, I +deny that the words and combinations of words +derived from the objects, with which the rustic is +familiar, whether with distinct or confused knowledge, +can be justly said to form the best part of +language. It is more than probable, that many +classes of the brute creation possess discriminating +sounds, by which they can convey to each other +notices of such objects as concern their food, +shelter, or safety. Yet we hesitate to call the +aggregate of such sounds a language, otherwise +than metaphorically. The best part of human +language, properly so called, is derived from reflection +on the acts of the mind itself. It is formed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span> +by a voluntary appropriation of fixed symbols to +internal acts, to processes and results of imagination, +the greater part of which have no place in +the consciousness of uneducated man; though in +civilized society, by imitation and passive remembrance +of what they hear from their religious instructors +and other superiors, the most uneducated +share in the harvest which they neither sowed nor +reaped. If the history of the phrases in hourly +currency among our peasants were traced, a person +not previously aware of the fact would be surprised +at finding so large a number, which three or four +centuries ago were the exclusive property of the +universities and the schools; and, at the commencement +of the Reformation, had been transferred +from the school to the pulpit, and thus +gradually passed into common life. The extreme +difficulty, and often the impossibility, of finding +words for the simplest moral and intellectual processes +of the languages of uncivilized tribes has +proved perhaps the weightiest obstacle to the progress +of our most zealous and adroit missionaries. +Yet these tribes are surrounded by the same nature +as our peasants are; but in still more impressive +forms; and they are, moreover, obliged to particularize +many more of them. When, therefore, +Mr. Wordsworth adds, ‘accordingly, such a language’—(meaning, +as before, the language of +rustic life purified from provincialism)—‘arising +out of repeated experience and regular feelings, is +a more permanent, and a far more philosophical +language, than that which is frequently substituted +for it by poets, who think that they are conferring +honour upon themselves and their art in proportion +as they indulge in arbitrary and capricious<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span> +habits of expression;’ it may be answered, that +the language, which he has in view, can be attributed +to rustics with no greater right, than the +style of Hooker or Bacon to Tom Brown or Sir +Roger L’Estrange. Doubtless, if what is peculiar +to each were omitted in each, the result must needs +be the same. Further, that the poet, who uses an +illogical diction, or a style fitted to excite only +the low and changeable pleasure of wonder by +means of groundless novelty, substitutes a language +of folly and vanity, not for that of the rustic, +but for that of good sense and natural feeling.</p> + +<p>Here let me be permitted to remind the reader, +that the positions, which I controvert, are contained +in the sentences—‘<i>a selection of the</i> <small>REAL</small> +<i>language of men</i>’;—‘<i>the language of these men</i>’ +(i. e. men in low and rustic life) ‘<i>I propose to myself +to imitate, and, as far as is possible, to adopt the very +language of men.</i>’ ‘<i>Between the language of prose +and that of metrical composition, there neither is, nor +can be, any essential difference.</i>’ It is against these +exclusively that my opposition is directed.</p> + +<p>I object, in the very first instance, to an equivocation +in the use of the word ‘real’. Every man’s +language varies, according to the extent of his +knowledge, the activity of his faculties, and the +depth or quickness of his feelings. Every man’s +language has, first, its individualities; secondly, +the common properties of the class to which he +belongs; and thirdly, words and phrases of universal +use. The language of Hooker, Bacon, Bishop +Taylor, and Burke differs from the common language +of the learned class only by the superior number +and novelty of the thoughts and relations which +they had to convey. The language of Algernon<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span> +Sidney differs not at all from that, which every +well-educated gentleman would wish to write, and +(with due allowance for the undeliberateness, and +less connected train, of thinking natural and +proper to conversation) such as he would wish to +talk. Neither one nor the other differ half so much +from the general language of cultivated society, +as the language of Mr. Wordsworth’s homeliest +composition differs from that of a common peasant. +For ‘real’ therefore, we must substitute ordinary, +or <i>lingua communis</i>. And this, we have proved, +is no more to be found in the phraseology of low +and rustic life than in that of any other class. +Omit the peculiarities of each and the result of +course must be common to all. And assuredly the +omissions and changes to be made in the language +of rustics, before it could be transferred to any +species of poem, except the drama or other professed +imitation, are at least as numerous and +weighty, as would be required in adapting to the +same purpose the ordinary language of tradesmen +and manufacturers. Not to mention, that the +language so highly extolled by Mr. Wordsworth +varies in every county, nay in every village, +according to the accidental character of the clergyman, +the existence or non-existence of schools; or +even, perhaps, as the exciseman, publican, and +barber happen to be, or not to be, zealous politicians, +and readers of the weekly newspaper <i>pro bono +publico</i>. Anterior to cultivation the <i>lingua communis</i> +of every country, as Dante has well observed, +exists everywhere in parts, and nowhere as a +whole.</p> + +<p>Neither is the case rendered at all more tenable +by the addition of the words, <i>in a state of excitement</i>.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span> +For the nature of a man’s words, where he +is strongly affected by joy, grief, or anger, must +necessarily depend on the number and quality of +the general truths, conceptions and images, and of +the words expressing them, with which his mind +had been previously stored. For the property of +passion is not to create; but to set in increased +activity. At least, whatever new connexions of +thoughts or images, or (which is equally, if not +more than equally, the appropriate effect of strong +excitement) whatever generalizations of truth or +experience the heat of passion may produce; yet the +terms of their conveyance must have pre-existed +in his former conversations, and are only collected +and crowded together by the unusual stimulation. +It is indeed very possible to adopt in a poem the +unmeaning repetitions, habitual phrases, and other +blank counters, which an unfurnished or confused +understanding interposes at short intervals, in +order to keep hold of his subject, which is still slipping +from him, and to give him time for recollection; +or, in mere aid of vacancy, as in the scanty +companies of a country stage the same player pops +backwards and forwards, in order to prevent the +appearance of empty spaces, in the procession of +<i>Macbeth</i>, or <i>Henry VIII</i>. But what assistance to +the poet, or ornament to the poem, these can supply, +I am at a loss to conjecture. Nothing assuredly +can differ either in origin or in mode more +widely from the apparent tautologies of intense and +turbulent feeling, in which the passion is greater +and of longer endurance than to be exhausted or +satisfied by a single representation of the image or +incident exciting it. Such repetitions I admit to +be a beauty of the highest kind; as illustrated by +Mr. Wordsworth himself from the song of Deborah. +<i>At her feet he bowed, he fell, he lay down: at her feet +he bowed, he fell: where he bowed, there he fell down +dead.</i></p> + + +<h3 style="padding-top: 1em">METRICAL COMPOSITION<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span></h3> + +<h4>[<i>Biographia Literaria</i>, chap. xviii, 1817]</h4> + +<p><span class="smcap">I conclude</span>, therefore, that the attempt is impracticable; +and that, were it not impracticable, +it would still be useless. For the very power of +making the selection implies the previous possession +of the language selected. Or where can the poet +have lived? And by what rules could he direct +his choice, which would not have enabled him to +select and arrange his words by the light of his +own judgement? We do not adopt the language +of a class by the mere adoption of such words +exclusively, as that class would use, or at least +understand; but likewise by following the order, in +which the words of such men are wont to succeed +each other. Now this order, in the intercourse of +uneducated men, is distinguished from the diction +of their superiors in knowledge and power, by the +greater disjunction and separation in the component +parts of that, whatever it be, which they +wish to communicate. There is a want of that +prospectiveness of mind, that surview, which enables +a man to foresee the whole of what he is to +convey, appertaining to any one point; and by +this means so to subordinate and arrange the +different parts according to their relative importance, +as to convey it at once, and as an organized +whole.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span></p> + +<p>Now I will take the first stanza, on which I have +chanced to open, in the <i>Lyrical Ballads</i>. It is one +the most simple and the least peculiar in its language.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In distant countries have I been,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And yet I have not often seen<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A healthy man, a man full grown,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Weep in the public roads, alone.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But such a one, on English ground,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And in the broad highway, I met;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Along the broad highway he came,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His cheeks with tears were wet:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sturdy he seem’d, though he was sad;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And in his arms a lamb he had.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The words here are doubtless such as are current +in all ranks of life; and of course not less so in the +hamlet and cottage than in the shop, manufactory, +college, or palace. But is this the order, in which +the rustic would have placed the words? I am +grievously deceived, if the following less compact +mode of commencing the same tale be not a far +more faithful copy. ‘I have been in a many parts, +far and near, and I don’t know that I ever saw +before a man crying by himself in the public road; +a grown man I mean, that was neither sick nor +hurt,’ &c., &c. But when I turn to the following +stanza in <i>The Thorn</i>:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">At all times of the day and night<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This wretched woman thither goes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And she is known to every star,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And every wind that blows:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And there, beside the thorn, she sits,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the blue day-light’s in the skies:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And when the whirlwind’s on the hill,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or frosty air is keen and still;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And to herself she cries,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh misery! Oh misery!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh woe is me! Oh misery!<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span></div></div> + +<p class="noin">and compare this with the language of ordinary +men; or with that which I can conceive at all +likely to proceed, in real life, from such a narrator, +as is supposed in the note to the poem; compare +it either in the succession of the images or of the +sentences; I am reminded of the sublime prayer +and hymn of praise, which <span class="smcap">Milton</span>, in opposition +to an established liturgy, presents as a fair specimen +of common extemporary devotion, and such as +we might expect to hear from every self-inspired +minister of a conventicle! And I reflect with delight, +how little a mere theory, though of his own +workmanship, interferes with the processes of +genuine imagination in a man of true poetic genius, +who possesses, as Mr. Wordsworth, if ever man did, +most assuredly does possess,</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The Vision and the Faculty Divine.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="newsection">One point then alone remains, but that the most +important; its examination having been, indeed, +my chief inducement for the preceding inquisition. +‘<i>There neither is nor can be any essential difference +between the language of prose and metrical composition.</i>’ +Such is Mr. Wordsworth’s assertion. Now +prose itself, at least in all argumentative and consecutive +works, differs, and ought to differ, from the +language of conversation; even as reading ought +to differ from talking. Unless therefore the difference +denied be that of the mere words, as materials +common to all styles of writing, and not of the +style itself in the universally admitted sense of the +term, it might be naturally presumed that there +must exist a still greater between the ordonnance +of poetic composition and that of prose, than is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span> +expected to distinguish prose from ordinary conversation.</p> + +<p>There are not, indeed, examples wanting in the +history of literature, of apparent paradoxes that +have summoned the public wonder as new and +startling truths, but which, on examination, have +shrunk into tame and harmless truisms; as the +eyes of a cat, seen in the dark, have been mistaken +for flames of fire. But Mr. Wordsworth is among +the last men, to whom a delusion of this kind would +be attributed by any one who had enjoyed the +slightest opportunity of understanding his mind +and character. Where an objection has been anticipated +by such an author as natural, his answer +to it must needs be interpreted in some sense which +either is, or has been, or is capable of being controverted. +My object then must be to discover some +other meaning for the term ‘<i>essential difference</i>’ +in this place, exclusive of the indistinction and +community of the words themselves. For whether +there ought to exist a class of words in the English, +in any degree resembling the poetic dialect of the +Greek and Italian, is a question of very subordinate +importance. The number of such words would be +small indeed, in our language; and even in the +Italian and Greek, they consist not so much of +different words, as of slight differences in the forms +of declining and conjugating the same words; +forms, doubtless, which having been, at some +period more or less remote, the common grammatic +flexions of some tribe or province, had been accidentally +appropriated to poetry by the general +admiration of certain master intellects, the first +established lights of inspiration, to whom that +dialect happened to be native.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span></p> + +<p>Essence, in its primary signification, means the +principle of individuation, the inmost principle of +the possibility of any thing, as that particular thing. +It is equivalent to the idea of a thing, whenever +we use the word, idea, with philosophic precision. +Existence, on the other hand, is distinguished from +essence, by the superinduction of reality. Thus we +speak of the essence, and essential properties of +a circle; but we do not therefore assert, that any +thing, which really exists, is mathematically circular. +Thus too, without any tautology we contend +for the existence of the Supreme Being; that +is, for a reality correspondent to the idea. There +is, next, a secondary use of the word essence, in +which it signifies the point or ground of contradistinction +between two modifications of the same +substance or subject. Thus we should be allowed +to say, that the style of architecture of Westminster +Abbey is essentially different from that of St. Paul’s, +even though both had been built with blocks cut +into the same form, and from the same quarry. +Only in this latter sense of the term must it have +been denied by Mr. Wordsworth (for in this sense +alone is it affirmed by the general opinion) that the +language of poetry (i. e. the formal construction, or +architecture, of the words and phrases) is essentially +different from that of prose. Now the burthen of +the proof lies with the oppugner, not with the supporters +of the common belief. Mr. Wordsworth, +in consequence, assigns as the proof of his position, +‘that not only the language of a large portion of +every good poem, even of the most elevated character, +must necessarily, except with reference to +the metre, in no respect differ from that of good +prose, but likewise that some of the most interesting<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span> +parts of the best poems will be found to be strictly +the language of prose, when prose is well written. +The truth of this assertion might be demonstrated +by innumerable passages from almost all the poetical +writings even of Milton himself.’ He then +quotes Gray’s sonnet:—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In vain to me the smiling mornings shine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And reddening Phoebus lifts his golden fire;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The birds in vain their amorous descant join,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or cheerful fields resume their green attire.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">These ears, alas! for other notes repine;<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>A different object do these eyes require;</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine;</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>And in my breast the imperfect joys expire.</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And newborn pleasure brings to happier men;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The fields to all their wonted tribute bear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To warm their little loves the birds complain.<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>And weep the more because I weep in vain</i>,<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">and adds the following remark:—‘It will easily be +perceived, that the only part of this Sonnet, which +is of any value, is the lines printed in italics. It is +equally obvious, that, except in the rhyme, and in +the use of the single word “fruitless” for “fruitlessly”, +which is so far a defect, the language of +these lines does in no respect differ from that of +prose.’</p> + +<p>An idealist defending his system by the fact, that +when asleep we often believe ourselves awake, was +well answered by his plain neighbour, ‘Ah, but +when awake do we ever believe ourselves asleep?’—Things +identical must be convertible. The preceding +passage seems to rest on a similar sophism. +For the question is not, whether there may not +occur in prose an order of words, which would be +equally proper in a poem; nor whether there are<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span> +not beautiful lines and sentences of frequent occurrence +in good poems, which would be equally becoming +as well as beautiful in good prose; for +neither the one nor the other has ever been either +denied or doubted by any one. The true question +must be, whether there are not modes of expression, +a construction, and an order of sentences, which are +in their fit and natural place in a serious prose composition, +but would be disproportionate and heterogeneous +in metrical poetry; and, vice versa, +whether in the language of a serious poem there +may not be an arrangement both of words and +sentences, and a use and selection of (what are +called) <i>figures of speech</i>, both as to their kind, their +frequency, and their occasions, which on a subject +of equal weight would be vicious and alien in +correct and manly prose. I contend, that in both +cases this unfitness of each for the place of the +other frequently will and ought to exist.</p> + +<p>And first from the origin of metre. This I +would trace to the balance in the mind effected by +that spontaneous effort which strives to hold in +check the workings of passion. It might be easily +explained likewise in what manner this salutary +antagonism is assisted by the very state, which it +counteracts; and how this balance of antagonists +became organized into metre (in the usual acceptation +of that term) by a supervening act of the will +and judgement, consciously and for the foreseen +purpose of pleasure. Assuming these principles, +as the data of our argument, we deduce from +them two legitimate conditions, which the critic is +entitled to expect in every metrical work. First, +that, as the elements of metre owe their existence to +a state of increased excitement, so the metre itself<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span> +should be accompanied by the natural language +of excitement. Secondly, that as these elements +are formed into metre artificially, by a voluntary +act, with the design and for the purpose of blending +delight with emotion, so the traces of present +volition should throughout the metrical language +be proportionately discernible. Now these two +conditions must be reconciled and co-present. +There must be not only a partnership, but a union; +an interpenetration of passion and of will, of spontaneous +impulse and of voluntary purpose. Again, +this union can be manifested only in a frequency of +forms and figures of speech (originally the offspring +of passion, but now the adopted children of power), +greater than would be desired or endured, where +the emotion is not voluntarily encouraged and +kept up for the sake of that pleasure, which such +emotion, so tempered and mastered by the will, is +found capable of communicating. It not only dictates, +but of itself tends to produce, a more frequent +employment of picturesque and vivifying language, +than would be natural in any other case, in which +there did not exist, as there does in the present, a +previous and well understood, though tacit, <i>compact</i> +between the poet and his reader, that the +latter is entitled to expect, and the former bound +to supply, this species and degree of pleasurable +excitement. We may in some measure apply to +this union the answer of <span class="smcap">Polixenes</span>, in the <i>Winter’s +Tale</i>, to <span class="smcap">Perdita’s</span> neglect of the streaked gilly-flowers, +because she had heard it said:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There is an art which, in their piedness, shares<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With great creating nature.<br /></span> +<span class="i9"><i>Pol.</i> Say there be;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet nature is made better by no mean,<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span> +<span class="i0">But nature makes that mean; so, ev’n that art,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which, you say, adds to nature, is an art,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>A gentler scion to the wildest stock;</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And make conceive a bark of ruder kind<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By bud of nobler race. This is an art,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which does mend nature—change it rather; but<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The art itself is nature.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Secondly, I argue from the <small>EFFECTS</small> of metre. +As far as metre acts in and for itself, it tends to +increase the vivacity and susceptibility both of the +general feelings and of the attention. This effect it +produces by the continued excitement of surprise, +and by the quick reciprocations of curiosity still +gratified and still re-excited, which are too slight +indeed to be at any one moment objects of distinct +consciousness, yet become considerable in their +aggregate influence. As a medicated atmosphere, +or as wine during animated conversation, they +act powerfully, though themselves unnoticed. +Where, therefore, correspondent food and appropriate +matter are not provided for the attention +and feelings thus roused, there must needs be a +disappointment felt; like that of leaping in the +dark from the last step of a staircase, when we had +prepared our muscles for a leap of three or four.</p> + +<p>The discussion on the powers of metre in the +preface is highly ingenious and touches at all points +on truth. But I cannot find any statement of its +powers considered abstractly and separately. On +the contrary Mr. Wordsworth seems always to estimate +metre by the powers which it exerts during +(and, as I think, in consequence of) its combination +with other elements of poetry. Thus the previous +difficulty is left unanswered, what the elements are +with which it must be combined, in order to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span> +produce its own effects to any pleasureable purpose. +Double and tri-syllable rhymes, indeed, form a +lower species of wit, and, attended to exclusively +for their own sake, may become a source of momentary +amusement; as in poor Smart’s distich to the +Welsh Squire who had promised him a hare:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Tell me, thou son of great Cadwallader!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hast sent the hare? or hast thou swallowed her?<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>But for any poetic purposes, metre resembles (if +the aptness of the simile may excuse its meanness) +yeast, worthless or disagreeable by itself, but giving +vivacity and spirit to the liquor with which it is +proportionately combined.</p> + +<p>The reference to <i>The Children in the Wood</i> by no +means satisfies my judgement. We all willingly +throw ourselves back for awhile into the feelings +of our childhood. This ballad, therefore, we read +under such recollections of our own childish feelings, +as would equally endear to us poems, which +Mr. Wordsworth himself would regard as faulty in +the opposite extreme of gaudy and technical ornament. +Before the invention of printing, and in +a still greater degree, before the introduction of +writing, metre, especially alliterative metre (whether +alliterative at the beginning of the words, as in +<i>Piers Plowman</i>, or at the end, as in rhymes), +possessed an independent value as assisting the +recollection, and consequently the preservation, of +<i>any</i> series of truths or incidents. But I am not +convinced by the collation of facts, that <i>The +Children in the Wood</i> owes either its preservation, +or its popularity, to its metrical form. Mr. Marshal’s +repository affords a number of tales in prose +inferior in pathos and general merit, some of as<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span> +old a date, and many as widely popular. <i>Tom +Hickathrift</i>, <i>Jack the Giant-killer</i>, <i>Goody Two-shoes</i>, +and <i>Little Red Riding-hood</i> are formidable rivals. +And that they have continued in prose, cannot be +fairly explained by the assumption, that the comparative +meanness of their thoughts and images +precluded even the humblest forms of metre. The +scene of <i>Goody Two-shoes</i> in the church is perfectly +susceptible of metrical narration; and, among the +Θαὑματα θαυμαστὁτατα even of the present age, I do +not recollect a more astonishing image than that of +the ‘<i>whole rookery, that flew out of the giant’s beard</i>’, +scared by the tremendous voice, with which this +monster answered the challenge of the heroic <i>Tom +Hickathrift</i>!</p> + +<p>If from these we turn to compositions universally, +and independently of all early associations, +beloved and admired, would <i>The Maria</i>, +<i>The Monk</i>, or <i>The Poor Man’s Ass</i> of Sterne, be +read with more delight, or have a better chance of +immortality, had they without any change in the +diction been composed in rhyme, than in their +present state? If I am not grossly mistaken, +the general reply would be in the negative. Nay, +I will confess, that, in Mr. Wordsworth’s own +volumes, the <i>Anecdote for Fathers</i>, <i>Simon Lee</i>, +<i>Alice Fell</i>, <i>The Beggars</i>, and <i>The Sailor’s Mother</i>, +notwithstanding the beauties which are to be +found in each of them where the poet interposes +the music of his own thoughts, would have been +more delightful to me in prose, told and managed, +as by Mr. Wordsworth they would have been, in +a moral essay, or pedestrian tour.</p> + +<p>Metre in itself is simply a stimulant of the attention, +and therefore excites the question: Why is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span> +the attention to be thus stimulated? Now the +question cannot be answered by the pleasure of the +metre itself: for this we have shown to be conditional, +and dependent on the appropriateness of the +thoughts and expressions, to which the metrical +form is superadded. Neither can I conceive any +other answer that can be rationally given, short of +this: I write in metre, because I am about to use +a language different from that of prose. Besides, +where the language is not such, how interesting +soever the reflections are, that are capable of being +drawn by a philosophic mind from the thoughts +or incidents of the poem, the metre itself must +often become feeble. Take the last three stanzas +of <i>The Sailor’s Mother</i>, for instance. If I could +for a moment abstract from the effect produced on +the author’s feelings, as a man, by the incident at +the time of its real occurrence, I would dare appeal +to his own judgement, whether in the metre itself he +found a sufficient reason for their being written +metrically?</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And, thus continuing, she said,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I had a son, who many a day<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sailed on the seas; but he is dead;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In Denmark he was cast away;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I have travelled far as Hull, to see<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What clothes he might have left, or other property.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The bird and cage they both were his:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">’Twas my son’s bird; and neat and trim<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He kept it: many voyages<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This singing-bird hath gone with him;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When last he sailed he left the bird behind;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As it might be, perhaps, from bodings of his mind.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He to a fellow-lodger’s care<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had left it, to be watched and fed,<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Till he came back again; and there<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I found it when my son was dead;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And now, God help me for my little wit!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I trail it with me, Sir! he took so much delight in it.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>If disproportioning the emphasis we read these +stanzas so as to make the rhymes perceptible, even +tri-syllable rhymes could scarcely produce an equal +sense of oddity and strangeness, as we feel here in +finding rhymes at all in sentences so exclusively +colloquial. I would further ask whether, but for +that visionary state, into which the figure of the +woman and the susceptibility of his own genius +had placed the poet’s imagination (a state, which +spreads its influence and colouring over all, that +co-exists with the exciting cause, and in which</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The simplest, and the most familiar things<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gain a strange power of spreading awe around them),<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">I would ask the poet whether he would not have +felt an abrupt downfall in these verses from the +preceding stanza?</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The ancient spirit is not dead;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Old times, thought I, are breathing there;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Proud was I that my country bred<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Such strength, a dignity so fair:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She begged an alms, like one in poor estate;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>It must not be omitted, and is besides worthy +of notice, that those stanzas furnish the only fair +instance that I have been able to discover in all +Mr. Wordsworth’s writings, of an actual adoption, +or true imitation, of the real and very language of +low and rustic life, freed from provincialisms.</p> + +<p>Thirdly, I deduce the position from all the +causes elsewhere assigned, which render metre +the proper form of poetry, and poetry imperfect +and defective without metre. Metre, therefore,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span> +having been connected with poetry most often and +by a peculiar fitness, whatever else is combined +with metre must, though it be not itself essentially +poetic, have nevertheless some property in common +with poetry, as an intermedium of affinity, a sort +(if I may dare borrow a well-known phrase from +technical chemistry) of <i>mordaunt</i> between it and +the superadded metre. Now poetry, Mr. Wordsworth +truly affirms, does always imply <small>PASSION</small>: +which word must be here understood in its most +general sense, as an excited state of the feelings +and faculties. And as every passion has its proper +pulse, so will it likewise have its characteristic +modes of expression. But where there exists that +degree of genius and talent which entitles a writer +to aim at the honours of a poet, the very act of +poetic composition itself is, and is allowed to imply +and to produce, an unusual state of excitement, +which of course justifies and demands a correspondent +difference of language, as truly, though not +perhaps in as marked a degree, as the excitement +of love, fear, rage, or jealousy. The vividness +of the descriptions or declamations in <span class="smcap">Donne</span> +or <span class="smcap">Dryden</span> is as much and as often derived from +the force and fervour of the describer, as from the +reflections, forms or incidents, which constitute +their subject and materials. The wheels take fire +from the mere rapidity of their motion. To what +extent, and under what modifications, this may be +admitted to act, I shall attempt to define in an +after remark on Mr. Wordsworth’s reply to this +objection, or rather on his objection to this reply, +as already anticipated in his preface.</p> + +<p>Fourthly, and as intimately connected with this, +if not the same argument in a more general form,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span> +I adduce the high spiritual instinct of the human +being impelling us to seek unity by harmonious +adjustment, and thus establishing the principle, +that all the parts of an organized whole must be +assimilated to the more important and essential +parts. This and the preceding arguments may be +strengthened by the reflection, that the composition +of a poem is among the imitative arts; and +that imitation, as opposed to copying, consists +either in the interfusion of the same throughout the +radically different, or of the different throughout +a base radically the same.</p> + +<p>Lastly, I appeal to the practice of the best poets, +of all countries and in all ages, as authorizing the +opinion, (deduced from all the foregoing,) that in +every import of the word essential, which would +not here involve a mere truism, there may be, is, +and ought to be an essential difference between the +language of prose and of metrical composition.</p> + +<p>In Mr. Wordsworth’s criticism of Gray’s Sonnet, +the readers’ sympathy with his praise or blame of +the different parts is taken for granted rather perhaps +too easily. He has not, at least, attempted +to win or compel it by argumentative analysis. In +my conception at least, the lines rejected as of no +value do, with the exception of the two first, differ +as much and as little from the language of common +life, as those which he has printed in italics as +possessing genuine excellence. Of the five lines thus +honourably distinguished, two of them differ from +prose, even more widely than the lines which either +precede or follow, in the position of the words.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>A different object do these eyes require;</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine;<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>And in my breast the imperfect joys expire.</i><br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span></div></div> + +<p>But were it otherwise, what would this prove, +but a truth, of which no man ever doubted? +Videlicet, that there are sentences, which would be +equally in their place both in verse and prose. +Assuredly it does not prove the point, which alone +requires proof; namely, that there are not passages, +which would suit the one and not suit the +other. The first line of this sonnet is distinguished +from the ordinary language of men by the epithet +to ‘<i>morning</i>’. (For we will set aside, at present, the +consideration, that the particular word ‘<i>smiling</i>’ is +hackneyed and (as it involves a sort of personification) +not quite congruous with the common and +material attribute of <i>shining</i>.) And, doubtless, this +adjunction of epithets for the purpose of additional +description, where no particular attention is demanded +for the quality of the thing, would be +noticed as giving a poetic cast to a man’s conversation. +Should the sportsman exclaim, ‘<i>Come boys! +the rosy morning calls you up</i>’, he will be supposed +to have some song in his head. But no one suspects +this, when he says, ‘A wet morning shall not +confine us to our beds.’ This then is either a defect +in poetry, or it is not. Whoever should decide in +the affirmative, I would request him to re-peruse +any one poem, of any confessedly great poet from +Homer to Milton, or from Aeschylus to Shakespeare; +and to strike out (in thought I mean) every +instance of this kind. If the number of these +fancied erasures did not startle him, or if he +continued to deem the work improved by their +total omission, he must advance reasons of no +ordinary strength and evidence, reasons grounded +in the essence of human nature. Otherwise, +I should not hesitate to consider him as a man<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span> +not so much proof against all authority, as dead +to it.</p> + +<p>The second line,</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And reddening Phoebus lifts his golden fire;—<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">has indeed almost as many faults as words. But +then it is a bad line, not because the language is +distinct from that of prose, but because it conveys +incongruous images, because it confounds the +cause and the effect, the real thing with the personified +representative of the thing; in short, +because it differs from the language of good sense! +That the ‘Phoebus’ is hackneyed, and a school-boy +image, is an accidental fault, dependent on the age +in which the author wrote, and not deduced from +the nature of the thing. That it is part of an +exploded mythology, is an objection more deeply +grounded. Yet when the torch of ancient learning +was rekindled, so cheering were its beams, that +our eldest poets, cut off by Christianity from all +accredited machinery, and deprived of all acknowledged +guardians and symbols of the great objects +of nature, were naturally induced to adopt, as +a poetic language, those fabulous personages, those +forms of the supernatural in nature, which had +given them such dear delight in the poems of their +great masters. Nay, even at this day what scholar +of genial taste will not so far sympathize with +them, as to read with pleasure in Petrarch, +Chaucer, or Spenser, what he would perhaps +condemn as puerile in a modern poet?</p> + +<p>I remember no poet, whose writings would +safelier stand the test of Mr. Wordsworth’s theory, +than Spenser. Yet will Mr. Wordsworth say, +that the style of the following stanza is either<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span> +undistinguished from prose, and the language of +ordinary life? Or that it is vicious, and that the +stanzas are blots in the <i>Faerie Queene</i>?</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">By this the northern wagoner had set<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His sevenfold teme behind the steadfast starre,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That was in ocean waves yet never wet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But firme is fixt, and sendeth light from farre<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To all that in the wild deep wandering are:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And chearful chanticleer with his note shrill<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had warned once that Phoebus’ fiery carre<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In haste was climbing up the easterne hill,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Full envious that night so long his roome did fill.<br /></span> +<span class="i10">Book I, Can. 2, St. 2.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">At last the golden orientall gate<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of greatest heaven gan to open fayre,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Phœbus fresh, as brydegrome to his mate,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Came dauncing forth, shaking his deawie hayre,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And hurl’d his glist’ring beams through gloomy ayre:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which when the wakeful elfe perceived, streightway<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He started up, and did him selfe prepayre<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In sun-bright armes and battailous array;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For with that pagan proud he combat will that day.<br /></span> +<span class="i10">Book I, Can. 5, St. 2.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>On the contrary to how many passages, both in +hymn books and in blank verse poems, could I +(were it not invidious) direct the reader’s attention, +the style of which is most unpoetic, because, and +only because, it is the style of prose? He will not +suppose me capable of having in my mind such +verses, as</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I put my hat upon my head<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And walk’d into the Strand;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And there I met another man,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose hat was in his hand.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>To such specimens it would indeed be a fair and +full reply, that these lines are not bad, because +they are unpoetic; but because they are empty of +all sense and feeling; and that it were an idle<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span> +attempt to prove that an ape is not a Newton, +when it is evident that he is not a man. But the +sense shall be good and weighty, the language +correct and dignified, the subject interesting and +treated with feeling; and yet the style shall, notwithstanding +all these merits, be justly blamable +as prosaic, and solely because the words and the +order of the words would find their appropriate +place in prose, but are not suitable to metrical +composition. The <i>Civil Wars</i> of Daniel is an instructive, +and even interesting work; but take the +following stanzas (and from the hundred instances +which abound I might probably have selected +others far more striking):</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And to the end we may with better ease<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Discern the true discourse, vouchsafe to show<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What were the times foregoing near to these,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That these we may with better profit know.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tell how the world fell into this disease;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And how so great distemperature did grow;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So shall we see with what degrees it came;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How things at full do soon wax out of frame.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ten kings had from the Norman conqu’ror reign’d<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With intermixt and variable fate,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When England to her greatest height attain’d<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of power, dominion, glory, wealth, and state;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">After it had with much ado sustain’d<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The violence of princes, with debate<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For titles and the often mutinies<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of nobles for their ancient liberties.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For first, the Norman, conqu’ring all by might,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By might was forc’d to keep what he had got;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mixing our customs and the form of right<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With foreign constitutions he had brought;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mast’ring the mighty, humbling the poorer wight,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By all severest means that could be wrought;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, making the succession doubtful, rent<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His new-got state, and left it turbulent.<br /></span> +<span class="i10">Book I, St. vii, viii, and ix.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Will it be contended on the one side, that these<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span> +lines are mean and senseless? Or on the other, +that they are not prosaic, and for that reason unpoetic? +This poet’s well-merited epithet is that +of the ‘<i>well-languaged Daniel</i>’; but likewise, and +by the consent of his contemporaries no less than +of all succeeding critics, the ‘prosaic Daniel.’ Yet +those, who thus designate this wise and amiable +writer, from the frequent incorrespondency of his +diction to his metre in the majority of his compositions, +not only deem them valuable and interesting +on other accounts, but willingly admit that there +are to be found throughout his poems, and especially +in his <i>Epistles</i> and in his <i>Hymen’s Triumph</i>, +many and exquisite specimens of that style which, +as the neutral ground of prose and verse, is common +to both. A fine and almost faultless extract, +eminent, as for other beauties, so for its perfection +in these species of diction, may be seen in Lamb’s +<i>Dramatic Specimens</i>, &c., a work of various interest +from the nature of the selections themselves, (all +from the plays of Shakespeare’s contemporaries), +and deriving a high additional value from the notes, +which are full of just and original criticism, expressed +with all the freshness of originality.</p> + +<p>Among the possible effects of practical adherence +to a theory that aims to identify the style of prose +and verse,—(if it does not indeed claim for the +latter a yet nearer resemblance to the average +style of men in the viva voce intercourse of real +life)—we might anticipate the following as not the +least likely to occur. It will happen, as I have +indeed before observed, that the metre itself, the +sole acknowledged difference, will occasionally +become metre to the eye only. The existence of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span> +prosaisms, and that they detract from the merit of +a poem, must at length be conceded, when a number +of successive lines can be rendered, even to the +most delicate ear, unrecognizable as verse, or as +having even been intended for verse, by simply +transcribing them as prose; when if the poem be +in blank verse, this can be effected without any +alteration, or at most by merely restoring one or +two words to their proper places, from which they +have been transplanted<a name="FNanchor_5_5" id="FNanchor_5_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_5_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a> for no assignable cause or +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span>reason but that of the author’s convenience; but +if it be in rhyme, by the mere exchange of the final +word of each line for some other of the same +meaning, equally appropriate, dignified and +euphonic.</p> + +<p>The answer or objection in the preface to the +anticipated remark ‘that metre paves the way to +other distinctions’, is contained in the following +words. ‘The distinction of rhyme and metre is +voluntary and uniform, and not, like that produced +by (what is called) poetic diction, arbitrary, +and subject to infinite caprices, upon which no +calculation whatever can be made. In the one +case the reader is utterly at the mercy of the poet +respecting what imagery or diction he may choose +to connect with the passion.’ But is this a poet, of +whom a poet is speaking? No surely! rather of +a fool or madman: or at best of a vain or ignorant +phantast! And might not brains so wild and so deficient +make just the same havoc with rhymes and +metres, as they are supposed to effect with modes +and figures of speech? How is the reader at the +mercy of such men? If he continue to read their +nonsense, is it not his own fault? The ultimate +end of criticism is much more to establish the +principles of writing, than to furnish rules how to +pass judgement on what has been written by +others; if indeed it were possible that the two<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span> +could be separated. But if it be asked, by what +principles the poet is to regulate his own style, if +he do not adhere closely to the sort and order of +words which he hears in the market, wake, high-road, +or plough-field? I reply; by principles, the +ignorance or neglect of which would convict him of +being no poet, but a silly or presumptuous usurper +of the name! By the principles of grammar, +logic, psychology! In one word, by such a knowledge +of the facts, material and spiritual, that most +appertain to his art, as, if it have been governed and +applied by good sense, and rendered instinctive by +habit, becomes the representative and reward of +our past conscious reasonings, insights, and conclusions, +and acquires the name of <span class="smcap">Taste</span>. By +what rule that does not leave the reader at the +poet’s mercy, and the poet at his own, is the latter +to distinguish between the language suitable to +suppressed, and the language, which is characteristic +of indulged, anger? Or between that of rage +and that of jealousy? Is it obtained by wandering +about in search of angry or jealous people in uncultivated +society, in order to copy their words? Or +not far rather by the power of imagination proceeding +upon the all in each of human nature? +By meditation, rather than by observation? And by +the latter in consequence only of the former? As +eyes, for which the former has pre-determined +their field of vision, and to which, as to its organ, it +communicates a microscopic power? There is not, +I firmly believe, a man now living, who has, from +his own inward experience, a clearer intuition than +Mr. Wordsworth himself, that the last mentioned +are the true sources of genial discrimination. +Through the same process and by the same creative<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span> +agency will the poet distinguish the degree and kind +of the excitement produced by the very act of +poetic composition. As intuitively will he know, +what differences of style it at once inspires and +justifies; what intermixture of conscious volition +is natural to that state; and in what instances such +figures and colours of speech degenerate into mere +creatures of an arbitrary purpose, cold technical +artifices of ornament or connexion. For, even as +truth is its own light and evidence, discovering at +once itself and falsehood, so is it the prerogative +of poetic genius to distinguish by parental instinct +its proper offspring from the changelings, which +the gnomes of vanity or the fairies of fashion may +have laid in its cradle or called by its names. +Could a rule be given from without, poetry would +cease to be poetry, and sink into a mechanical art. +It would be μὁρφωσις, not ποἱησις. The rules of +the <span class="smcap">Imagination</span> are themselves the very powers +of growth and production. The words to which +they are reducible, present only the outlines and +external appearance of the fruit. A deceptive +counterfeit of the superficial form and colours may +be elaborated; but the marble peach feels cold and +heavy, and children only put it to their mouths. +We find no difficulty in admitting as excellent, and +the legitimate language of poetic fervour self-impassioned, +Donne’s apostrophe to the Sun in the +second stanza of his <i>Progress of the Soul</i>.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thee, eye of heaven! this great soul envies not;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By thy male force is all, we have, begot.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the first East thou now beginn’st to shine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Suck’st early balm and island spices there,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And wilt anon in thy loose-rein’d career<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At Tagus, Po, Seine, Thames, and Danow dine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And see at night this western world of mine:<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Yet hast thou not more nations seen than she,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who before thee one day began to be,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, thy frail light being quench’d, shall long, long outlive thee!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Or the next stanza but one:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Great destiny, the commissary of God,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That hast mark’d out a path and period<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For ev’ry thing! Who, where we offspring took,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Our way and ends see’st at one instant: thou<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Knot of all causes! Thou, whose changeless brow<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ne’er smiles nor frowns! O! vouchsafe thou to look,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And show my story in thy eternal book, &c.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>As little difficulty do we find in excluding from +the honours of unaffected warmth and elevation +the madness prepense of pseudo-poesy, or the +startling hysteric of weakness over-exerting itself, +which bursts on the unprepared reader in sundry +odes and apostrophes to abstract terms. Such are +the Odes to Jealousy, to Hope, to Oblivion, and +the like, in Dodsley’s collection and the magazines +of that day, which seldom fail to remind me of an +Oxford copy of verses on the two Suttons, commencing +with</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Inoculation</span>, heavenly maid! descend!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>It is not to be denied that men of undoubted +talents, and even poets of true, though not of first-rate, +genius, have from a mistaken theory deluded +both themselves and others in the opposite extreme. +I once read to a company of sensible and +well-educated women the introductory period of +Cowley’s preface to his <i>Pindaric Odes, written in +imitation of the style and manner of the odes of +Pindar</i>. ‘If (says Cowley) a man should undertake +to translate Pindar, word for word, it would +be thought that one madman had translated<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span> +another: as may appear, when he, that understands +not the original, reads the verbal traduction of +him into Latin prose, than which nothing seems +more raving.’ I then proceeded with his own free +version of the second Olympic, composed for the +charitable purpose of rationalizing the Theban +Eagle.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Queen of all harmonious things,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dancing words and speaking strings,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What God, what hero, wilt thou sing?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What happy man to equal glories bring?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Begin, begin thy noble choice,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And let the hills around reflect the image of thy voice.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pisa does to Jove belong,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Jove and Pisa claim thy song.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The fair first-fruits of war, th’ Olympic games,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Alcides offer’d up to Jove;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Alcides too thy strings may move!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But, oh! what man to join with these can worthy prove?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Join Theron boldly to their sacred names;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Theron the next honour claims;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Theron to no man gives place,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is first in Pisa’s and in Virtue’s race;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Theron there, and he alone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ev’n his own swift forefathers has outgone.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>One of the company exclaimed, with the full +assent of the rest, that if the original were madder +than this, it must be incurably mad. I then translated +the ode from the Greek, and as nearly as +possible, word for word; and the impression was, +that in the general movement of the periods, in the +form of the connexions and transitions, and in the +sober majesty of lofty sense, it appeared to them +to approach more nearly, than any other poetry +they had heard, to the style of our Bible in the +prophetic books. The first strophe will suffice as +a specimen:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ye harp-controling hymns! (or) ye hymns the sovereigns of harps!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What God? what Hero?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What Man shall we celebrate?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Truly Pisa indeed is of Jove,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But the Olympiad (or the Olympic games) did Hercules establish,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The first-fruits of the spoils of war.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But Theron for the four-horsed car,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That bore victory to him,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It behoves us now to voice aloud:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Just, the Hospitable,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Bulwark of Agrigentum,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of renowned fathers<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Flower, even him<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who preserves his native city erect and safe.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>But are such rhetorical caprices condemnable +only for their deviation from the language of real +life? and are they by no other means to be +precluded, but by the rejection of all distinctions +between prose and verse, save that of metre? +Surely good sense, and a moderate insight into the +constitution of the human mind, would be amply +sufficient to prove, that such language and such +combinations are the native produce neither of the +fancy nor of the imagination; that their operation +consists in the excitement of surprise by the juxtaposition +and apparent reconciliation of widely +different or incompatible things. As when, for +instance, the hills are made to reflect the image of +a voice. Surely, no unusual taste is requisite to +see clearly, that this compulsory juxtaposition is +not produced by the presentation of impressive or +delightful forms to the inward vision, nor by any +sympathy with the modifying powers with which +the genius of the poet had united and inspirited all +the objects of his thought; that it is therefore a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span> +species of wit, a pure work of the will, and implies +a leisure and self-possession both of thought and +of feeling, incompatible with the steady fervour of +a mind possessed and filled with the grandeur of its +subject. To sum up the whole in one sentence. +When a poem, or a part of a poem, shall be adduced, +which is evidently vicious in the figures and +contexture of its style, yet for the condemnation +of which no reason can be assigned, except that it +differs from the style in which men actually converse, +then, and not till then, can I hold this +theory to be either plausible, or practicable, or +capable of furnishing either rule, guidance, or precaution, +that might not, more easily and more +safely, as well as more naturally, have been deduced +in the author’s own mind from considerations of +grammar, logic, and the truth and nature of +things, confirmed by the authority of works, whose +fame is not of <small>ONE</small> country nor of <small>ONE</small> age.</p> + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_3_3" id="Footnote_3_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_3"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> +</p> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I’ve measured it from side to side;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">’Tis three feet long, and two feet wide.<br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_4_4" id="Footnote_4_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_4"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> +</p> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Nay, rack your brain—’tis all in vain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I’ll tell you every thing I know;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But to the Thorn, and to the Pond<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which is a little step beyond,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I wish that you would go:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Perhaps, when you are at the place,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You something of her tale may trace.<br /></span> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I’ll give you the best help I can:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Before you up the mountain go,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Up to the dreary mountain-top,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I’ll tell you all I know.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">’Tis now some two-and-twenty years<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Since she (her name is Martha Ray)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gave, with a maiden’s true good will,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her company to Stephen Hill;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And she was blithe and gay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And she was happy, happy still<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whene’er she thought of Stephen Hill.<br /></span> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And they had fix’d the wedding-day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The morning that must wed them both;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But Stephen to another maid<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had sworn another oath;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, with this other maid, to church<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Unthinking Stephen went—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Poor Martha! on that woeful day<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A pang of pitiless dismay<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Into her soul was sent;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A fire was kindled in her breast,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which might not burn itself to rest.<br /></span> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They say, full six months after this,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While yet the summer leaves were green,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She to the mountain-top would go,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And there was often seen.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">’Tis said a child was in her womb,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As now to any eye was plain;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She was with child, and she was mad;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet often she was sober sad<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From her exceeding pain.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh me! ten thousand times I’d rather<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That he had died, that cruel father!<br /></span> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i3"><span style="padding-right: 1em">*</span><span style="padding-right: 1em">*</span><span style="padding-right: 1em">*</span><span style="padding-right: 1em">*</span><span style="padding-right: 1em">*</span><span style="padding-right: 1em">*</span><span style="padding-right: 1em">*</span><br /></span> +<span class="i3"><span style="padding-right: 1em">*</span><span style="padding-right: 1em">*</span><span style="padding-right: 1em">*</span><span style="padding-right: 1em">*</span><span style="padding-right: 1em">*</span><span style="padding-right: 1em">*</span><span style="padding-right: 1em">*</span><br /></span> +<span class="i3"><span style="padding-right: 1em">*</span><span style="padding-right: 1em">*</span><span style="padding-right: 1em">*</span><span style="padding-right: 1em">*</span><span style="padding-right: 1em">*</span><span style="padding-right: 1em">*</span><span style="padding-right: 1em">*</span><br /></span> +<span class="i3"><span style="padding-right: 1em">*</span><span style="padding-right: 1em">*</span><span style="padding-right: 1em">*</span><span style="padding-right: 1em">*</span><span style="padding-right: 1em">*</span><span style="padding-right: 1em">*</span><span style="padding-right: 1em">*</span><br /></span> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Last Christmas when we talked of this,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Old farmer Simpson did maintain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That in her womb the infant wrought<br /></span> +<span class="i0">About its mother’s heart, and brought<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her senses back again:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, when at last her time drew near,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her looks were calm, her senses clear.<br /></span> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">No more I know, I wish I did,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I would tell it all to you:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For what became of this poor child<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There’s none that ever knew:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And if a child was born or no,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There’s no one that could ever tell;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And if ’twas born alive or dead,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There’s no one knows, as I have said:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But some remember well,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That Martha Ray about this time<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Would up the mountain often climb.<br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_5_5" id="Footnote_5_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5_5"><span class="label">[5]</span></a> As the ingenious gentleman under the influence of the +Tragic Muse contrived to dislocate, ‘I wish you a good +morning, Sir! Thank you, Sir, and I wish you the same,’ +into two blank-verse heroics:— +</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">To you a good morning, good Sir! I wish.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You, Sir! I thank: to you the same wish I.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p> +In those parts of Mr. Wordsworth’s works which I have +thoroughly studied, I find fewer instances in which this +would be practicable than I have met in many poems, +where an approximation of prose has been sedulously +and on system guarded against. Indeed excepting the +stanzas already quoted from <i>The Sailor’s Mother</i>, I can +recollect but one instance: viz. a short passage of four or +five lines in <i>The Brothers</i>, that model of English pastoral, +which I never yet read with unclouded eye.—‘James, +pointing to its summit, over which they had all +purposed to return together, informed them that he would +wait for them there. They parted, and his comrades passed +that way some two hours after, but they did not find him at +the appointed place, <i>a circumstance of which they took no +heed</i>: but one of them, going by chance into the house, +which at this time was James’s house, learnt <i>there</i>, that +nobody had seen him all that day.’ The only change +which has been made is in the position of the little word +<i>there</i> in two instances, the position in the original being +clearly such as is not adopted in ordinary conversation. +The other words printed in <i>italics</i> were so marked because, +though good and genuine English, they are not the phraseology +of common conversation either in the word put in +apposition, or in the connexion by the genitive pronoun. +Men in general would have said, ‘but that was a circumstance +they paid no attention to, or took no notice of;’ +and the language is, on the theory of the preface, justified +only by the narrator’s being the <i>Vicar</i>. Yet if any ear +<i>could</i> suspect, that these sentences were ever printed as +metre, on those very words alone could the suspicion have +been grounded.</p></div> +</div> + + +<h2><a name="WILLIAM_BLAKE" id="WILLIAM_BLAKE"></a>WILLIAM BLAKE<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span></h2> + +<h3>1757-1827</h3> + +<h3>THE CANTERBURY PILGRIMS (1809)</h3> + +<h4><span class="smcap">Sir Geffrey Chaucer and the Nine-and-twenty +Pilgrims on their journey to Canterbury</span><a name="FNanchor_6_6" id="FNanchor_6_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a></h4> + + +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> time chosen is early morning, before sunrise, +when the jolly company are just quitting the +Tabarde Inn. The Knight and Squire with the +Squire’s Yeoman lead the Procession; next follow +the youthful Abbess, her Nun, and three Priests; +her greyhounds attend her:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Of small hounds had she that she fed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With roast flesh, milk, and wastel bread.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Next follow the Friar and Monk; then the Tapiser, +the Pardoner, and the Sompnour and Manciple. +After these ‘Our Host’, who occupies the centre of +the cavalcade, directs them to the Knight as the +person who would be likely to commence their +task of each telling a tale in their order. After the +Host follow the Shipman, the Haberdasher, the +Dyer, the Franklin, the Physician, the Ploughman, +the Lawyer, the Poor Parson, the Merchant, the +Wife of Bath, the Miller, the Cook, the Oxford +Scholar, Chaucer himself; and the Reeve comes +as Chaucer has described:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And ever he rode hinderest of the rout.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">These last are issuing from the gateway of the Inn +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span>the Cook and the Wife of Bath are both taking +their morning’s draught of comfort. Spectators +stand at the gateway of the Inn, and are composed +of an old Man, a Woman, and Children.</p> + +<p>The Landscape is an eastward view of the +country, from the Tabarde Inn in Southwark, as +it may be supposed to have appeared in Chaucer’s +time, interspersed with cottages and villages. The +first beams of the Sun are seen above the horizon; +some buildings and spires indicate the situation +of the Great City. The Inn is a Gothic building, +which Thynne in his Glossary says was the lodging +of the Abbot of Hyde, by Winchester. On the Inn +is inscribed its title, and a proper advantage is +taken of this circumstance to describe the subject of +the Picture. The words written over the gateway +of the Inn are as follow: ‘The Tabarde Inn, by +Henry Baillie, the lodgynge-house for Pilgrims who +journey to Saint Thomas’s Shrine at Canterbury.’</p> + +<p>The characters of Chaucer’s Pilgrims are the +characters which compose all ages and nations. +As one age falls, another rises, different to mortal +sight, but to immortals only the same; for we see +the same characters repeated again and again, in +animals, vegetables, minerals, and in men. Nothing +new occurs in identical existence; Accident +ever varies, Substance can never suffer change nor +decay.</p> + +<p>Of Chaucer’s characters, as described in his +<i>Canterbury Tales</i>, some of the names or titles are +altered by time, but the characters themselves for +ever remain unaltered; and consequently they +are the physiognomies or lineaments of universal +human life, beyond which Nature never steps. +Names alter, things never alter. I have known<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span> +multitudes of those who would have been monks +in the age of monkery, who in this deistical age +are deists. As Newton numbered the stars, and +as Linnaeus numbered the plants, so Chaucer +numbered the classes of men.</p> + +<p>The Painter has consequently varied the heads +and forms of his personages into all Nature’s +varieties; the horses he has also varied to accord +to their riders; the costume is correct according +to authentic monuments.</p> + +<p>The Knight and Squire with the Squire’s Yeoman +lead the Procession, as Chaucer has also +placed them first in his Prologue. The Knight is +a true Hero, a good, great and wise man; his +whole-length portrait on horseback, as written by +Chaucer, cannot be surpassed. He has spent his +life in the field, has ever been a conqueror, and is +that species of character which in every age stands +as the guardian of man against the oppressor. His +son is like him, with the germ of perhaps greater +perfection still, as he blends literature and the arts +with his warlike studies. Their dress and their +horses are of the first rate, without ostentation, +and with all the true grandeur that unaffected +simplicity when in high rank always displays. +The Squire’s Yeoman is also a great character, +a man perfectly knowing in his profession:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And in his hand he bare a mighty bow.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">Chaucer describes here a mighty man, one who in +war is the worthy attendant on noble heroes.</p> + +<p>The Prioress follows these with her female +Chaplain:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Another Nonne also with her had she,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That was her Chaplaine, and Priests three.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span></div></div> + +<p class="noin">This Lady is described also as of the first rank, +rich and honoured. She has certain peculiarities +and little delicate affectations, not unbecoming in +her, being accompanied with what is truly grand +and really polite; her person and face Chaucer +has described with minuteness; it is very elegant, +and was the beauty of our ancestors till after +Elizabeth’s time, when voluptuousness and folly +began to be accounted beautiful.</p> + +<p>Her companion and her three Priests were no +doubt all perfectly delineated in those parts of +Chaucer’s work which are now lost; we ought to +suppose them suitable attendants on rank and +fashion.</p> + +<p>The Monk follows these with the Friar. The +Painter has also grouped with these the Pardoner +and the Sompnour and the Manciple, and has here +also introduced one of the rich citizens of London—characters +likely to ride in company, all being +above the common rank in life, or attendants on +those who were so.</p> + +<p>For the Monk is described by Chaucer, as a man +of the first rank in society, noble, rich, and expensively +attended; he is a leader of the age, with +certain humorous accompaniments in his character, +that do not degrade, but render him an object of +dignified mirth, but also with other accompaniments +not so respectable.</p> + +<p>The Friar is a character of a mixed kind:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A friar there was, a wanton and a merry;<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">but in his office he is said to be a ‘full solemn +man’; eloquent, amorous, witty and satirical; +young, handsome and rich; he is a complete rogue,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span> +with constitutional gaiety enough to make him a +master of all the pleasures of the world:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">His neck was white as the flour de lis,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thereto strong he was as a champioun.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>It is necessary here to speak of Chaucer’s own +character, that I may set certain mistaken critics +right in their conception of the humour and fun +that occur on the journey. Chaucer is himself the +great poetical observer of men, who in every age +is born to record and eternize its acts. This he +does as a master, as a father and superior, who +looks down on their little follies from the Emperor +to the Miller, sometimes with severity, oftener +with joke and sport.</p> + +<p>Accordingly Chaucer has made his Monk a great +tragedian, one who studied poetical art. So much +so that the generous Knight is, in the compassionate +dictates of his soul, compelled to cry out:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘Ho,’ quoth the Knyght, ‘good Sir, no more of this;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That ye have said is right ynough, I wis,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And mokell more; for little heaviness<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is right enough for much folk, as I guesse.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I say, for me, it is a great disease,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whereas men have been in wealth and ease,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To heare of their sudden fall, alas!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the contrary is joy and solas.’<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The Monk’s definition of tragedy in the proem +to his tale is worth repeating:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Tragedie is to tell a certain story,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As old books us maken memory,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of hem that stood in great prosperity,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And be fallen out of high degree,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Into miserie, and ended wretchedly.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Though a man of luxury, pride and pleasure, he +is a master of art and learning, though affecting to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span> +despise it. Those who can think that the proud +huntsman and noble housekeeper, Chaucer’s Monk, +is intended for a buffoon or burlesque character, +know little of Chaucer.</p> + +<p>For the Host who follows this group, and holds +the centre of the cavalcade, is a first-rate character, +and his jokes are no trifles; they are always, +though uttered with audacity, and equally free with +the Lord and the Peasant—they are always substantially +and weightily expressive of knowledge +and experience; Henry Baillie, the keeper of the +greatest Inn of the greatest City, for such was the +Tabarde Inn in Southwark near London, our Host, +was also a leader of the age.</p> + +<p>By way of illustration I instance Shakespeare’s +Witches in <i>Macbeth</i>. Those who dress them for +the stage, consider them as wretched old women, +and not, as Shakespeare intended, the Goddesses +of Destiny; this shows how Chaucer has been +misunderstood in his sublime work. Shakespeare’s +Fairies also are the rulers of the vegetable world, +and so are Chaucer’s; let them be so considered, +and then the poet will be understood, and not +else.</p> + +<p>But I have omitted to speak of a very prominent +character, the Pardoner, the Age’s Knave, who +always commands and domineers over the high and +low vulgar. This man is sent in every age for a rod +and scourge, and for a blight, for a trial of men, to +divide the classes of men; he is in the most holy +sanctuary, and he is suffered by Providence for +wise ends, and has also his great use, and his grand +leading destiny.</p> + +<p>His companion the Sompnour is also a Devil of +the first magnitude, grand, terrific, rich, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span> +honoured in the rank of which he holds the destiny. +The uses to society are perhaps equal of the Devil +and of the Angel; their sublimity who can +dispute?</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In daunger had he at his own gise,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The young girls of his diocese,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he knew well their counsel, &c.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The principal figure in the next group is the +Good Parson; an Apostle, a real Messenger of +Heaven, sent in every age for its light and its +warmth. This man is beloved and venerated by +all, and neglected by all: he serves all, and is +served by none. He is, according to Christ’s +definition, the greatest of his age: yet he is a Poor +Parson of a town. Read Chaucer’s description of +the Good Parson, and bow the head and the knee +to Him, Who in every age sends us such a burning +and a shining light. Search, O ye rich and powerful, +for these men and obey their counsel; then +shall the golden age return. But alas! you will +not easily distinguish him from the Friar or the +Pardoner; they also are ‘full solemn men’, and +their counsel you will continue to follow.</p> + +<p>I have placed by his side the Sergeant-at-Lawe, +who appears delighted to ride in his company, and +between him and his brother the Ploughman; +as I wish men of law would always ride with +them, and take their counsel, especially in all difficult +points. Chaucer’s Lawyer is a character of +great venerableness, a Judge and a real master +of the jurisprudence of his age.</p> + +<p>The Doctor of Physic is in this group; and +the Franklin, the voluptuous country gentleman, +contrasted with the Physician, and, on his other +hand, with two Citizens of London. Chaucer’s<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span> +characters live age after age. Every age is a Canterbury +Pilgrimage; we all pass on, each sustaining +one of these characters; nor can a child be born +who is not one or other of these characters of +Chaucer. The Doctor of Physic is described as +the first of his profession, perfect, learned, completely +Master and Doctor in his art. Thus the +reader will observe that Chaucer makes every one +of his characters perfect in his kind; every one is +an Antique Statue, the image of a class and not of +an imperfect individual.</p> + +<p>This group also would furnish substantial matter, +on which volumes might be written. The Franklin +is one who keeps open table, who is the genius of +eating and drinking, the Bacchus; as the Doctor +of Physic is the Aesculapius, the Host is the Silenus, +the Squire is the Apollo, the Miller is the Hercules, +&c. Chaucer’s characters are a description of +the eternal Principles that exist in all ages. The +Franklin is voluptuousness itself, most nobly +portrayed:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It snewed in his house of meat and drink.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The Ploughman is simplicity itself, with wisdom +and strength for its stamina. Chaucer has +divided the ancient character of Hercules between +his Miller and his Ploughman. Benevolence is the +Ploughman’s great characteristic; he is thin with +excessive labour, and not with old age as some have +supposed:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He would thresh, and thereto dike and delve,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For Christe’s sake, for every poore wight,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Withouten hire, if it lay in his might.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Visions of these eternal principles or characters +of human life appear to poets in all ages; the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span> +Grecian gods were the ancient Cherubim of +Phoenicia; but the Greeks, and since them the +Moderns, have neglected to subdue the gods of +Priam. These gods are visions of the eternal +attributes, or divine names, which, when erected +into gods, become destructive to humanity. They +ought to be the servants, and not the masters of +man or of society. They ought to be made to +sacrifice to man, and not man compelled to sacrifice +to them; for, when separated from man or +humanity, who is Jesus the Saviour, the Vine of +Eternity? They are thieves and rebels, they are +destroyers.</p> + +<p>The Ploughman of Chaucer is Hercules in his +supreme Eternal State, divested of his Spectrous +Shadow, which is the Miller, a terrible fellow, such +as exists in all times and places for the trial of +men, to astonish every neighbourhood with brutal +strength and courage, to get rich and powerful, to +curb the pride of Man.</p> + +<p>The Reeve and the Manciple are two characters +of the most consummate worldly wisdom. The +Shipman, or Sailor, is a similar genius of Ulyssean +art, but with the highest courage superadded.</p> + +<p>The Citizens and their Cook are each leaders +of a class. Chaucer has been somehow made to +number four citizens, which would make his whole +company, himself included, thirty-one. But he says +there was but nine-and-twenty in his company:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Full nine and twenty in a company.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The Webbe, or Weaver, and the Tapiser, or +Tapestry Weaver, appear to me to be the same +person; but this is only an opinion, for ‘full nine +and twenty’ may signify one more or less. But<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span> +I daresay that Chaucer wrote ‘A Webbe Dyer’, +that is a Cloth Dyer:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A Webbe Dyer and a Tapiser.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The Merchant cannot be one of the Three +Citizens, as his dress is different, and his character +is more marked, whereas Chaucer says of his rich +citizens:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">All were yclothed in o liverie.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The characters of Women Chaucer has divided +into two classes, the Lady Prioress and the Wife +of Bath. Are not these leaders of the ages of men? +The Lady Prioress in some ages predominates; +and in some the Wife of Bath, in whose character +Chaucer has been equally minute and exact; +because she is also a scourge and a blight. I shall +say no more of her, nor expose what Chaucer has +left hidden; let the young reader study what he +has said of her: it is useful as a scarecrow. +There are of such characters born too many for the +peace of the world.</p> + +<p>I come at length to the Clerk of Oxenford. This +character varies from that of Chaucer, as the contemplative +philosopher varies from the poetical +genius. There are always these two classes of +learned sages, the poetical and the philosophical. +The Painter has put them side by side, as if the +youthful clerk had put himself under the tuition +of the mature poet. Let the Philosopher always +be the servant and scholar of Inspiration, and all +will be happy.</p> + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_6_6" id="Footnote_6_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor_6_6"><span class="label">[6]</span></a> From <i>A Descriptive Catalogue of Pictures</i>.</p></div> +</div> + + +<h2><a name="CHARLES_LAMB" id="CHARLES_LAMB"></a>CHARLES LAMB<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span></h2> + +<h3>1775-1834</h3> + +<h3>ON THE TRAGEDIES OF SHAKESPEARE,<br /> + +<small>CONSIDERED WITH REFERENCE TO THEIR FITNESS</small><br /> +<small>FOR STAGE REPRESENTATION (1811)</small></h3> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Taking</span> a turn the other day in the Abbey, I was +struck with the affected attitude of a figure, which +I do not remember to have seen before, and which +upon examination proved to be a whole-length of +the celebrated Mr. Garrick. Though I would not +go so far with some good Catholics abroad as to +shut players altogether out of consecrated ground, +yet I own I was not a little scandalized at the introduction +of theatrical airs and gestures into a +place set apart to remind us of the saddest realities. +Going nearer, I found inscribed under this harlequin +figure the following lines:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">To paint fair Nature, by divine command,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her magic pencil in his glowing hand,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A Shakespeare rose: then, to expand his fame<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wide o’er this breathing world, a Garrick came.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though sunk in death the forms the Poet drew,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Actor’s genius bade them breathe anew;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though, like the bard himself, in night they lay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Immortal Garrick call’d them back to day:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And till Eternity with power sublime<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shall mark the mortal hour of hoary Time,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shakespeare and Garrick like twin-stars shall shine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And earth irradiate with a beam divine.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>It would be an insult to my readers’ understandings<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span> +to attempt anything like a criticism on +this farrago of false thoughts and nonsense. But +the reflection it led me into was a kind of wonder, +how, from the days of the actor here celebrated to +our own, it should have been the fashion to compliment +every performer in his turn, that has had +the luck to please the town in any of the great +characters of Shakespeare, with the notion of possessing +a <i>mind congenial with the poet’s</i>: how people +should come thus unaccountably to confound the +power of originating poetical images and conceptions +with the faculty of being able to read or recite +the same when put into words;<a name="FNanchor_7_7" id="FNanchor_7_7"></a><a href="#Footnote_7_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a> or what connexion +that absolute mastery over the heart and soul of +man, which a great dramatic poet possesses, has +with those low tricks upon the eye and ear, which +a player by observing a few general effects, +which some common passion, as grief, anger, &c. +usually has upon the gestures and exterior, can so +easily compass. To know the internal workings +and movements of a great mind, of an Othello or a +Hamlet for instance, the <i>when</i> and the <i>why</i> and the +<i>how far</i> they should be moved; to what pitch a +passion is becoming; to give the reins and to pull +in the curb exactly at the moment when the drawing +in or the slackening is most graceful; seems to +demand a reach of intellect of a vastly different +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span>extent from that which is employed upon the bare +imitation of the signs of these passions in the +countenance or gesture, which signs are usually +observed to be most lively and emphatic in the +weaker sort of minds, and which signs can after all +but indicate some passion, as I said before, anger, +or grief, generally; but of the motives and grounds +of the passion, wherein it differs from the same +passion in low and vulgar natures, of these the +actor can give no more idea by his face or gesture +than the eye (without a metaphor) can speak, or the +muscles utter intelligible sounds. But such is the +instantaneous nature of the impressions which we +take in at the eye and ear at a playhouse, compared +with the slow apprehension oftentimes of the understanding +in reading, that we are apt not only to +sink the play-writer in the consideration which we +pay to the actor, but even to identify in our minds +in a perverse manner, the actor with the character +which he represents. It is difficult for a frequent +playgoer to disembarrass the idea of Hamlet from +the person and voice of Mr. K. We speak of Lady +Macbeth, while we are in reality thinking of Mrs. S. +Nor is this confusion incidental alone to unlettered +persons, who, not possessing the advantage of +reading, are necessarily dependent upon the stage-player +for all the pleasure which they can receive +from the drama, and to whom the very idea of <i>what +an author is</i> cannot be made comprehensible without +some pain and perplexity of mind: the error +is one from which persons otherwise not meanly +lettered, find it almost impossible to extricate +themselves.</p> + +<p>Never let me be so ungrateful as to forget the +very high degree of satisfaction which I received<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span> +some years back from seeing for the first time a +tragedy of Shakespeare performed, in which these +two great performers sustained the principal parts. +It seemed to embody and realize conceptions which +had hitherto assumed no distinct shape. But +dearly do we pay all our life after for this juvenile +pleasure, this sense of distinctness. When the +novelty is past, we find to our cost that instead of +realizing an idea, we have only materialized and +brought down a fine vision to the standard of flesh +and blood. We have let go a dream, in quest of an +unattainable substance.</p> + +<p>How cruelly this operates upon the mind, to have +its free conceptions thus crampt and pressed down +to the measure of a strait-lacing actuality, may be +judged from that delightful sensation of freshness +with which we turn to those plays of Shakespeare +which have escaped being performed, and to those +passages in the acting plays of the same writer +which have happily been left out in performance. +How far the very custom of hearing anything +<i>spouted</i>, withers and blows upon a fine passage, +may be seen in those speeches from <i>Henry the Fifth</i>, +&c. which are current in the mouths of school-boys +from their being to be found in <i>Enfield Speakers</i>, +and such kind of books. I confess myself utterly +unable to appreciate that celebrated soliloquy in +<i>Hamlet</i>, beginning ‘To be or not to be’, or to tell +whether it be good, bad, or indifferent, it has been +so handled and pawed about by declamatory boys +and men, and torn so inhumanly from its living +place and principle of continuity in the play, till +it is become to me a perfect dead member.</p> + +<p>It may seem a paradox, but I cannot help being +of opinion that the plays of Shakespeare are less<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span> +calculated for performance on a stage, than those +of almost any other dramatist whatever. Their +distinguished excellence is a reason that they should +be so. There is so much in them, which comes not +under the province of acting, with which eye, and +tone, and gesture, have nothing to do.</p> + +<p>The glory of the scenic art is to personate passion, +and the turns of passion; and the more coarse and +palpable the passion is, the more hold upon the eyes +and ears of the spectators the performer obviously +possesses. For this reason, scolding scenes, scenes +where two persons talk themselves into a fit of fury, +and then in a surprising manner talk themselves +out of it again, have always been the most popular +upon our stage. And the reason is plain, because +the spectators are here most palpably appealed to, +they are the proper judges in this war of words, +they are the legitimate ring that should be formed +round such ‘intellectual prize-fighters’. Talking +is the direct object of the imitation here. But in +all the best dramas, and in Shakespeare above all, +how obvious it is, that the form of <i>speaking</i>, +whether it be in soliloquy or dialogue, is only a +medium, and often a highly artificial one, for putting +the reader or spectator into possession of that +knowledge of the inner structure and workings of +mind in a character, which he could otherwise +never have arrived at <i>in that form of composition</i> +by any gift short of intuition. We do here as we +do with novels written in the <i>epistolary form</i>. +How many improprieties, perfect solecisms in +letter-writing, do we put up with in <i>Clarissa</i> and +other books, for the sake of the delight which that +form upon the whole gives us.</p> + +<p>But the practice of stage representation reduces<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span> +everything to a controversy of elocution. Every +character, from the boisterous blasphemings of +Bajazet to the shrinking timidity of womanhood, +must play the orator. The love-dialogues of +Romeo and Juliet, those silver-sweet sounds of +lovers’ tongues by night; the more intimate and +sacred sweetness of nuptial colloquy between an +Othello or a Posthumus with their married wives, +all those delicacies which are so delightful in the +reading, as when we read of those youthful dalliances +in Paradise</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i9">As beseem’d<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fair couple link’d in happy nuptial league<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Alone:<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">by the inherent fault of stage representation, how +are these things sullied and turned from their very +nature by being exposed to a large assembly; +when such speeches as Imogen addresses to her +lord, come drawling out of the mouth of a hired +actress, whose courtship, though nominally addressed +to the personated Posthumus, is manifestly +aimed at the spectators, who are to judge of +her endearments and her returns of love.</p> + +<p>The character of Hamlet is perhaps that by +which, since the days of Betterton, a succession of +popular performers have had the greatest ambition +to distinguish themselves. The length of the part +may be one of their reasons. But for the character +itself, we find it in a play, and therefore we judge +it a fit subject of dramatic representation. The +play itself abounds in maxims and reflections +beyond any other, and therefore we consider it as +a proper vehicle for conveying moral instruction. +But Hamlet himself—what does he suffer meanwhile +by being dragged forth as a public schoolmaster,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span> +to give lectures to the crowd! Why, nine +parts in ten of what Hamlet does, are transactions +between himself and his moral sense, they are the +effusions of his solitary musings, which he retires +to holes and corners and the most sequestered parts +of the palace to pour forth; or rather, they are +the silent meditations with which his bosom is +bursting, reduced to <i>words</i> for the sake of the reader, +who must else remain ignorant of what is passing +there. These profound sorrows, these light-and-noise-abhorring +ruminations, which the tongue +scarce dares utter to deaf walls and chambers, how +can they be represented by a gesticulating actor, +who comes and mouths them out before an audience, +making four hundred people his confidants +at once? I say not that it is the fault of the actor +so to do; he must pronounce them <i>ore rotundo</i>, +he must accompany them with his eye, he must +insinuate them into his auditory by some trick of +eye, tone, or gesture, or he fails. <i>He must be +thinking all the while of his appearance, because he +knows that all the while the spectators are judging of +it.</i> And this is the way to represent the shy, +negligent, retiring Hamlet.</p> + +<p>It is true that there is no other mode of conveying +a vast quantity of thought and feeling to +a great portion of the audience, who otherwise +would never earn it for themselves by reading, and +the intellectual acquisition gained this way may, +for aught I know, be inestimable; but I am not +arguing that Hamlet should not be acted, but how +much Hamlet is made another thing by being +acted. I have heard much of the wonders which +Garrick performed in this part; but as I never +saw him, I must have leave to doubt whether the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span> +representation of such a character came within the +province of his art. Those who tell me of him, +speak of his eye, of the magic of his eye, and of +his commanding voice: physical properties, vastly +desirable in an actor, and without which he can +never insinuate meaning into an auditory,—but +what have they to do with Hamlet? what have +they to do with intellect? In fact, the things +aimed at in theatrical representation, are to arrest +the spectator’s eye upon the form and the gesture, +and so to gain a more favourable hearing to what +is spoken: it is not what the character is, but how +he looks; not what he says, but how he speaks it. +I see no reason to think that if the play of <i>Hamlet</i> +were written over again by some such writer as +Banks or Lillo, retaining the process of the story, +but totally omitting all the poetry of it, all the +divine features of Shakespeare, his stupendous intellect; +and only taking care to give us enough of +passionate dialogue, which Banks or Lillo were never +at a loss to furnish; I see not how the effect could +be much different upon an audience, nor how the +actor has it in his power to represent Shakespeare +to us differently from his representation of Banks +or Lillo. Hamlet would still be a youthful accomplished +prince, and must be gracefully personated; +he might be puzzled in his mind, wavering in his +conduct, seemingly-cruel to Ophelia, he might see +a ghost, and start at it, and address it kindly when +he found it to be his father; all this in the poorest +and most homely language of the servilest creeper +after nature that ever consulted the palate of an +audience; without troubling Shakespeare for the +matter: and I see not but there would be room for +all the power which an actor has, to display itself.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span> +All the passions and changes of passion might remain: +for those are much less difficult to write or +act than is thought, it is a trick easy to be attained, +it is but rising or falling a note or two in the voice, +a whisper with a significant foreboding look to +announce its approach, and so contagious the +counterfeit appearance of any emotion is, that let +the words be what they will, the look and tone +shall carry it off and make it pass for deep skill in +the passions.</p> + +<p>It is common for people to talk of Shakespeare’s +plays being <i>so natural</i>; that everybody can understand +him. They are natural indeed, they are +grounded deep in nature, so deep that the depth of +them lies out of the reach of most of us. You +shall hear the same persons say that George +Barnwell is very natural, and Othello is very +natural, that they are both very deep; and to +them they are the same kind of thing. At the one +they sit and shed tears, because a good sort of +young man is tempted by a naughty woman to +commit <i>a trifling peccadillo</i>, the murder of an uncle +or so, that is all, and so comes to an untimely end, +which is <i>so moving</i>; and at the other, because a +blackamoor in a fit of jealousy kills his innocent +white wife: and the odds are that ninety-nine out +of a hundred would willingly behold the same +catastrophe happen to both the heroes, and have +thought the rope more due to Othello than to +Barnwell. For of the texture of Othello’s mind, +the inward construction marvellously laid open +with all its strengths and weaknesses, its heroic +confidences and its human misgivings, its agonies +of hate springing from the depths of love, they see +no more than the spectators at a cheaper rate,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span> +who pay their pennies a-piece to look through the +man’s telescope in Leicester-fields, see into the +inward plot and topography of the moon. Some +dim thing or other they see, they see an actor personating +a passion, of grief, or anger, for instance, +and they recognize it as a copy of the usual external +effects of such passions; for at least as +being true to <i>that symbol of the emotion which passes +current at the theatre for it</i>, for it is often no more +than that: but of the grounds of the passion, its +correspondence to a great or heroic nature, which +is the only worthy object of tragedy,—that common +auditors know any thing of this, or can have +any such notions dinned into them by the mere +strength of an actor’s lungs,—that apprehensions +foreign to them should be thus infused into them +by storm, I can neither believe, nor understand +how it can be possible.</p> + +<p>We talk of Shakespeare’s admirable observation +of life, when we should feel, that not from a petty +inquisition into those cheap and every-day characters +which surrounded him, as they surround us, +but from his own mind, which was, to borrow +a phrase of Ben Jonson’s, the very ‘sphere of +humanity’, he fetched those images of virtue and +of knowledge, of which every one of us recognizing +a part, think we comprehend in our natures the +whole; and oftentimes mistake the powers which +he positively creates in us, for nothing more than +indigenous faculties of our own minds which only +waited the action of corresponding virtues in him +to return a full and clear echo of the same.</p> + +<p>To return to Hamlet.—Among the distinguishing +features of that wonderful character, one of the +most interesting (yet painful) is that soreness of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span> +mind which makes him treat the intrusions of +Polonius with harshness, and that asperity which +he puts on in his interviews with Ophelia. These +tokens of an unhinged mind (if they be not mixed in +the latter case with a profound artifice of love, to +alienate Ophelia by affected discourtesies, so to +prepare her mind for the breaking off of that loving +intercourse, which can no longer find a place +amidst business so serious as that which he has to +do) are parts of his character, which to reconcile +with our admiration of Hamlet, the most patient +consideration of his situation is no more than necessary; +they are what we <i>forgive afterwards</i>, and +explain by the whole of his character, but <i>at the +time</i> they are harsh and unpleasant. Yet such is +the actor’s necessity of giving strong blows to the +audience, that I have never seen a player in this +character, who did not exaggerate and strain to +the utmost these ambiguous features,—these temporary +deformities in the character. They make +him express a vulgar scorn at Polonius which +utterly degrades his gentility, and which no explanation +can render palatable; they make him +show contempt, and curl up the nose at Ophelia’s +father,—contempt in its very grossest and most +hateful form; but they get applause by it: it is +natural, people say; that is, the words are scornful, +and the actor expresses scorn, and that they +can judge of: but why so much scorn, and of that +sort, they never think of asking.</p> + +<p>So to Ophelia.—All the Hamlets that I have +ever seen, rant and rave at her as if she had committed +some great crime, and the audience are +highly pleased, because the words of the part are +satirical, and they are enforced by the strongest<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span> +expression of satirical indignation of which the face +and voice are capable. But then, whether Hamlet +is likely to have put on such brutal appearances +to a lady whom he loved so dearly, is never thought +on. The truth is, that in all such deep affections +as had subsisted between Hamlet and Ophelia, +there is a stock of <i>supererogatory love</i>, (if I may +venture to use the expression) which in any great +grief of heart, especially where that which preys +upon the mind cannot be communicated, confers +a kind of indulgence upon the grieved party to +express itself, even to its heart’s dearest object, +in the language of a temporary alienation; but +it is not alienation, it is a distraction purely, and +so it always makes itself to be felt by that object: +it is not anger, but grief assuming the appearance +of anger,—love awkwardly counterfeiting hate, as +sweet countenances when they try to frown: but +such sternness and fierce disgust as Hamlet is made +to show, is no counterfeit, but the real face of +absolute aversion,—of irreconcilable alienation. +It may be said he puts on the madman; but then +he should only so far put on this counterfeit lunacy +as his own real distraction will give him leave; +that is, incompletely, imperfectly; not in that +confirmed practised way, like a master of his art, +or, as Dame Quickly would say, ‘like one of those +harlotry players.’</p> + +<p>I mean no disrespect to any actor, but the sort +of pleasure which Shakespeare’s plays give in the +acting seems to me not at all to differ from that +which the audience receive from those of other +writers; and, <i>they being in themselves essentially so +different from all others</i>, I must conclude that there +is something in the nature of acting which levels<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span> +all distinctions. And in fact, who does not speak +indifferently of the <i>Gamester</i> and of <i>Macbeth</i> as +fine stage performances, and praise the Mrs. Beverley +in the same way as the Lady Macbeth of +Mrs. S.? Belvidera, and Calista, and Isabella, +and Euphrasia, are they less liked than Imogen, +or than Juliet, or than Desdemona? Are they +not spoken of and remembered in the same way? +Is not the female performer as great (as they call +it) in one as in the other? Did not Garrick shine, +and was not he ambitious of shining in every +drawling tragedy that his wretched day produced,—the +productions of the Hills and the Murphys +and the Browns,—and shall he have that honour +to dwell in our minds for ever as an inseparable +concomitant with Shakespeare? A kindred mind! +O who can read that affecting sonnet of Shakespeare +which alludes to his profession as a player:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh for my sake do you with Fortune chide,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That did not better for my life provide<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Than public means which public custom breeds—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thence comes it that my name receives a brand;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And almost thence my nature is subdued<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To what it works in, like the dyer’s hand—<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">Or that other confession:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Alas! ’tis true, I have gone here and there,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And made myself a motley to thy view,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gor’d mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear—<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">Who can read these instances of jealous self-watchfulness +in our sweet Shakespeare, and dream +of any congeniality between him and one that, by +every tradition of him, appears to have been as +mere a player as ever existed; to have had his +mind tainted with the lowest players’ vices,—envy<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span> +and jealousy, and miserable cravings after applause; +one who in the exercise of his profession was jealous +even of the women-performers that stood in his +way; a manager full of managerial tricks and +stratagems and finesse: that any resemblance +should be dreamed of between him and Shakespeare,—Shakespeare +who, in the plenitude and +consciousness of his own powers, could with that +noble modesty, which we can neither imitate nor +appreciate, express himself thus of his own sense +of his own defects:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Featur’d like him, like him with friends possest;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Desiring <i>this man’s art, and that man’s scope</i>.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>I am almost disposed to deny to Garrick the +merit of being an admirer of Shakespeare. A true +lover of his excellences he certainly was not; for +would any true lover of them have admitted into +his matchless scenes such ribald trash as Tate and +Cibber, and the rest of them, that</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">With their darkness durst affront his light,<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">have foisted into the acting plays of Shakespeare? +I believe it impossible that he could have had +a proper reverence for Shakespeare, and have +condescended to go through that interpolated +scene in Richard the Third, in which Richard +tries to break his wife’s heart by telling her he +loves another woman, and says, ‘if she survives +this she is immortal.’ Yet I doubt not he delivered +this vulgar stuff with as much anxiety of emphasis +as any of the genuine parts; and for acting, it is +as well calculated as any. But we have seen the +part of Richard lately produce great fame to an +actor by his manner of playing it, and it lets us<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span> +into the secret of acting, and of popular judgements +of Shakespeare derived from acting. Not one of +the spectators who have witnessed Mr. C.’s +exertions in that part, but has come away with +a proper conviction that Richard is a very wicked +man, and kills little children in their beds, with +something like the pleasure which the giants and +ogres in children’s books are represented to have +taken in that practice; moreover, that he is very +close and shrewd and devilish cunning, for you +could see that by his eye.</p> + +<p>But is in fact this the impression we have in +reading the Richard of Shakespeare? Do we feel +anything like disgust, as we do at that butcher-like +representation of him that passes for him on the +stage? A horror at his crimes blends with the +effect which we feel, but how is it qualified, how is +it carried off, by the rich intellect which he displays, +his resources, his wit, his buoyant spirits, his vast +knowledge and insight into characters, the poetry +of his part,—not an atom of all which is made +perceivable in Mr. C.’s way of acting it. Nothing +but his crimes, his actions, is visible; they are +prominent and staring; the murderer stands out, +but where is the lofty genius, the man of vast +capacity,—the profound, the witty, accomplished +Richard?</p> + +<p>The truth is, the Characters of Shakespeare are +so much the objects of meditation rather than of +interest or curiosity as to their actions, that while +we are reading any of his great criminal characters,—Macbeth, +Richard, even Iago,—we think not +so much of the crimes which they commit, as of +the ambition, the aspiring spirit, the intellectual +activity, which prompts them to overleap those<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span> +moral fences. Barnwell is a wretched murderer; +there is a certain fitness between his neck and the +rope; he is the legitimate heir to the gallows; +nobody who thinks at all can think of any alleviating +circumstances in his case to make him a fit object +of mercy. Or to take an instance from the higher +tragedy, what else but a mere assassin is Glenalvon! +Do we think of anything but of the crime which he +commits, and the rack which he deserves? That +is all which we really think about him. Whereas +in corresponding characters in Shakespeare so little +do the actions comparatively affect us, that while the +impulses, the inner mind in all its perverted greatness, +solely seems real and is exclusively attended to, +the crime is comparatively nothing. But when we +see these things represented, the acts which they +do are comparatively everything, their impulses +nothing. The state of sublime emotion into which +we are elevated by those images of night and horror +which Macbeth is made to utter, that solemn +prelude with which he entertains the time till the +bell shall strike which is to call him to murder +Duncan,—when we no longer read it in a book, +when we have given up that vantage-ground of +abstraction which reading possesses over seeing, +and come to see a man in his bodily shape before +our eyes actually preparing to commit a murder, +if the acting be true and impressive, as I have +witnessed it in Mr. K.’s performance of that part, +the painful anxiety about the act, the natural +longing to prevent it while it yet seems unperpetrated, +the too close pressing semblance of +reality, give a pain and an uneasiness which +totally destroy all the delight which the words in +the book convey, where the deed doing never<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span> +presses upon us with the painful sense of presence: +it rather seems to belong to history,—to something +past and inevitable, if it has anything to do with +time at all. The sublime images, the poetry alone, +is that which is present to our minds in the reading.</p> + +<p>So to see Lear acted—to see an old man tottering +about the stage with a walking-stick, turned out +of doors by his daughters in a rainy night, has +nothing in it but what is painful and disgusting. +We want to take him into shelter and relieve him. +That is all the feeling which the acting of Lear +ever produced in me. But the Lear of Shakespeare +cannot be acted. The contemptible machinery +by which they mimic the storm which he goes +out in, is not more inadequate to represent the +horrors of the real elements, than any actor can +be to represent Lear: they might more easily +propose to personate the Satan of Milton upon +a stage, or one of Michael Angelo’s terrible figures. +The greatness of Lear is not in corporal dimension, +but in intellectual: the explosions of his passion +are terrible as a volcano: they are storms turning +up and disclosing to the bottom that sea, his mind, +with all its vast riches. It is his mind which is +laid bare. This case of flesh and blood seems too +insignificant to be thought on; even as he himself +neglects it. On the stage we see nothing but +corporal infirmities and weakness, the impotence +of rage; while we read it, we see not Lear, but we +are Lear,—we are in his mind, we are sustained by +a grandeur which baffles the malice of daughters +and storms; in the aberrations of his reason, we +discover a mighty irregular power of reasoning, +immethodized from the ordinary purposes of life, +but exerting its powers, as the wind blows where it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span> +listeth, at will upon the corruptions and abuses of +mankind. What have looks, or tones, to do with +that sublime identification of his age with that of +the <i>heavens themselves</i>, when in his reproaches to +them for conniving at the injustice of his children, +he reminds them that ‘they themselves are old’. +What gesture shall we appropriate to this? What +has the voice or the eye to do with such things? +But the play is beyond all art, as the tamperings +with it show: it is too hard and stony; it must +have love-scenes, and a happy ending. It is not +enough that Cordelia is a daughter, she must shine +as a lover too. Tate has put his hook in the nostrils +of this Leviathan, for Garrick and his followers, +the showmen of the scene, to draw the mighty +beast about more easily. A happy ending!—as if +the living martyrdom that Lear had gone through,—the +flaying of his feelings alive, did not make +a fair dismissal from the stage of life the only +decorous thing for him. If he is to live and be +happy after, if he could sustain this world’s burden +after, why all this pudder and preparation,—why +torment us with all this unnecessary sympathy? +As if the childish pleasure of getting his gilt robes +and sceptre again could tempt him to act over +again his misused station,—as if at his years, and +with his experience, anything was left but to die.</p> + +<p>Lear is essentially impossible to be represented +on a stage. But how many dramatic personages +are there in Shakespeare, which though more +tractable and feasible (if I may so speak) than +Lear, yet from some circumstance, some adjunct +to their character, are improper to be shown to +our bodily eye. Othello for instance. Nothing can +be more soothing, more flattering to the nobler<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span> +parts of our natures, than to read of a young +Venetian lady of highest extraction, through the +force of love and from a sense of merit in him whom +she loved, laying aside every consideration of +kindred, and country, and colour, and wedding +with <i>a coal-black Moor</i>—(for such he is represented, +in the imperfect state of knowledge respecting +foreign countries in those days, compared with +our own, or in compliance with popular notions, +though the Moors are now well enough known to +be by many shades less unworthy of a white +woman’s fancy)—it is the perfect triumph of virtue +over accidents, of the imagination over the senses. +She sees Othello’s colour in his mind. But upon +the stage, when the imagination is no longer the +ruling faculty, but we are left to our poor unassisted +senses, I appeal to every one that has seen Othello +played, whether he did not, on the contrary, sink +Othello’s mind in his colour; whether he did not +find something extremely revolting in the courtship +and wedded caresses of Othello and Desdemona; +and whether the actual sight of the thing did not +over-weigh all that beautiful compromise which +we make in reading;—and the reason it should do +so is obvious, because there is just so much reality +presented to our senses as to give a perception of +disagreement, with not enough of belief in the +internal motives—all that which is unseen—to +overpower and reconcile the first and obvious +prejudices.<a name="FNanchor_8_8" id="FNanchor_8_8"></a><a href="#Footnote_8_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a> What we see upon a stage is body +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span>and bodily action; what we are conscious of in +reading is almost exclusively the mind, and its +movements: and this I think may sufficiently +account for the very different sort of delight with +which the same play so often affects us in the +reading and the seeing.</p> + +<p>It requires little reflection to perceive, that if +those characters in Shakespeare which are within +the precincts of nature, have yet something in +them which appeals too exclusively to the imagination, +to admit of their being made objects to the +senses without suffering a change and a diminution,—that +still stronger the objection must lie against +representing another line of characters, which +Shakespeare has introduced to give a wildness and +a supernatural elevation to his scenes, as if to +remove them still farther from that assimilation +to common life in which their excellence is vulgarly +supposed to consist. When we read the incantations +of those terrible beings the Witches in <i>Macbeth</i>, +though some of the ingredients of their hellish composition +savour of the grotesque, yet is the effect +upon us other than the most serious and appalling +that can be imagined? Do we not feel spell-bound +as Macbeth was? Can any mirth accompany +a sense of their presence? We might as well laugh +under a consciousness of the principle of Evil +himself being truly and really present with us. +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span>But attempt to bring these beings on to a stage, +and you turn them instantly into so many old +women, that men and children are to laugh at. +Contrary to the old saying, that ‘seeing is believing’, +the sight actually destroys the faith; and the +mirth in which we indulge at their expense, when +we see these creatures upon a stage, seems to be +a sort of indemnification which we make to +ourselves for the terror which they put us in when +reading made them an object of belief,—when we +surrendered up our reason to the poet, as children, +to their nurses and their elders; and we laugh at +our fears, as children who thought they saw +something in the dark, triumph when the bringing +in of a candle discovers the vanity of their fears. +For this exposure of supernatural agents upon +a stage is truly bringing in a candle to expose +their own delusiveness. It is the solitary taper +and the book that generates a faith in these terrors: +a ghost by chandelier light, and in good company, +deceives no spectators,—a ghost that can be +measured by the eye, and his human dimensions +made out at leisure. The sight of a well-lighted +house, and a well-dressed audience, shall arm the +most nervous child against any apprehensions: +as Tom Brown says of the impenetrable skin of +Achilles with his impenetrable armour over it, +‘Bully Dawson would have fought the devil with +such advantages.’</p> + +<p>Much has been said, and deservedly, in reprobation +of the vile mixture which Dryden has thrown +into the <i>Tempest</i>: doubtless without some such +vicious alloy, the impure ears of that age would +never have sate out to hear so much innocence of +love as is contained in the sweet courtship of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span> +Ferdinand and Miranda. But is the <i>Tempest</i> of +Shakespeare at all a subject for stage representation? +It is one thing to read of an enchanter, and to +believe the wondrous tale while we are reading it; +but to have a conjurer brought before us in his +conjuring-gown, with his spirits about him, which +none but himself and some hundred of favoured +spectators before the curtain are supposed to see, +involves such a quantity of the <i>hateful incredible</i>, +that all our reverence for the author cannot hinder +us from perceiving such gross attempts upon the +senses to be in the highest degree childish and inefficient. +Spirits and fairies cannot be represented, +they cannot even be painted,—they can only be +believed. But the elaborate and anxious provision +of scenery, which the luxury of the age demands, +in these cases works a quite contrary effect to +what is intended. That which in comedy, or plays +of familiar life, adds so much to the life of the +imitation, in plays which appeal to the higher +faculties, positively destroys the illusion which it +is introduced to aid. A parlour or a drawing-room,—a +library opening into a garden,—a garden +with an alcove in it,—a street, or the piazza of +Covent Garden, does well enough in a scene; we +are content to give as much credit to it as it +demands; or rather, we think little about it,—it +is little more than reading at the top of a page, +‘Scene, a Garden;’ we do not imagine ourselves +there, but we readily admit the imitation of +familiar objects. But to think by the help of +painted trees and caverns, which we know to be +painted, to transport our minds to Prospero, and +his island and his lonely cell;<a name="FNanchor_9_9" id="FNanchor_9_9"></a><a href="#Footnote_9_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a> or by the aid of +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span>a fiddle dexterously thrown in, in an interval of +speaking, to make us believe that we hear those +supernatural noises of which the isle was full:—the +Orrery Lecturer at the Haymarket might as +well hope, by his musical glasses cleverly stationed +out of sight behind his apparatus, to make us +believe that we do indeed hear the chrystal spheres +ring out that chime, which if it were to inwrap our +fancy long, Milton thinks,</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Time would run back and fetch the age of gold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And speckled vanity<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Would sicken soon and die,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And leprous Sin would melt from earthly mould;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yea Hell itself would pass away,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And leave its dolorous mansions to the peering day.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">The Garden of Eden, with our first parents in it, +is not more impossible to be shown on a stage, +than the Enchanted Isle, with its no less interesting +and innocent first settlers.</p> + +<p>The subject of Scenery is closely connected with +that of the Dresses, which are so anxiously attended +to on our stage. I remember the last time I saw +Macbeth played, the discrepancy I felt at the +changes of garment which he varied—the shiftings +and re-shiftings, like a Romish priest at mass. +The luxury of stage-improvements, and the importunity +of the public eye, require this. The +coronation robe of the Scottish monarch was +fairly a counterpart to that which our king wears +when he goes to the Parliament-house,—just so +full and cumbersome, and set out with ermine +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span>and pearls. And if things must be represented, +I see not what to find fault with in this. But in +reading, what robe are we conscious of? Some +dim images of royalty—a crown and sceptre, may +float before our eyes, but who shall describe the +fashion of it? Do we see in our mind’s eye what +Webb or any other robe-maker could pattern? +This is the inevitable consequence of imitating +everything, to make all things natural. Whereas +the reading of a tragedy is a fine abstraction. It +presents to the fancy just so much of external +appearances as to make us feel that we are among +flesh and blood, while by far the greater and +better part of our imagination is employed upon +the thoughts and internal machinery of the +character. But in acting, scenery, dress, the +most contemptible things, call upon us to judge +of their naturalness.</p> + +<p>Perhaps it would be no bad similitude, to liken +the pleasure which we take in seeing one of these +fine plays acted, compared with that quiet delight +which we find in the reading of it, to the different +feelings with which a reviewer, and a man that is +not a reviewer, reads a fine poem. The accursed +critical habit,—the being called upon to judge and +pronounce, must make it quite a different thing +to the former. In seeing these plays acted, we +are affected just as judges. When Hamlet +compares the two pictures of Gertrude’s first and +second husband, who wants to see the pictures? +But in the acting, a miniature must be lugged out; +which we know not to be the picture, but only to +show how finely a miniature may be represented. +This showing of everything, levels all things: it +makes tricks, bows, and curtesies, of importance.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span> +Mrs. S. never got more fame by anything than by +the manner in which she dismisses the guests in +the banquet-scene in <i>Macbeth</i>: it is as much +remembered as any of her thrilling tones or +impressive looks. But does such a trifle as this +enter into the imaginations of the readers of that +wild and wonderful scene? Does not the mind +dismiss the feasters as rapidly as it can? Does +it care about the gracefulness of the doing it? +But by acting, and judging of acting, all these non-essentials +are raised into an importance, injurious +to the main interest of the play.</p> + +<p>I have confined my observations to the tragic +parts of Shakespeare. It would be no very difficult +task to extend the inquiry to his comedies; +and to show why Falstaff, Shallow, Sir Hugh Evans, +and the rest, are equally incompatible with stage +representation. The length to which this essay +has run, will make it, I am afraid, sufficiently +distasteful to the Amateurs of the Theatre, without +going any deeper into the subject at present.</p> + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_7_7" id="Footnote_7_7"></a><a href="#FNanchor_7_7"><span class="label">[7]</span></a> It is observable that we fall into this confusion only in +<i>dramatic</i> recitations. We never dream that the gentleman +who reads Lucretius in public with great applause, is therefore +a great poet and philosopher; nor do we find that Tom +Davies, the bookseller, who is recorded to have recited the +<i>Paradise Lost</i> better than any man in England in his day +(though I cannot help thinking there must be some mistake +in this tradition), was therefore, by his intimate friends, set +upon a level with Milton.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_8_8" id="Footnote_8_8"></a><a href="#FNanchor_8_8"><span class="label">[8]</span></a> The error of supposing that because Othello’s colour +does not offend us in the reading, it should also not offend +us in the seeing, is just such a fallacy as supposing that an +Adam and Eve in a picture shall affect us just as they do in +the poem. But in the poem we for a while have Paradisaical +senses given us, which vanish when we see a man and his +wife without clothes in the picture. The painters themselves +feel this, as is apparent by the awkward shifts they +have recourse to, to make them look not quite naked; by +a sort of prophetic anachronism, antedating the invention +of fig-leaves. So in the reading of the play, we see with +Desdemona’s eyes; in the seeing of it, we are forced to look +with our own.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_9_9" id="Footnote_9_9"></a><a href="#FNanchor_9_9"><span class="label">[9]</span></a> It will be said these things are done in pictures. But +pictures and scenes are very different things. Painting is +a world of itself, but in scene-painting there is the attempt +to deceive; and there is the discordancy, never to be got +over, between painted scenes and real people.</p></div> +</div> + + + +<h2><a name="PERCY_BYSSHE_SHELLEY" id="PERCY_BYSSHE_SHELLEY"></a>PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span></h2> + +<h3>1792-1822</h3> + +<h3>A DEFENCE OF POETRY (1821)</h3> + + +<p><span class="smcap">According</span> to one mode of regarding those two +classes of mental action, which are called reason +and imagination, the former may be considered as +mind contemplating the relations borne by one +thought to another, however produced; and the +latter, as mind acting upon those thoughts so as to +colour them with its own light, and composing +from them, as from elements, other thoughts, each +containing within itself the principle of its own +integrity. The one is the τὸ ποιεῖν, or the principle +of synthesis, and has for its objects those +forms which are common to universal nature and +existence itself; the other is the τὸ λογίζειν, or +principle of analysis, and its action regards the +relations of things, simply as relations; considering +thoughts, not in their integral unity, but as the +algebraical representations which conduct to certain +general results. Reason is the enumeration +of quantities already known; imagination is the +perception of the value of those quantities, both +separately and as a whole. Reason respects the +differences, and imagination the similitudes of +things. Reason is to the imagination as the instrument +to the agent, as the body to the spirit, as the +shadow to the substance.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span></p> + +<p>Poetry, in a general sense, may be defined to be +‘the expression of the imagination’: and poetry +is connate with the origin of man. Man is an +instrument over which a series of external and +internal impressions are driven, like the alternations +of an ever-changing wind over an Aeolian lyre, +which move it by their motion to ever-changing +melody. But there is a principle within the human +being, and perhaps within all sentient beings, which +acts otherwise than in the lyre, and produces not +melody alone, but harmony, by an internal adjustment +of the sounds or motions thus excited to +the impressions which excite them. It is as if the +lyre could accommodate its chords to the motions +of that which strikes them, in a determined proportion +of sound; even as the musician can accommodate +his voice to the sound of the lyre. A child +at play by itself will express its delight by its voice +and motions; and every inflexion of tone and every +gesture will bear exact relation to a corresponding +antitype in the pleasurable impressions which +awakened it; it will be the reflected image of that +impression; and as the lyre trembles and sounds +after the wind has died away, so the child seeks, by +prolonging in its voice and motions the duration of +the effect, to prolong also a consciousness of the +cause. In relation to the objects which delight +a child, these expressions are, what poetry is to +higher objects. The savage (for the savage is to +ages what the child is to years) expresses the +emotions produced in him by surrounding objects +in a similar manner; and language and gesture, +together with plastic or pictorial imitation, become +the image of the combined effect of those objects, +and of his apprehension of them. Man in society,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span> +with all his passions and his pleasures, next becomes +the object of the passions and pleasures of +man; an additional class of emotions produces an +augmented treasure of expressions; and language, +gesture, and the imitative arts, become at once +the representation and the medium, the pencil and +the picture, the chisel and the statue, the chord +and the harmony. The social sympathies, or those +laws from which, as from its elements, society +results, begin to develop themselves from the +moment that two human beings coexist; the future +is contained within the present, as the plant within +the seed; and equality, diversity, unity, contrast, +mutual dependence, become the principles alone +capable of affording the motives according to which +the will of a social being is determined to action, +inasmuch as he is social; and constitute pleasure +in sensation, virtue in sentiment, beauty in art, +truth in reasoning, and love in the intercourse of +kind. Hence men, even in the infancy of society, +observe a certain order in their words and actions, +distinct from that of the objects and the impressions +represented by them, all expression being subject +to the laws of that from which it proceeds. But +let us dismiss those more general considerations +which might involve an inquiry into the principles +of society itself, and restrict our view to the manner +in which the imagination is expressed upon its forms.</p> + +<p>In the youth of the world, men dance and sing +and imitate natural objects, observing in these +actions, as in all others, a certain rhythm or order. +And, although all men observe a similar, they +observe not the same order, in the motions of the +dance, in the melody of the song, in the combinations +of language, in the series of their imitations<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span> +of natural objects. For there is a certain order +or rhythm belonging to each of these classes of +mimetic representation, from which the hearer and +the spectator receive an intenser and purer pleasure +than from any other: the sense of an approximation +to this order has been called taste by +modern writers. Every man in the infancy of art +observes an order which approximates more or +less closely to that from which this highest delight +results: but the diversity is not sufficiently marked, +as that its gradations should be sensible, except in +those instances where the predominance of this +faculty of approximation to the beautiful (for so +we may be permitted to name the relation between +this highest pleasure and its cause) is very great. +Those in whom it exists in excess are poets, in the +most universal sense of the word; and the pleasure +resulting from the manner in which they express +the influence of society or nature upon their own +minds, communicates itself to others, and gathers +a sort of reduplication from that community. +Their language is vitally metaphorical; that is, +it marks the before unapprehended relations of +things and perpetuates their apprehension, until +the words which represent them become, through +time, signs for portions or classes of thoughts +instead of pictures of integral thoughts; and then +if no new poets should arise to create afresh the +associations which have been thus disorganized, +language will be dead to all the nobler purposes of +human intercourse. These similitudes or relations +are finely said by Lord Bacon to be ‘the same +footsteps of nature impressed upon the various +subjects of the world’;<a name="FNanchor_10_10" id="FNanchor_10_10"></a><a href="#Footnote_10_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a> and he considers the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span>faculty which perceives them as the storehouse of +axioms common to all knowledge. In the infancy +of society every author is necessarily a poet, +because language itself is poetry; and to be a poet +is to apprehend the true and the beautiful, in +a word, the good which exists in the relation, +subsisting, first between existence and perception, +and secondly between perception and expression. +Every original language near to its source is in +itself the chaos of a cyclic poem: the copiousness +of lexicography and the distinctions of grammar +are the works of a later age, and are merely the +catalogue and the form of the creations of poetry.</p> + +<p>But poets, or those who imagine and express +this indestructible order, are not only the authors +of language and of music, of the dance, and architecture, +and statuary, and painting; they are the +institutors of laws, and the founders of civil society, +and the inventors of the arts of life, and the teachers +who draw into a certain propinquity with the +beautiful and the true, that partial apprehension +of the agencies of the invisible world which is called +religion. Hence all original religions are allegorical, +or susceptible of allegory, and, like Janus, +have a double face of false and true. Poets, +according to the circumstances of the age and +nation in which they appeared, were called, in the +earlier epochs of the world, legislators, or prophets: +a poet essentially comprises and unites both these +characters. For he not only beholds intensely +the present as it is, and discovers those laws +according to which present things ought to be +ordered, but he beholds the future in the present, +and his thoughts are the germs of the flower and +the fruit of latest time. Not that I assert poets<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span> +to be prophets in the gross sense of the word, or +that they can foretell the form as surely as they +foreknow the spirit of events: such is the pretence +of superstition, which would make poetry an +attribute of prophecy, rather than prophecy an +attribute of poetry. A poet participates in the +eternal, the infinite, and the one; as far as relates +to his conceptions, time and place and number are +not. The grammatical forms which express the +moods of time, and the difference of persons, and +the distinction of place, are convertible with +respect to the highest poetry without injuring it +as poetry; and the choruses of Aeschylus, and the +book of <i>Job</i>, and Dante’s <i>Paradise</i>, would afford, +more than any other writings, examples of this +fact, if the limits of this essay did not forbid +citation. The creations of sculpture, painting, +and music, are illustrations still more decisive.</p> + +<p>Language, colour, form, and religious and civil +habits of action, are all the instruments and materials +of poetry; they may be called poetry by +that figure of speech which considers the effect as +a synonym of the cause. But poetry in a more +restricted sense expresses those arrangements of +language, and especially metrical language, which +are created by that imperial faculty, whose throne +is curtained within the invisible nature of man. +And this springs from the nature itself of language, +which is a more direct representation of the actions +and passions of our internal being, and is susceptible +of more various and delicate combinations, +than colour, form, or motion, and is more plastic +and obedient to the control of that faculty of +which it is the creation. For language is arbitrarily +produced by the imagination, and has relation to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span> +thoughts alone; but all other materials, instruments, +and conditions of art, have relations among +each other, which limit and interpose between +conception and expression. The former is as a +mirror which reflects, the latter as a cloud which +enfeebles, the light of which both are mediums of +communication. Hence the fame of sculptors, +painters, and musicians, although the intrinsic +powers of the great masters of these arts may yield +in no degree to that of those who have employed +language as the hieroglyphic of their thoughts, has +never equalled that of poets in the restricted sense +of the term; as two performers of equal skill will +produce unequal effects from a guitar and a harp. +The fame of legislators and founders of religions, so +long as their institutions last, alone seems to exceed +that of poets in the restricted sense; but it can +scarcely be a question, whether, if we deduct the +celebrity which their flattery of the gross opinions +of the vulgar usually conciliates, together with that +which belonged to them in their higher character +of poets, any excess will remain.</p> + +<p>We have thus circumscribed the word poetry +within the limits of that art which is the most +familiar and the most perfect expression of the +faculty itself. It is necessary, however, to make +the circle still narrower, and to determine the +distinction between measured and unmeasured +language; for the popular division into prose and +verse is inadmissible in accurate philosophy.</p> + +<p>Sounds as well as thoughts have relation both +between each other and towards that which they +represent, and a perception of the order of those +relations has always been found connected with a +perception of the order of the relations of thoughts.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span> +Hence the language of poets has ever affected +a certain uniform and harmonious recurrence of +sound, without which it were not poetry, and +which is scarcely less indispensable to the communication +of its influence, than the words themselves, +without reference to that peculiar order. +Hence the vanity of translation; it were as wise +to cast a violet into a crucible that you might +discover the formal principle of its colour and +odour, as seek to transfuse from one language into +another the creations of a poet. The plant must +spring again from its seed, or it will bear no flower—and +this is the burthen of the curse of Babel.</p> + +<p>An observation of the regular mode of the +recurrence of harmony in the language of poetical +minds, together with its relation to music, produced +metre, or a certain system of traditional forms of +harmony and language. Yet it is by no means +essential that a poet should accommodate his +language to this traditional form, so that the +harmony, which is its spirit, be observed. The +practice is indeed convenient and popular, and +to be preferred, especially in such composition as +includes much action: but every great poet must +inevitably innovate upon the example of his predecessors +in the exact structure of his peculiar +versification. The distinction between poets and +prose writers is a vulgar error. The distinction +between philosophers and poets has been anticipated. +Plato was essentially a poet—the truth +and splendour of his imagery, and the melody of his +language, are the most intense that it is possible to +conceive. He rejected the measure of the epic, +dramatic, and lyrical forms, because he sought to +kindle a harmony in thoughts divested of shape<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span> +and action, and he forbore to invent any regular +plan of rhythm which would include, under determinate +forms, the varied pauses of his style. +Cicero sought to imitate the cadence of his periods, +but with little success. Lord Bacon was a poet.<a name="FNanchor_11_11" id="FNanchor_11_11"></a><a href="#Footnote_11_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a> +His language has a sweet and majestic rhythm, +which satisfies the sense, no less than the almost +superhuman wisdom of his philosophy satisfies the +intellect; it is a strain which distends, and then +bursts the circumference of the reader’s mind, and +pours itself forth together with it into the universal +element with which it has perpetual sympathy. +All the authors of revolutions in opinion are not +only necessarily poets as they are inventors, nor +even as their words unveil the permanent analogy +of things by images which participate in the life of +truth; but as their periods are harmonious and +rhythmical, and contain in themselves the elements +of verse; being the echo of the eternal music. +Nor are those supreme poets, who have employed +traditional forms of rhythm on account of the form +and action of their subjects, less capable of perceiving +and teaching the truth of things, than +those who have omitted that form. Shakespeare, +Dante, and Milton (to confine ourselves to modern +writers) are philosophers of the very loftiest power.</p> + +<p>A poem is the very image of life expressed in its +eternal truth. There is this difference between +a story and a poem, that a story is a catalogue of +detached facts, which have no other connexion +than time, place, circumstance, cause and effect; +the other is the creation of actions according to the +unchangeable forms of human nature, as existing +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span>in the mind of the Creator, which is itself the image +of all other minds. The one is partial, and applies +only to a definite period of time, and a certain combination +of events which can never again recur; +the other is universal, and contains within itself +the germ of a relation to whatever motives or +actions have place in the possible varieties of human +nature. Time, which destroys the beauty and the +use of the story of particular facts, stripped of the +poetry which should invest them, augments that +of poetry, and for ever develops new and wonderful +applications of the eternal truth which it contains. +Hence epitomes have been called the moths of just +history; they eat out the poetry of it. A story +of particular facts is as a mirror which obscures +and distorts that which should be beautiful: +poetry is a mirror which makes beautiful that +which is distorted.</p> + +<p>The parts of a composition may be poetical, +without the composition as a whole being a poem. +A single sentence may be considered as a whole, +though it may be found in the midst of a series of +unassimilated portions: a single word even may be +a spark of inextinguishable thought. And thus +all the great historians, Herodotus, Plutarch, Livy, +were poets; and although the plan of these writers, +especially that of Livy, restrained them from +developing this faculty in its highest degree, they +made copious and ample amends for their subjection, +by filling all the interstices of their subjects +with living images.</p> + +<p>Having determined what is poetry, and who are +poets, let us proceed to estimate its effects upon +society.</p> + +<p>Poetry is ever accompanied with pleasure: all<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span> +spirits on which it falls open themselves to receive +the wisdom which is mingled with its delight. In +the infancy of the world, neither poets themselves +nor their auditors are fully aware of the excellence +of poetry: for it acts in a divine and unapprehended +manner, beyond and above consciousness; and it +is reserved for future generations to contemplate +and measure the mighty cause and effect in all the +strength and splendour of their union. Even in +modern times, no living poet ever arrived at the +fullness of his fame; the jury which sits in judgement +upon a poet, belonging as he does to all time, +must be composed of his peers: it must be impanelled +by Time from the selectest of the wise of +many generations. A poet is a nightingale, who +sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude +with sweet sounds; his auditors are as men entranced +by the melody of an unseen musician, who +feel that they are moved and softened, yet know +not whence or why. The poems of Homer and his +contemporaries were the delight of infant Greece; +they were the elements of that social system which +is the column upon which all succeeding civilization +has reposed. Homer embodied the ideal perfection +of his age in human character; nor can we doubt +that those who read his verses were awakened to +an ambition of becoming like to Achilles, Hector, +and Ulysses: the truth and beauty of friendship, +patriotism, and persevering devotion to an object, +were unveiled to the depths in these immortal +creations: the sentiments of the auditors must +have been refined and enlarged by a sympathy with +such great and lovely impersonations, until from +admiring they imitated, and from imitation they +identified themselves with the objects of their<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span> +admiration. Nor let it be objected, that these +characters are remote from moral perfection, and +that they can by no means be considered as edifying +patterns for general imitation. Every epoch, +under names more or less specious, has deified its +peculiar errors; Revenge is the naked idol of the +worship of a semi-barbarous age; and Self-deceit +is the veiled image of unknown evil, before which +luxury and satiety lie prostrate. But a poet considers +the vices of his contemporaries as a temporary +dress in which his creations must be arrayed, and +which cover without concealing the eternal proportions +of their beauty. An epic or dramatic +personage is understood to wear them around his +soul, as he may the ancient armour or the modern +uniform around his body; whilst it is easy to conceive +a dress more graceful than either. The beauty +of the internal nature cannot be so far concealed +by its accidental vesture, but that the spirit of its +form shall communicate itself to the very disguise, +and indicate the shape it hides from the manner +in which it is worn. A majestic form and graceful +motions will express themselves through the most +barbarous and tasteless costume. Few poets of the +highest class have chosen to exhibit the beauty of +their conceptions in its naked truth and splendour; +and it is doubtful whether the alloy of costume, +habit, &c., be not necessary to temper this planetary +music for mortal ears.</p> + +<p>The whole objection, however, of the immorality +of poetry rests upon a misconception of the manner +in which poetry acts to produce the moral improvement +of man. Ethical science arranges the elements +which poetry has created, and propounds +schemes and proposes examples of civil and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span> +domestic life: nor is it for want of admirable +doctrines that men hate, and despise, and censure, +and deceive, and subjugate one another. But +poetry acts in another and diviner manner. It +awakens and enlarges the mind itself by rendering +it the receptacle of a thousand unapprehended +combinations of thought. Poetry lifts the veil +from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes +familiar objects be as if they were not familiar; +it reproduces all that it represents, and the impersonations +clothed in its Elysian light stand +thenceforward in the minds of those who have once +contemplated them, as memorials of that gentle +and exalted content which extends itself over all +thoughts and actions with which it coexists. The +great secret of morals is love; or a going out of +our own nature, and an identification of ourselves +with the beautiful which exists in thought, action, +or person, not our own. A man, to be greatly +good, must imagine intensely and comprehensively; +he must put himself in the place of another and of +many others; the pains and pleasures of his species +must become his own. The great instrument of +moral good is the imagination; and poetry administers +to the effect by acting upon the cause. +Poetry enlarges the circumference of the imagination +by replenishing it with thoughts of ever new +delight, which have the power of attracting and +assimilating to their own nature all other thoughts, +and which form new intervals and interstices whose +void for ever craves fresh food. Poetry strengthens +the faculty which is the organ of the moral nature +of man, in the same manner as exercise strengthens +a limb. A poet therefore would do ill to embody +his own conceptions of right and wrong, which are<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span> +usually those of his place and time, in his poetical +creations, which participate in neither. By this +assumption of the inferior office of interpreting the +effect, in which perhaps after all he might acquit +himself but imperfectly, he would resign a glory +in a participation in the cause. There was little +danger that Homer, or any of the eternal poets, +should have so far misunderstood themselves as to +have abdicated this throne of their widest dominion. +Those in whom the poetical faculty, though great, +is less intense, as Euripides, Lucan, Tasso, Spenser, +have frequently affected a moral aim, and the +effect of their poetry is diminished in exact proportion +to the degree in which they compel us to +advert to this purpose.</p> + +<p>Homer and the cyclic poets were followed at +a certain interval by the dramatic and lyrical poets +of Athens, who flourished contemporaneously with +all that is most perfect in the kindred expressions +of the poetical faculty; architecture, painting, +music, the dance, sculpture, philosophy, and, we +may add, the forms of civil life. For although the +scheme of Athenian society was deformed by many +imperfections which the poetry existing in chivalry +and Christianity has erased from the habits and +institutions of modern Europe; yet never at any +other period has so much energy, beauty, and virtue, +been developed; never was blind strength and +stubborn form so disciplined and rendered subject +to the will of man, or that will less repugnant to the +dictates of the beautiful and the true, as during +the century which preceded the death of Socrates. +Of no other epoch in the history of our species have +we records and fragments stamped so visibly with +the image of the divinity in man. But it is poetry<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span> +alone, in form, in action, or in language, which has +rendered this epoch memorable above all others, +and the storehouse of examples to everlasting +time. For written poetry existed at that epoch +simultaneously with the other arts, and it is an +idle inquiry to demand which gave and which +received the light, which all, as from a common +focus, have scattered over the darkest periods of +succeeding time. We know no more of cause and +effect than a constant conjunction of events: +poetry is ever found to co-exist with whatever +other arts contribute to the happiness and perfection +of man. I appeal to what has already been +established to distinguish between the cause and +the effect.</p> + +<p>It was at the period here adverted to, that the +drama had its birth; and however a succeeding +writer may have equalled or surpassed those few +great specimens of the Athenian drama which have +been preserved to us, it is indisputable that the +art itself never was understood or practised according +to the true philosophy of it, as at Athens. For +the Athenians employed language, action, music, +painting, the dance, and religious institutions, to +produce a common effect in the representation of +the highest idealisms of passion and of power; +each division in the art was made perfect in its kind +by artists of the most consummate skill, and was +disciplined into a beautiful proportion and unity +one towards the other. On the modern stage +a few only of the elements capable of expressing +the image of the poet’s conception are employed +at once. We have tragedy without music and +dancing; and music and dancing without the +highest impersonations of which they are the fit<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span> +accompaniment, and both without religion and +solemnity. Religious institution has indeed been +usually banished from the stage. Our system of +divesting the actor’s face of a mask, on which the +many expressions appropriated to his dramatic +character might be moulded into one permanent +and unchanging expression, is favourable only to +a partial and inharmonious effect; it is fit for +nothing but a monologue, where all the attention +may be directed to some great master of ideal +mimicry. The modern practice of blending comedy +with tragedy, though liable to great abuse in point +of practice, is undoubtedly an extension of the +dramatic circle; but the comedy should be as in +<i>King Lear</i>, universal, ideal, and sublime. It is +perhaps the intervention of this principle which +determines the balance in favour of <i>King Lear</i> +against the <i>Oedipus Tyrannus</i> or the <i>Agamemnon</i>, +or, if you will, the trilogies with which they are +connected; unless the intense power of the choral +poetry, especially that of the latter, should be +considered as restoring the equilibrium. <i>King +Lear</i>, if it can sustain this comparison, may be +judged to be the most perfect specimen of the +dramatic art existing in the world; in spite of the +narrow conditions to which the poet was subjected +by the ignorance of the philosophy of the drama +which has prevailed in modern Europe. Calderon, +in his religious <i>Autos</i>, has attempted to fulfil some +of the high conditions of dramatic representation +neglected by Shakespeare; such as the establishing +a relation between the drama and religion, +and the accommodating them to music and +dancing; but he omits the observation of conditions +still more important, and more is lost than<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span> +gained by the substitution of the rigidly-defined +and ever-repeated idealisms of a distorted superstition +for the living impersonations of the truth +of human passion.</p> + +<p>But I digress.—The connexion of scenic exhibitions +with the improvement or corruption of +the manners of men, has been universally recognized: +in other words, the presence or absence of +poetry in its most perfect and universal form, has +been found to be connected with good and evil in +conduct or habit. The corruption which has been +imputed to the drama as an effect, begins, when +the poetry employed in its constitution ends: +I appeal to the history of manners whether the +periods of the growth of the one and the decline of +the other have not corresponded with an exactness +equal to any example of moral cause and effect.</p> + +<p>The drama at Athens, or wheresoever else it may +have approached to its perfection, ever co-existed +with the moral and intellectual greatness of the +age. The tragedies of the Athenian poets are as +mirrors in which the spectator beholds himself, +under a thin disguise of circumstance, stript of all +but that ideal perfection and energy which every +one feels to be the internal type of all that he loves, +admires, and would become. The imagination is +enlarged by a sympathy with pains and passions +so mighty, that they distend in their conception the +capacity of that by which they are conceived; the +good affections are strengthened by pity, indignation, +terror, and sorrow; and an exalted calm is +prolonged from the satiety of this high exercise of +them into the tumult of familiar life: even crime +is disarmed of half its horror and all its contagion +by being represented as the fatal consequence of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span> +the unfathomable agencies of nature; error is thus +divested of its wilfulness; men can no longer +cherish it as the creation of their choice. In +a drama of the highest order there is little food for +censure or hatred; it teaches rather self-knowledge +and self-respect. Neither the eye nor the mind +can see itself, unless reflected upon that which it +resembles. The drama, so long as it continues to +express poetry, is as a prismatic and many-sided +mirror, which collects the brightest rays of human +nature and divides and reproduces them from the +simplicity of these elementary forms, and touches +them with majesty and beauty, and multiplies all +that it reflects, and endows it with the power of +propagating its like wherever it may fall.</p> + +<p>But in periods of the decay of social life, the +drama sympathizes with that decay. Tragedy +becomes a cold imitation of the form of the great +masterpieces of antiquity, divested of all harmonious +accompaniment of the kindred arts; and +often the very form misunderstood, or a weak +attempt to teach certain doctrines, which the +writer considers as moral truths; and which are +usually no more than specious flatteries of some +gross vice or weakness, with which the author, in +common with his auditors, are infected. Hence +what has been called the classical and domestic +drama. Addison’s <i>Cato</i> is a specimen of the one; +and would it were not superfluous to cite examples +of the other! To such purposes poetry cannot be +made subservient. Poetry is a sword of lightning, +ever unsheathed, which consumes the scabbard +that would contain it. And thus we observe that +all dramatic writings of this nature are unimaginative +in a singular degree; they affect sentiment and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span> +passion, which, divested of imagination, are other +names for caprice and appetite. The period in our +own history of the grossest degradation of the +drama is the reign of Charles II, when all forms in +which poetry had been accustomed to be expressed +became hymns to the triumph of kingly power over +liberty and virtue. Milton stood alone illuminating +an age unworthy of him. At such periods the +calculating principle pervades all the forms of +dramatic exhibition, and poetry ceases to be expressed +upon them. Comedy loses its ideal +universality: wit succeeds to humour; we laugh +from self-complacency and triumph, instead of +pleasure; malignity, sarcasm, and contempt, succeed +to sympathetic merriment; we hardly laugh, +but we smile. Obscenity, which is ever blasphemy +against the divine beauty in life, becomes, from +the very veil which it assumes, more active if less +disgusting: it is a monster for which the corruption +of society for ever brings forth new food, which it +devours in secret.</p> + +<p>The drama being that form under which a greater +number of modes of expression of poetry are susceptible +of being combined than any other, the +connexion of poetry and social good is more +observable in the drama than in whatever other +form. And it is indisputable that the highest +perfection of human society has ever corresponded +with the highest dramatic excellence; and that +the corruption or the extinction of the drama in +a nation where it has once flourished, is a mark of +a corruption of manners, and an extinction of the +energies which sustain the soul of social life. But, +as Machiavelli says of political institutions, that +life may be preserved and renewed, if men should<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span> +arise capable of bringing back the drama to its +principles. And this is true with respect to poetry +in its most extended sense: all language, institution +and form, require not only to be produced but +to be sustained: the office and character of a poet +participates in the divine nature as regards providence, +no less than as regards creation.</p> + +<p>Civil war, the spoils of Asia, and the fatal predominance +first of the Macedonian, and then of +the Roman arms, were so many symbols of the +extinction or suspension of the creative faculty in +Greece. The bucolic writers, who found patronage +under the lettered tyrants of Sicily and Egypt, +were the latest representatives of its most glorious +reign. Their poetry is intensely melodious; like +the odour of the tuberose, it overcomes and sickens +the spirit with excess of sweetness; whilst the +poetry of the preceding age was as a meadow-gale +of June, which mingles the fragrance of all the +flowers of the field, and adds a quickening and +harmonizing spirit of its own, which endows the +sense with a power of sustaining its extreme delight. +The bucolic and erotic delicacy in written poetry +is correlative with that softness in statuary, music, +and the kindred arts, and even in manners and +institutions, which distinguished the epoch to which +I now refer. Nor is it the poetical faculty itself, +or any misapplication of it, to which this want of +harmony is to be imputed. An equal sensibility to +the influence of the senses and the affections is to +be found in the writings of Homer and Sophocles: +the former, especially, has clothed sensual and +pathetic images with irresistible attractions. +Their superiority over these succeeding writers consists +in the presence of those thoughts which belong<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span> +to the inner faculties of our nature, not in the +absence of those which are connected with the +external: their incomparable perfection consists +in a harmony of the union of all. It is not what +the erotic poets have, but what they have not, in +which their imperfection consists. It is not inasmuch +as they were poets, but inasmuch as they +were not poets, that they can be considered with +any plausibility as connected with the corruption +of their age. Had that corruption availed so as +to extinguish in them the sensibility to pleasure, +passion, and natural scenery, which is imputed to +them as an imperfection, the last triumph of evil +would have been achieved. For the end of social +corruption is to destroy all sensibility to pleasure; +and, therefore, it is corruption. It begins at the +imagination and the intellect as at the core, and +distributes itself thence as a paralysing venom, +through the affections into the very appetites, +until all become a torpid mass in which hardly +sense survives. At the approach of such a period, +poetry ever addresses itself to those faculties which +are the last to be destroyed, and its voice is heard, +like the footsteps of Astraea, departing from the +world. Poetry ever communicates all the pleasure +which men are capable of receiving: it is ever still +the light of life; the source of whatever of beautiful +or generous or true can have place in an evil time. +It will readily be confessed that those among the +luxurious citizens of Syracuse and Alexandria, who +were delighted with the poems of Theocritus, were +less cold, cruel, and sensual than the remnant of +their tribe. But corruption must utterly have +destroyed the fabric of human society before poetry +can ever cease. The sacred links of that chain have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span> +never been entirely disjoined, which descending +through the minds of many men is attached to +those great minds, whence as from a magnet the +invisible effluence is sent forth, which at once +connects, animates, and sustains the life of all. It +is the faculty which contains within itself the seeds +at once of its own and of social renovation. And +let us not circumscribe the effects of the bucolic +and erotic poetry within the limits of the sensibility +of those to whom it was addressed. They may +have perceived the beauty of those immortal compositions, +simply as fragments and isolated portions: +those who are more finely organized, or born in +a happier age, may recognize them as episodes to +that great poem, which all poets, like the co-operating +thoughts of one great mind, have built +up since the beginning of the world.</p> + +<p>The same revolutions within a narrower sphere +had place in ancient Rome; but the actions and +forms of its social life never seem to have been +perfectly saturated with the poetical element. The +Romans appear to have considered the Greeks as +the selectest treasuries of the selectest forms of +manners and of nature, and to have abstained from +creating in measured language, sculpture, music, or +architecture, anything which might bear a particular +relation to their own condition, whilst it +should bear a general one to the universal constitution +of the world. But we judge from partial +evidence, and we judge perhaps partially. Ennius, +Varro, Pacuvius, and Accius, all great poets, have +been lost. Lucretius is in the highest, and Virgil +in a very high sense, a creator. The chosen +delicacy of expressions of the latter, are as a mist +of light which conceal from us the intense and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span> +exceeding truth of his conceptions of nature. +Livy is instinct with poetry. Yet Horace, Catullus, +Ovid, and generally the other great writers of the +Virgilian age, saw man and nature in the mirror +of Greece. The institutions also, and the religion +of Rome were less poetical than those of Greece, +as the shadow is less vivid than the substance. +Hence poetry in Rome seemed to follow, rather +than accompany, the perfection of political and +domestic society. The true poetry of Rome lived +in its institutions; for whatever of beautiful, true, +and majestic, they contained, could have sprung +only from the faculty which creates the order in +which they consist. The life of Camillus, the +death of Regulus; the expectation of the senators, +in their godlike state, of the victorious Gauls: +the refusal of the republic to make peace with +Hannibal, after the battle of Cannae, were not the +consequences of a refined calculation of the probable +personal advantage to result from such a rhythm +and order in the shows of life, to those who were at +once the poets and the actors of these immortal +dramas. The imagination beholding the beauty of +this order, created it out of itself according to its +own idea; the consequence was empire, and the +reward everliving fame. These things are not the +less poetry <i>quia carent vate sacro</i>. They are the +episodes of that cyclic poem written by Time upon +the memories of men. The Past, like an inspired +rhapsodist, fills the theatre of everlasting generations +with their harmony.</p> + +<p>At length the ancient system of religion and +manners had fulfilled the circle of its revolutions. +And the world would have fallen into utter anarchy +and darkness, but that, there were found poets<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span> +among the authors of the Christian and chivalric +systems of manners and religion, who created +forms of opinion and action never before conceived; +which, copied into the imaginations of men, +become as generals to the bewildered armies of +their thoughts. It is foreign to the present purpose +to touch upon the evil produced by these systems: +except that we protest, on the ground of the +principles already established, that no portion of it +can be attributed to the poetry they contain.</p> + +<p>It is probable that the poetry of Moses, Job, +David, Solomon, and Isaiah, had produced a great +effect upon the mind of Jesus and his disciples. +The scattered fragments preserved to us by the +biographers of this extraordinary person, are all +instinct with the most vivid poetry. But his +doctrines seem to have been quickly distorted. At +a certain period after the prevalence of a system of +opinions founded upon those promulgated by him, +the three forms into which Plato had distributed +the faculties of mind underwent a sort of apotheosis, +and became the object of the worship of the civilized +world. Here it is to be confessed that ‘Light +seems to thicken’, and</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">The crow makes wing to the rooky wood,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Good things of day begin to droop and drowse,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And night’s black agents to their preys do rouse.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">But mark how beautiful an order has sprung from +the dust and blood of this fierce chaos! how the +world, as from a resurrection, balancing itself on +the golden wings of knowledge and of hope, has +reassumed its yet unwearied flight into the heaven +of time. Listen to the music, unheard by outward +ears, which is as a ceaseless and invisible wind,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span> +nourishing its everlasting course with strength and +swiftness.</p> + +<p>The poetry in the doctrines of Jesus Christ, and +the mythology and institutions of the Celtic +conquerors of the Roman empire, outlived the +darkness and the convulsions connected with their +growth and victory, and blended themselves in +a new fabric of manners and opinion. It is an +error to impute the ignorance of the dark ages to +the Christian doctrines or the predominance of +the Celtic nations. Whatever of evil their agencies +may have contained sprang from the extinction +of the poetical principle, connected with the +progress of despotism and superstition. Men, +from causes too intricate to be here discussed, +had become insensible and selfish: their own will +had become feeble, and yet they were its slaves, +and thence the slaves of the will of others; lust, +fear, avarice, cruelty, and fraud, characterized +a race amongst whom no one was to be found +capable of <i>creating</i> in form, language, or institution. +The moral anomalies of such a state of society are +not justly to be charged upon any class of events +immediately connected with them, and those +events are most entitled to our approbation which +could dissolve it most expeditiously. It is unfortunate +for those who cannot distinguish words +from thoughts, that many of these anomalies have +been incorporated into our popular religion.</p> + +<p>It was not until the eleventh century that the +effects of the poetry of the Christian and chivalric +systems began to manifest themselves. The +principle of equality had been discovered and +applied by Plato in his <i>Republic</i>, as the theoretical +rule of the mode in which the materials of pleasure<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span> +and of power, produced by the common skill and +labour of human beings, ought to be distributed +among them. The limitations of this rule were +asserted by him to be determined only by the +sensibility of each, or the utility to result to all. +Plato, following the doctrines of Timaeus and +Pythagoras, taught also a moral and intellectual +system of doctrine, comprehending at once the +past, the present, and the future condition of man. +Jesus Christ divulged the sacred and eternal truths +contained in these views to mankind, and Christianity, +in its abstract purity, became the exoteric +expression of the esoteric doctrines of the poetry +and wisdom of antiquity. The incorporation of +the Celtic nations with the exhausted population +of the south, impressed upon it the figure of the +poetry existing in their mythology and institutions. +The result was a sum of the action and reaction of +all the causes included in it; for it may be assumed +as a maxim that no nation or religion can supersede +any other without incorporating into itself a portion +of that which it supersedes. The abolition +of personal and domestic slavery, and the emancipation +of women from a great part of the degrading +restraints of antiquity, were among the +consequences of these events.</p> + +<p>The abolition of personal slavery is the basis of +the highest political hope that it can enter into +the mind of man to conceive. The freedom of +women produced the poetry of sexual love. Love +became a religion, the idols of whose worship were +ever present. It was as if the statues of Apollo +and the Muses had been endowed with life and +motion, and had walked forth among their +worshippers; so that earth became peopled by<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span> +the inhabitants of a diviner world. The familiar +appearance and proceedings of life became wonderful +and heavenly, and a paradise was created as +out of the wrecks of Eden. And as this creation +itself is poetry, so its creators were poets; and +language was the instrument of their art: ‘Galeotto +fù il libro, e chi lo scrisse.’ The Provençal Trouveurs, +or inventors, preceded Petrarch, whose verses are as +spells, which unseal the inmost enchanted fountains +of the delight which is in the grief of love. It is +impossible to feel them without becoming a portion +of that beauty which we contemplate: it were +superfluous to explain how the gentleness and the +elevation of mind connected with these sacred +emotions can render men more amiable, more +generous and wise, and lift them out of the dull +vapours of the little world of self. Dante understood +the secret things of love even more than +Petrarch. His <i>Vita Nuova</i> is an inexhaustible +fountain of purity of sentiment and language: it +is the idealized history of that period, and those +intervals of his life which were dedicated to love. +His apotheosis of Beatrice in Paradise, and the +gradations of his own love and her loveliness, by +which as by steps he feigns himself to have +ascended to the throne of the Supreme Cause, is +the most glorious imagination of modern poetry. +The acutest critics have justly reversed the judgement +of the vulgar, and the order of the great +acts of the ‘Divine Drama’, in the measure of +the admiration which they accord to the Hell, +Purgatory, and Paradise. The latter is a perpetual +hymn of everlasting love. Love, which found +a worthy poet in Plato alone of all the ancients, +has been celebrated by a chorus of the greatest<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span> +writers of the renovated world; and the music +has penetrated the caverns of society, and its +echoes still drown the dissonance of arms and +superstition. At successive intervals, Ariosto, +Tasso, Shakespeare, Spenser, Calderon, Rousseau, +and the great writers of our own age, have celebrated +the dominion of love, planting as it were trophies +in the human mind of that sublimest victory over +sensuality and force. The true relation borne to +each other by the sexes into which human kind is +distributed, has become less misunderstood; and +if the error which confounded diversity with +inequality of the powers of the two sexes has been +partially recognized in the opinions and institutions +of modern Europe, we owe this great benefit to the +worship of which chivalry was the law, and poets +the prophets.</p> + +<p>The poetry of Dante may be considered as the +bridge thrown over the stream of time, which +unites the modern and ancient world. The +distorted notions of invisible things which Dante +and his rival Milton have idealized, are merely the +mask and the mantle in which these great poets +walk through eternity enveloped and disguised. +It is a difficult question to determine how far +they were conscious of the distinction which must +have subsisted in their minds between their own +creeds and that of the people. Dante at least +appears to wish to mark the full extent of it by +placing Riphaeus, whom Virgil calls <i>iustissimus +unus</i>, in Paradise, and observing a most heretical +caprice in his distribution of rewards and punishments. +And Milton’s poem contains within itself +a philosophical refutation of that system, of which, +by a strange and natural antithesis, it has been<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span> +a chief popular support. Nothing can exceed the +energy and magnificence of the character of Satan +as expressed in <i>Paradise Lost</i>. It is a mistake to +suppose that he could ever have been intended +for the popular personification of evil. Implacable +hate, patient cunning, and a sleepless refinement +of device to inflict the extremest anguish on an +enemy, these things are evil; and, although +venial in a slave, are not to be forgiven in a tyrant; +although redeemed by much that ennobles his +defeat in one subdued, are marked by all that +dishonours his conquest in the victor. Milton’s +Devil as a moral being is as far superior to his +God, as one who perseveres in some purpose which +he has conceived to be excellent in spite of +adversity and torture, is to one who in the cold +security of undoubted triumph inflicts the most +horrible revenge upon his enemy, not from any +mistaken notion of inducing him to repent of +a perseverance in enmity, but with the alleged +design of exasperating him to deserve new torments. +Milton has so far violated the popular creed (if +this shall be judged to be a violation) as to have +alleged no superiority of moral virtue to his God +over his Devil. And this bold neglect of a direct +moral purpose is the most decisive proof of the +supremacy of Milton’s genius. He mingled as it +were the elements of human nature as colours +upon a single pallet, and arranged them in the +composition of his great picture according to the +laws of epic truth; that is, according to the laws +of that principle by which a series of actions of +the external universe and of intelligent and ethical +beings is calculated to excite the sympathy of +succeeding generations of mankind. The <i>Divina<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span> +Commedia</i> and <i>Paradise Lost</i> have conferred upon +modern mythology a systematic form; and when +change and time shall have added one more +superstition to the mass of those which have +arisen and decayed upon the earth, commentators +will be learnedly employed in elucidating the +religion of ancestral Europe, only not utterly +forgotten because it will have been stamped with +the eternity of genius.</p> + +<p>Homer was the first and Dante the second epic +poet: that is, the second poet, the series of whose +creations bore a defined and intelligible relation +to the knowledge and sentiment and religion of +the age in which he lived, and of the ages which +followed it: developing itself in correspondence +with their development. For Lucretius had limed +the wings of his swift spirit in the dregs of the +sensible world; and Virgil, with a modesty that ill +became his genius, had affected the fame of an +imitator, even whilst he created anew all that +he copied; and none among the flock of mock-birds, +though their notes were sweet, Apollonius +Rhodius, Quintus Calaber, Nonnus, Lucan, Statius, +or Claudian, have sought even to fulfil a single +condition of epic truth. Milton was the third epic +poet. For if the title of epic in its highest sense +be refused to the <i>Aeneid</i>, still less can it be conceded +to the <i>Orlando Furioso</i>, the <i>Gerusalemme Liberata</i>, +the <i>Lusiad</i>, or the <i>Faerie Queene</i>.</p> + +<p>Dante and Milton were both deeply penetrated +with the ancient religion of the civilized world; +and its spirit exists in their poetry probably in the +same proportion as its forms survived in the +unreformed worship of modern Europe. The one +preceded and the other followed the Reformation<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span> +at almost equal intervals. Dante was the first +religious reformer, and Luther surpassed him +rather in the rudeness and acrimony, than in the +boldness of his censures of papal usurpation. +Dante was the first awakener of entranced Europe; +he created a language, in itself music and persuasion, +out of a chaos of inharmonious barbarisms. He +was the congregator of those great spirits who +presided over the resurrection of learning; the +Lucifer of that starry flock which in the thirteenth +century shone forth from republican Italy, as from +a heaven, into the darkness of the benighted world. +His very words are instinct with spirit; each is +as a spark, a burning atom of inextinguishable +thought; and many yet lie covered in the ashes +of their birth, and pregnant with a lightning +which has yet found no conductor. All high +poetry is infinite; it is as the first acorn, which +contained all oaks potentially. Veil after veil may +be undrawn, and the inmost naked beauty of the +meaning never exposed. A great poem is a fountain +for ever overflowing with the waters of wisdom and +delight; and after one person and one age has +exhausted all its divine effluence which their +peculiar relations enable them to share, another +and yet another succeeds, and new relations are +ever developed, the source of an unforeseen and +an unconceived delight.</p> + +<p>The age immediately succeeding to that of +Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio, was characterized +by a revival of painting, sculpture, and architecture. +Chaucer caught the sacred inspiration, and the +superstructure of English literature is based upon +the materials of Italian invention.</p> + +<p>But let us not be betrayed from a defence into<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span> +a critical history of poetry and its influence on +society. Be it enough to have pointed out the +effects of poets, in the large and true sense of the +word, upon their own and all succeeding times.</p> + +<p>But poets have been challenged to resign the +civic crown to reasoners and mechanists, on +another plea. It is admitted that the exercise of +the imagination is most delightful, but it is alleged +that that of reason is more useful. Let us examine +as the grounds of this distinction, what is here +meant by utility. Pleasure or good, in a general +sense, is that which the consciousness of a sensitive +and intelligent being seeks, and in which, when +found, it acquiesces. There are two kinds of +pleasure, one durable, universal and permanent; +the other transitory and particular. Utility may +either express the means of producing the former +or the latter. In the former sense, whatever +strengthens and purifies the affections, enlarges +the imagination, and adds spirit to sense, is useful. +But a narrower meaning may be assigned to the +word utility, confining it to express that which +banishes the importunity of the wants of our +animal nature, the surrounding men with security +of life, the dispersing the grosser delusions of +superstition, and the conciliating such a degree of +mutual forbearance among men as may consist +with the motives of personal advantage.</p> + +<p>Undoubtedly the promoters of utility, in this +limited sense, have their appointed office in society. +They follow the footsteps of poets, and copy the +sketches of their creations into the book of common +life. They make space, and give time. Their +exertions are of the highest value, so long as they +confine their administration of the concerns of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span> +inferior powers of our nature within the limits due +to the superior ones. But whilst the sceptic +destroys gross superstitions, let him spare to +deface, as some of the French writers have defaced, +the eternal truths charactered upon the imaginations +of men. Whilst the mechanist abridges, and +the political economist combines labour, let them +beware that their speculations, for want of +correspondence with those first principles which +belong to the imagination, do not tend, as they +have in modern England, to exasperate at once +the extremes of luxury and want. They have +exemplified the saying, ‘To him that hath, more +shall be given; and from him that hath not, the +little that he hath shall be taken away.’ The rich +have become richer, and the poor have become +poorer; and the vessel of the state is driven +between the Scylla and Charybdis of anarchy and +despotism. Such are the effects which must ever +flow from an unmitigated exercise of the calculating +faculty.</p> + +<p>It is difficult to define pleasure in its highest +sense; the definition involving a number of +apparent paradoxes. For, from an inexplicable +defect of harmony in the constitution of human +nature, the pain of the inferior is frequently +connected with the pleasures of the superior +portions of our being. Sorrow, terror, anguish, +despair itself, are often the chosen expressions of +an approximation to the highest good. Our +sympathy in tragic fiction depends on this principle; +tragedy delights by affording a shadow of the +pleasure which exists in pain. This is the source +also of the melancholy which is inseparable from +the sweetest melody. The pleasure that is in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span> +sorrow is sweeter than the pleasure of pleasure +itself. And hence the saying, ‘It is better to go +to the house of mourning, than to the house of +mirth.’ Nor that this highest species of pleasure +is necessarily linked with pain. The delight of +love and friendship, the ecstasy of the admiration +of nature, the joy of the perception and still +more of the creation of poetry, is often wholly +unalloyed.</p> + +<p>The production and assurance of pleasure in +this highest sense is true utility. Those who +produce and preserve this pleasure are poets or +poetical philosophers.</p> + +<p>The exertions of Locke, Hume, Gibbon, Voltaire, +Rousseau,<a name="FNanchor_12_12" id="FNanchor_12_12"></a><a href="#Footnote_12_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a> and their disciples, in favour of +oppressed and deluded humanity, are entitled +to the gratitude of mankind. Yet it is easy to +calculate the degree of moral and intellectual +improvement which the world would have +exhibited, had they never lived. A little more +nonsense would have been talked for a century +or two; and perhaps a few more men, women, +and children, burnt as heretics. We might not at +this moment have been congratulating each other +on the abolition of the Inquisition in Spain. +But it exceeds all imagination to conceive what +would have been the moral condition of the world +if neither Dante, Petrarch, Boccaccio, Chaucer, +Shakespeare, Calderon, Lord Bacon, nor Milton, +had ever existed; if Raphael and Michael Angelo +had never been born; if the Hebrew poetry had +never been translated; if a revival of the study +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span>of Greek literature had never taken place; if no +monuments of ancient sculpture had been handed +down to us; and if the poetry of the religion of +the ancient world had been extinguished together +with its belief. The human mind could never, +except by the intervention of these excitements, +have been awakened to the invention of the +grosser sciences, and that application of analytical +reasoning to the aberrations of society, which it is +now attempted to exalt over the direct expression +of the inventive and creative faculty itself.</p> + +<p>We have more moral, political and historical +wisdom, than we know how to reduce into practice; +we have more scientific and economical knowledge +than can be accommodated to the just distribution +of the produce which it multiplies. The poetry in +these systems of thought, is concealed by the +accumulation of facts and calculating processes. +There is no want of knowledge respecting what is +wisest and best in morals, government, and political +economy, or at least, what is wiser and better than +what men now practise and endure. But we let +‘<i>I dare not</i> wait upon <i>I would</i>, like the poor cat +in the adage.’ We want the creative faculty to +imagine that which we know; we want the +generous impulse to act that which we imagine; +we want the poetry of life: our calculations have +outrun conception; we have eaten more than we +can digest. The cultivation of those sciences +which have enlarged the limits of the empire of +man over the external world, has, for want of the +poetical faculty, proportionally circumscribed those +of the internal world; and man, having enslaved +the elements, remains himself a slave. To what +but a cultivation of the mechanical arts in a degree<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span> +disproportioned to the presence of the creative +faculty, which is the basis of all knowledge, is to +be attributed the abuse of all invention for abridging +and combining labour, to the exasperation of the +inequality of mankind? From what other cause +has it arisen that the discoveries which should have +lightened, have added a weight to the curse +imposed on Adam? Poetry, and the principle +of Self, of which money is the visible incarnation, +are the God and Mammon of the world.</p> + +<p>The functions of the poetical faculty are twofold; +by one it creates new materials of knowledge +and power and pleasure; by the other it engenders +in the mind a desire to reproduce and arrange +them according to a certain rhythm and order +which may be called the beautiful and the good. +The cultivation of poetry is never more to be +desired than at periods when, from an excess of +the selfish and calculating principle, the accumulation +of the materials of external life exceed the +quantity of the power of assimilating them to +the internal laws of human nature. The body +has then become too unwieldy for that which +animates it.</p> + +<p>Poetry is indeed something divine. It is at once +the centre and circumference of knowledge; it is +that which comprehends all science, and that to +which all science must be referred. It is at the +same time the root and blossom of all other systems +of thought; it is that from which all spring, and +that which adorns all; and that which, if blighted, +denies the fruit and the seed, and withholds from +the barren world the nourishment and the succession +of the scions of the tree of life. It is the perfect +and consummate surface and bloom of all things;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span> +it is as the odour and the colour of the rose to the +texture of the elements which compose it, as the +form and splendour of unfaded beauty to the +secrets of anatomy and corruption. What were +virtue, love, patriotism, friendship—what were the +scenery of this beautiful universe which we inhabit; +what were our consolations on this side of the +grave—and what were our aspirations beyond it, +if poetry did not ascend to bring light and fire +from those eternal regions where the owl-winged +faculty of calculation dare not ever soar? Poetry +is not like reasoning, a power to be exerted +according to the determination of the will. A man +cannot say, ‘I will compose poetry.’ The greatest +poet even cannot say it; for the mind in creation +is as a fading coal, which some invisible influence, +like an inconstant wind, awakens to transitory +brightness; this power arises from within, like +the colour of a flower which fades and changes as +it is developed, and the conscious portions of our +natures are unprophetic either of its approach or +its departure. Could this influence be durable in +its original purity and force, it is impossible to +predict the greatness of the results; but when +composition begins, inspiration is already on the +decline, and the most glorious poetry that has +ever been communicated to the world is probably +a feeble shadow of the original conceptions of the +poet. I appeal to the greatest poets of the present +day, whether it is not an error to assert that the +finest passages of poetry are produced by labour +and study. The toil and the delay recommended +by critics can be justly interpreted to mean no +more than a careful observation of the inspired +moments, and an artificial connexion of the spaces<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span> +between their suggestions by the intertexture of +conventional expressions; a necessity only imposed +by the limitedness of the poetical faculty itself; +for Milton conceived the <i>Paradise Lost</i> as a whole +before he executed it in portions. We have his +own authority also for the muse having ‘dictated’ +to him the ‘unpremeditated song’. And let this +be an answer to those who would allege the fifty-six +various readings of the first line of the <i>Orlando +Furioso</i>. Compositions so produced are to poetry +what mosaic is to painting. This instinct and +intuition of the poetical faculty is still more +observable in the plastic and pictorial arts; a great +statue or picture grows under the power of the +artist as a child in the mother’s womb; and the +very mind which directs the hands in formation +is incapable of accounting to itself for the origin, +the gradations, or the media of the process.</p> + +<p>Poetry is the record of the best and happiest +moments of the happiest and best minds. We are +aware of evanescent visitations of thought and +feeling sometimes associated with place or person, +sometimes regarding our own mind alone, and +always arising unforeseen and departing unbidden, +but elevating and delightful beyond all expression: +so that even in the desire and regret they leave, +there cannot but be pleasure, participating as it +does in the nature of its object. It is as it were the +interpenetration of a diviner nature through our +own; but its footsteps are like those of a wind +over the sea, which the coming calm erases, and +whose traces remain only, as on the wrinkled sand +which paves it. These and corresponding conditions +of being are experienced principally by those of +the most delicate sensibility and the most enlarged<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span> +imagination; and the state of mind produced by +them is at war with every base desire. The enthusiasm +of virtue, love, patriotism, and friendship, is +essentially linked with such emotions; and whilst +they last, self appears as what it is, an atom to a +universe. Poets are not only subject to these experiences +as spirits of the most refined organization, +but they can colour all that they combine with the +evanescent hues of this ethereal world; a word, a +trait in the representation of a scene or a passion, +will touch the enchanted chord, and reanimate, in +those who have ever experienced these emotions, the +sleeping, the cold, the buried image of the past. +Poetry thus makes immortal all that is best and +most beautiful in the world; it arrests the vanishing +apparitions which haunt the interlunations of life, +and veiling them, or in language or in form, sends +them forth among mankind, bearing sweet news of +kindred joy to those with whom their sisters abide—abide, +because there is no portal of expression from +the caverns of the spirit which they inhabit into +the universe of things. Poetry redeems from decay +the visitations of the divinity in man.</p> + +<p>Poetry turns all things to loveliness; it exalts +the beauty of that which is most beautiful, and it +adds beauty to that which is most deformed; it +marries exultation and horror, grief and pleasure, +eternity and change; it subdues to union under its +light yoke all irreconcilable things. It transmutes +all that it touches, and every form moving within +the radiance of its presence is changed by wondrous +sympathy to an incarnation of the spirit which it +breathes: its secret alchemy turns to potable gold +the poisonous waters which flow from death +through life; it strips the veil of familiarity from<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span> +the world, and lays bare the naked and sleeping +beauty, which is the spirit of its forms.</p> + +<p>All things exist as they are perceived; at least +in relation to the percipient. ‘The mind is its +own place, and of itself can make a heaven of hell, +a hell of heaven.’ But poetry defeats the curse +which binds us to be subjected to the accident of +surrounding impressions. And whether it spreads +its own figured curtain, or withdraws life’s dark +veil from before the scene of things, it equally +creates for us a being within our being. It makes +us the inhabitants of a world to which the familiar +world is a chaos. It reproduces the common +universe of which we are portions and percipients, +and it purges from our inward sight the film of +familiarity which obscures from us the wonder of our +being. It compels us to feel that which we perceive, +and to imagine that which we know. It creates +anew the universe, after it has been annihilated in +our minds by the recurrence of impressions blunted +by reiteration. It justifies the bold and true words +of Tasso: <i>Non merita nome di creatore, se non Iddio +ed il Poeta</i>.</p> + +<p>A poet, as he is the author to others of the +highest wisdom, pleasure, virtue and glory, so he +ought personally to be the happiest, the best, the +wisest, and the most illustrious of men. As to his +glory, let time be challenged to declare whether +the fame of any other institutor of human life be +comparable to that of a poet. That he is the wisest, +the happiest, and the best, inasmuch as he is a poet, +is equally incontrovertible: the greatest poets +have been men of the most spotless virtue, of the +most consummate prudence, and, if we would look +into the interior of their lives, the most fortunate<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span> +of men: and the exceptions, as they regard those +who possessed the poetic faculty in a high yet +inferior degree, will be found on consideration to +confine rather than destroy the rule. Let us for +a moment stoop to the arbitration of popular +breath, and usurping and uniting in our own +persons the incompatible characters of accuser, +witness, judge, and executioner, let us decide +without trial, testimony, or form, that certain +motives of those who are ‘there sitting where we +dare not soar’, are reprehensible. Let us assume +that Homer was a drunkard, that Virgil was +a flatterer, that Horace was a coward, that Tasso +was a madman, that Lord Bacon was a peculator, +that Raphael was a libertine, that Spenser was +a poet laureate. It is inconsistent with this +division of our subject to cite living poets, but +posterity has done ample justice to the great +names now referred to. Their errors have been +weighed and found to have been dust in the +balance; if their sins ‘were as scarlet, they are +now white as snow’: they have been washed in +the blood of the mediator and redeemer, Time. +Observe in what a ludicrous chaos the imputations +of real or fictitious crime have been confused in +the contemporary calumnies against poetry and +poets; consider how little is, as it appears—or +appears, as it is; look to your own motives, and +judge not, lest ye be judged.</p> + +<p>Poetry, as has been said, differs in this respect +from logic, that it is not subject to the control of +the active powers of the mind, and that its birth +and recurrence have no necessary connexion with +the consciousness or will. It is presumptuous to +determine that these are the necessary conditions<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span> +of all mental causation, when mental effects are +experienced unsusceptible of being referred to +them. The frequent recurrence of the poetical +power, it is obvious to suppose, may produce in +the mind a habit of order and harmony correlative +with its own nature and with its effects upon other +minds. But in the intervals of inspiration, and +they may be frequent without being durable, +a poet becomes a man, and is abandoned to the +sudden reflux of the influences under which others +habitually live. But as he is more delicately +organized than other men, and sensible to pain +and pleasure, both his own and that of others, in +a degree unknown to them, he will avoid the one +and pursue the other with an ardour proportioned +to this difference. And he renders himself obnoxious +to calumny, when he neglects to observe +the circumstances under which these objects of +universal pursuit and flight have disguised themselves +in one another’s garments.</p> + +<p>But there is nothing necessarily evil in this error, +and thus cruelty, envy, revenge, avarice, and the +passions purely evil, have never formed any portion +of the popular imputations on the lives of poets.</p> + +<p>I have thought it most favourable to the cause +of truth to set down these remarks according to +the order in which they were suggested to my +mind, by a consideration of the subject itself, +instead of observing the formality of a polemical +reply; but if the view which they contain be just, +they will be found to involve a refutation of the +arguers against poetry, so far at least as regards +the first division of the subject. I can readily +conjecture what should have moved the gall of +some learned and intelligent writers who quarrel<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span> +with certain versifiers; I confess myself, like them, +unwilling to be stunned by the Theseids of the +hoarse Codri of the day. Bavius and Maevius +undoubtedly are, as they ever were, insufferable +persons. But it belongs to a philosophical critic +to distinguish rather than confound.</p> + +<p>The first part of these remarks has related to +poetry in its elements and principles; and it has +been shown, as well as the narrow limits assigned +them would permit, that what is called poetry, in +a restricted sense, has a common source with all +other forms of order and of beauty, according to +which the materials of human life are susceptible of +being arranged, and which is poetry in a universal +sense.</p> + +<p>The second part<a name="FNanchor_13_13" id="FNanchor_13_13"></a><a href="#Footnote_13_13" class="fnanchor">[13]</a> will have for its object an +application of these principles to the present state +of the cultivation of poetry, and a defence of the +attempt to idealize the modern forms of manners +and opinions, and compel them into a subordination +to the imaginative and creative faculty. For the +literature of England, an energetic development +of which has ever preceded or accompanied +a great and free development of the national +will, has arisen as it were from a new birth. In +spite of the low-thoughted envy which would +undervalue contemporary merit, our own will be +a memorable age in intellectual achievements, +and we live among such philosophers and poets as +surpass beyond comparison any who have appeared +since the last national struggle for civil and +religious liberty. The most unfailing herald, +companion, and follower of the awakening of +a great people to work a beneficial change in +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span>opinion or institution, is poetry. At such periods +there is an accumulation of the power of communicating +and receiving intense and impassioned +conceptions respecting man and nature. The +persons in whom this power resides may often, as +far as regards many portions of their nature, have +little apparent correspondence with that spirit of +good of which they are the ministers. But even +whilst they deny and abjure, they are yet compelled +to serve, the power which is seated on the throne +of their own soul. It is impossible to read the +compositions of the most celebrated writers of +the present day without being startled with the +electric life which burns within their words. They +measure the circumference and sound the depths +of human nature with a comprehensive and all-penetrating +spirit, and they are themselves perhaps +the most sincerely astonished at its manifestations; +for it is less their spirit than the spirit of the age. +Poets are the hierophants of an unapprehended +inspiration; the mirrors of the gigantic shadows +which futurity casts upon the present; the words +which express what they understand not; the +trumpets which sing to battle, and feel not what +they inspire; the influence which is moved not, +but moves. Poets are the unacknowledged +legislators of the world.</p> + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_10_10" id="Footnote_10_10"></a><a href="#FNanchor_10_10"><span class="label">[10]</span></a> <i>De Augment. Scient.</i>, cap. i, lib. iii.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_11_11" id="Footnote_11_11"></a><a href="#FNanchor_11_11"><span class="label">[11]</span></a> See the <i>Filum Labyrinthi</i>, and the Essay on Death +particularly.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_12_12" id="Footnote_12_12"></a><a href="#FNanchor_12_12"><span class="label">[12]</span></a> Although Rousseau has been thus classed, he was +essentially a poet. The others, even Voltaire, were mere +reasoners.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_13_13" id="Footnote_13_13"></a><a href="#FNanchor_13_13"><span class="label">[13]</span></a> This was never written.</p></div> +</div> + + +<h2><a name="WILLIAM_HAZLITT" id="WILLIAM_HAZLITT"></a>WILLIAM HAZLITT<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span></h2> + +<h3>1778-1830</h3> + +<h3>MY FIRST ACQUAINTANCE WITH POETS (1823)</h3> + + +<p><span class="smcap">My</span> father was a Dissenting Minister at Wem in +Shropshire; and in the year 1798 (the figures that +compose the date are to me like the ‘dreaded name +of Demogorgon’) Mr. Coleridge came to Shrewsbury, +to succeed Mr. Rowe in the spiritual charge of +a Unitarian congregation there. He did not come +till late on the Saturday afternoon before he was to +preach; and Mr. Rowe, who himself went down to +the coach in a state of anxiety and expectation to +look for the arrival of his successor, could find no +one at all answering the description but a round-faced +man in a short black coat (like a shooting-jacket) +which hardly seemed to have been made for +him, but who seemed to be talking at a great rate +to his fellow-passengers. Mr. Rowe had scarce +returned to give an account of his disappointment, +when the round-faced man in black entered, and +dissipated all doubts on the subject, by beginning +to talk. He did not cease while he stayed; nor +has he since, that I know of. He held the good +town of Shrewsbury in delightful suspense for +three weeks that he remained there, ‘fluttering the +<i>proud Salopians</i> like an eagle in a dove-cote’; +and the Welsh mountains that skirt the horizon +with their tempestuous confusion, agree to have +heard no such mystic sounds since the days of</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">High-born Hoel’s harp or soft Llewelyn’s lay!<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span></div></div> + +<p class="noin">As we passed along between Wem and Shrewsbury, +and I eyed their blue tops seen through the wintry +branches, or the red rustling leaves of the sturdy +oak-trees by the road-side, a sound was in my ears +as of a Siren’s song; I was stunned, startled with it, +as from deep sleep; but I had no notion then that +I should ever be able to express my admiration to +others in motley imagery or quaint allusion, till the +light of his genius shone into my soul, like the sun’s +rays glittering in the puddles of the road. I was at +that time dumb, inarticulate, helpless, like a worm +by the way-side, crushed, bleeding, lifeless; but +now, bursting from the deadly bands that ‘bound +them,</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">With Styx nine times round them,’<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">my ideas float on winged words, and as they expand +their plumes, catch the golden light of other years. +My soul has indeed remained in its original bondage, +dark, obscure, with longings infinite and unsatisfied; +my heart, shut up in the prison-house of +this rude clay, has never found, nor will it ever find, +a heart to speak to; but that my understanding +also did not remain dumb and brutish, or at length +found a language to express itself, I owe to Coleridge. +But this is not to my purpose.</p> + +<p>My father lived ten miles from Shrewsbury, and +was in the habit of exchanging visits with Mr. Rowe, +and with Mr. Jenkins of Whitchurch (nine miles +farther on) according to the custom of Dissenting +Ministers in each other’s neighbourhood. A line of +communication is thus established, by which the +flame of civil and religious liberty is kept alive, and +nourishes its smouldering fire unquenchable, like +the fires in the <i>Agamemnon</i> of Aeschylus, placed at<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span> +different stations, that waited for ten long years to +announce with their blazing pyramids the destruction +of Troy. Coleridge had agreed to come over +to see my father, according to the courtesy of the +country, as Mr. Rowe’s probable successor; but in +the meantime I had gone to hear him preach the +Sunday after his arrival. A poet and a philosopher +getting up into a Unitarian pulpit to preach the +Gospel, was a romance in these degenerate days, a +sort of revival of the primitive spirit of Christianity, +which was not to be resisted.</p> + +<p>It was in January, 1798, that I rose one morning +before daylight, to walk ten miles in the mud, to +hear this celebrated person preach. Never, the +longest day I have to live, shall I have such another +walk as this cold, raw, comfortless one, in the +winter of the year 1798. <i>Il y a des impressions que +ni le temps ni les circonstances peuvent effacer. +Dussé-je vivre des siècles entiers, le doux temps de +ma jeunesse ne peut renaitre pour moi, ni s’effacer +jamais dans ma mémoire.</i> When I got there, the +organ was playing the 100th psalm, and, when it +was done, Mr. Coleridge rose and gave out his text, +‘And he went up into the mountain to pray, +<small>HIMSELF, ALONE</small>.’ As he gave out this text, his +voice ‘rose like a steam of rich distilled perfumes,’ +and when he came to the two last words, which he +pronounced loud, deep, and distinct, it seemed to +me, who was then young, as if the sounds had +echoed from the bottom of the human heart, and +as if that prayer might have floated in solemn +silence through the universe. The idea of St. John +came into mind, ‘of one crying in the wilderness, +who had his loins girt about, and whose food was +locusts and wild honey.’ The preacher then<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span> +launched into his subject, like an eagle dallying +with the wind. The sermon was upon peace and +war; upon church and state—not their alliance, +but their separation—on the spirit of the world and +the spirit of Christianity, not as the same, but as +opposed to one another. He talked of those who +had ‘inscribed the cross of Christ on banners dripping +with human gore.’ He made a poetical and +pastoral excursion,—and to show the fatal effects +of war, drew a striking contrast between the simple +shepherd boy, driving his team afield, or sitting +under the hawthorn, piping to his flock, ‘as though +he should never be old,’ and the same poor country-lad, +crimped, kidnapped, brought into town, made +drunk at an alehouse, turned into a wretched +drummer-boy, with his hair sticking on end with +powder and pomatum, a long cue at his back, and +tricked out in the loathsome finery of the profession +of blood.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Such were the notes our once-lov’d poet sung.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">And for myself, I could not have been more +delighted if I had heard the music of the spheres. +Poetry and Philosophy had met together, Truth +and Genius had embraced, under the eye and with +the sanction of Religion. This was even beyond +my hopes. I returned home well satisfied. The +sun that was still labouring pale and wan through +the sky, obscured by thick mists, seemed an +emblem of the <i>good cause</i>; and the cold dank +drops of dew that hung half-melted on the beard +of the thistle, had something genial and refreshing +in them; for there was a spirit of hope and youth +in all nature, that turned everything into good<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span> +The face of nature had not then the brand of <span class="smcap">Jus +Divinum</span> on it:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Like to that sanguine flower inscrib’d with woe.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>On the Tuesday following, the half-inspired +speaker came. I was called down into the room +where he was, and went half-hoping, half-afraid. +He received me very graciously, and I listened +for a long time without uttering a word. I did +not suffer in his opinion by my silence. ‘For +those two hours,’ he afterwards was pleased to +say, ‘he was conversing with W. H.’s forehead!’ +His appearance was different from what I had +anticipated from seeing him before. At a distance, +and in the dim light of the chapel, there was to me +a strange wildness in his aspect, a dusky obscurity, +and I thought him pitted with the small-pox. +His complexion was at that time clear, and even +bright—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">As are the children of yon azure sheen.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">His forehead was broad and high, light as if built of +ivory, with large projecting eyebrows, and his eyes +rolling beneath them like a sea with darkened +lustre. ‘A certain tender bloom his face o’erspread,’ +a purple tinge as we see it in the pale thoughtful +complexions of the Spanish portrait-painters, +Murillo and Velasquez. His mouth was gross, +voluptuous, open, eloquent; his chin good-humoured +and round; but his nose, the rudder of +the face, the index of the will, was small, feeble, +nothing—like what he has done. It might seem +that the genius of his face as from a height surveyed +and projected him (with sufficient capacity and +huge aspiration) into the world unknown of thought<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span> +and imagination, with nothing to support or guide +his veering purpose, as if Columbus had launched +his adventurous course for the New World in +a scallop, without oars or compass. So at least +I comment on it after the event. Coleridge in his +person was rather above the common size, inclining +to the corpulent, or like Lord Hamlet, ‘somewhat +fat and pursy.’ His hair (now, alas! grey) was +then black and glossy as the raven’s, and fell in +smooth masses over his forehead. This long +pendulous hair is peculiar to enthusiasts, to those +whose minds tend heavenward; and is traditionally +inseparable (though of a different colour) from the +pictures of Christ. It ought to belong, as a character +to all who preach <i>Christ crucified</i>, and Coleridge +was at that time one of those!</p> + +<p>It was curious to observe the contrast between +him and my father, who was a veteran in the +cause, and then declining into the vale of years. +He had been a poor Irish lad, carefully brought +up by his parents, and sent to the University of +Glasgow (where he studied under Adam Smith) +to prepare him for his future destination. It was +his mother’s proudest wish to see her son a Dissenting +Minister. So if we look back to past +generations (as far as eye can reach) we see the +same hopes, fears, wishes, followed by the same +disappointments, throbbing in the human heart; +and so we may see them (if we look forward) rising +up for ever, and disappearing, like vapourish +bubbles, in the human breast! After being tossed +about from congregation to congregation in the +heats of the Unitarian controversy, and squabbles +about the American war, he had been relegated +to an obscure village, where he was to spend the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span> +last thirty years of his life, far from the only +converse that he loved, the talk about disputed +texts of Scripture and the cause of civil and +religious liberty. Here he passed his days, +repining but resigned, in the study of the Bible, +and the perusal of the Commentators—huge folios, +not easily got through, one of which would outlast +a winter! Why did he pore on these from morn +to night (with the exception of a walk in the fields +or a turn in the garden to gather broccoli-plants +or kidney-beans of his own rearing, with no small +degree of pride and pleasure)?—Here were ‘no +figures nor no fantasies,’—neither poetry nor +philosophy—nothing to dazzle, nothing to excite +modern curiosity; but to his lack-lustre eyes +there appeared, within the pages of the ponderous, +unwieldy, neglected tomes, the sacred name of +JEHOVAH in Hebrew capitals: pressed down +by the weight of the style, worn to the last fading +thinness of the understanding, there were glimpses, +glimmering notions of the patriarchal wanderings, +with palm-trees hovering in the horizon, and +processions of camels at the distance of three +thousand years; there was Moses with the +Burning Bush, the number of the Twelve Tribes, +types, shadows, glosses on the law and the prophets; +there were discussions (dull enough) on the age +of Methuselah, a mighty speculation! there were +outlines, rude guesses at the shape of Noah’s Ark +and at the riches of Solomon’s Temple; questions +as to the date of the creation, predictions of the +end of all things; the great lapses of time, the +strange mutations of the globe were unfolded with +the voluminous leaf, as it turned over; and +though the soul might slumber with an hieroglyphic<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span> +veil of inscrutable mysteries drawn over it, yet it +was in a slumber ill-exchanged for all the sharpened +realities of sense, wit, fancy, or reason. My father’s +life was comparatively a dream; but it was +a dream of infinity and eternity, of death, the +resurrection, and a judgement to come!</p> + +<p>No two individuals were ever more unlike than +were the host and his guest. A poet was to my +father a sort of nondescript: yet whatever added +grace to the Unitarian cause was to him welcome. +He could hardly have been more surprised or +pleased, if our visitor had worn wings. Indeed, +his thoughts had wings; and as the silken sounds +rustled round our little wainscoted parlour, my +father threw back his spectacles over his forehead, +his white hairs mixing with its sanguine hue; and +a smile of delight beamed across his rugged cordial +face, to think that Truth had found a new ally +in Fancy!<a name="FNanchor_14_14" id="FNanchor_14_14"></a><a href="#Footnote_14_14" class="fnanchor">[14]</a> Besides, Coleridge seemed to take +considerable notice of me, and that of itself was +enough. He talked very familiarly, but agreeably, +and glanced over a variety of subjects. At dinner-time +he grew more animated, and dilated in a very +edifying manner on Mary Wollstonecraft and +Mackintosh. The last, he said, he considered (on +my father’s speaking of his <i>Vindiciae Gallicae</i> as +a capital performance) as a clever scholastic man—a +master of the topics,—or as the ready warehouseman +of letters, who knew exactly where to +lay his hand on what he wanted, though the goods +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span>were not his own. He thought him no match for +Burke, either in style or matter. Burke was +a metaphysician, Mackintosh a mere logician. +Burke was an orator (almost a poet) who reasoned +in figures, because he had an eye for nature: +Mackintosh, on the other hand, was a rhetorician, +who had only an eye to commonplaces. On this +I ventured to say that I had always entertained +a great opinion of Burke, and that (as far as I could +find) the speaking of him with contempt might be +made the test of a vulgar democratical mind. This +was the first observation I ever made to Coleridge, +and he said it was a very just and striking one. +I remember the leg of Welsh mutton and the +turnips on the table that day had the finest flavour +imaginable. Coleridge added that Mackintosh and +Tom Wedgwood (of whom, however, he spoke +highly) had expressed a very indifferent opinion +of his friend Mr. Wordsworth, on which he +remarked to them—‘He strides on so far before +you, that he dwindles in the distance!’ Godwin +had once boasted to him of having carried on an +argument with Mackintosh for three hours with +dubious success; Coleridge told him—‘If there +had been a man of genius in the room he would +have settled the question in five minutes.’ He +asked me if I had ever seen Mary Wollstonecraft, +and I said, I had once for a few moments, and that +she seemed to me to turn off Godwin’s objections +to something she advanced with quite a playful, +easy air. He replied, that ‘this was only one +instance of the ascendancy which people of +imagination exercised over those of mere intellect.’ +He did not rate Godwin very high<a name="FNanchor_15_15" id="FNanchor_15_15"></a><a href="#Footnote_15_15" class="fnanchor">[15]</a> (this was caprice +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span>or prejudice, real or affected) but he had a great +idea of Mrs. Wollstonecraft’s powers of conversation, +none at all of her talent for book-making. We +talked a little about Holcroft. He had been asked +if he was not much struck <i>with</i> him, and he said, +he thought himself in more danger of being struck +<i>by</i> him. I complained that he would not let me +get on at all, for he required a definition of every +the commonest word, exclaiming, ‘What do you +mean by a <i>sensation</i>, Sir? What do you mean by +an <i>idea</i>?’ This, Coleridge said, was barricadoing +the road to truth:—it was setting up a turnpike-gate +at every step we took. I forget a great +number of things, many more than I remember; +but the day passed off pleasantly, and the next +morning Mr. Coleridge was to return to Shrewsbury. +When I came down to breakfast, I found that he +had just received a letter from his friend, T. Wedgwood, +making him an offer of 150<i>l.</i> a year if he +chose to waive his present pursuit, and devote +himself entirely to the study of poetry and +philosophy. Coleridge seemed to make up his +mind to close with this proposal in the act of +tying on one of his shoes. It threw an additional +damp on his departure. It took the wayward +enthusiast quite from us to cast him into Deva’s +winding vales, or by the shores of old romance. +Instead of living at ten miles’ distance, of being +the pastor of a Dissenting congregation at Shrewsbury, +he was henceforth to inhabit the Hill of +Parnassus, to be a Shepherd on the Delectable +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span>Mountains. Alas! I knew not the way thither, +and felt very little gratitude for Mr. Wedgwood’s +bounty. I was presently relieved from this +dilemma; for Mr. Coleridge, asking for a pen and +ink, and going to a table to write something on +a bit of card, advanced towards me with undulating +step, and giving me the precious document, said +that that was his address, <i>Mr. Coleridge, Nether-Stowey, +Somersetshire</i>; and that he should be +glad to see me there in a few weeks’ time, and, if +I chose, would come half-way to meet me. I was +not less surprised than the shepherd-boy (this +simile is to be found in <i>Cassandra</i>) when he sees +a thunderbolt fall close at his feet. I stammered +out my acknowledgements and acceptance of this +offer (I thought Mr. Wedgwood’s annuity a trifle +to it) as well as I could; and this mighty business +being settled, the poet-preacher took leave, and +I accompanied him six miles on the road. It was +a fine morning in the middle of winter, and he +talked the whole way. The scholar in Chaucer is +described as going</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">——Sounding on his way.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">So Coleridge went on his. In digressing, in dilating, +in passing from subject to subject, he appeared to +me to float in air, to slide on ice. He told me in +confidence (going along) that he should have +preached two sermons before he accepted the +situation at Shrewsbury, one on Infant Baptism, +the other on the Lord’s Supper, showing that he +could not administer either, which would have +effectually disqualified him for the object in view. +I observed that he continually crossed me on the +way by shifting from one side of the footpath to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span> +the other. This struck me as an odd movement; +but I did not at that time connect it with any +instability of purpose or involuntary change of +principle, as I have done since. He seemed unable +to keep on in a straight line. He spoke slightingly +of Hume (whose Essay on Miracles he said was +stolen from an objection started in one of South’s +Sermons—<i>Credat Judaeus Apella!</i>). I was not +very much pleased at this account of Hume, for +I had just been reading, with infinite relish, that +completest of all metaphysical <i>choke-pears</i>, his +<i>Treatise on Human Nature</i>, to which the <i>Essays</i>, +in point of scholastic subtlety and close reasoning, +are mere elegant trifling, light summer-reading. +Coleridge even denied the excellence of Hume’s +general style, which I think betrayed a want of taste +or candour. He however made me amends by the +manner in which he spoke of Berkeley. He dwelt +particularly on his <i>Essay on Vision</i> as a masterpiece +of analytical reasoning. So it undoubtedly is. +He was exceedingly angry with Dr. Johnson for +striking the stone with his foot, in allusion to this +author’s Theory of Matter and Spirit, and saying, +‘Thus I confute him, Sir.’ Coleridge drew +a parallel (I don’t know how he brought about +the connexion) between Bishop Berkeley and Tom +Paine. He said the one was an instance of a subtle, +the other of an acute mind, than which no two +things could be more distinct. The one was +a shop-boy’s quality, the other the characteristic +of a philosopher. He considered Bishop Butler as +a true philosopher, a profound and conscientious +thinker, a genuine reader of nature and his own +mind. He did not speak of his <i>Analogy</i>, but of his +<i>Sermons at the Rolls’ Chapel</i>, of which I had never<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span> +heard. Coleridge somehow always contrived to +prefer the <i>unknown</i> to the <i>known</i>. In this instance +he was right. The <i>Analogy</i> is a tissue of sophistry, +of wire-drawn, theological special-pleading; the +<i>Sermons</i> (with the Preface to them) are in a fine +vein of deep, matured reflection, a candid appeal +to our observation of human nature, without +pedantry and without bias. I told Coleridge +I had written a few remarks, and was sometimes +foolish enough to believe that I had made a discovery +on the same subject (the <i>Natural Disinterestedness +of the Human Mind</i>)—and I tried to explain my +view of it to Coleridge, who listened with great +willingness, but I did not succeed in making +myself understood. I sat down to the task shortly +afterwards for the twentieth time, got new pens +and paper, determined to make clear work of it, +wrote a few meagre sentences in the skeleton style +of a mathematical demonstration, stopped half-way +down the second page; and, after trying in vain +to pump up any words, images, notions, apprehensions, +facts, or observations, from that gulf of +abstraction in which I had plunged myself for four +or five years preceding, gave up the attempt as +labour in vain, and shed tears of helpless despondency +on the blank unfinished paper. I can +write fast enough now. Am I better than I was +then? Oh no! One truth discovered, one pang +of regret at not being able to express it, is better +than all the fluency and flippancy in the world. +Would that I could go back to what I then was! +Why can we not revive past times as we can +revisit old places? If I had the quaint Muse of +Sir Philip Sidney to assist me, I would write +a <i>Sonnet to the Road between Wem and Shrewsbury</i>,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span> +and immortalize every step of it by some fond +enigmatical conceit. I would swear that the very +milestones had ears, and that Harmer-hill stooped +with all its pines, to listen to a poet, as he passed! +I remember but one other topic of discourse in this +walk. He mentioned Paley, praised the naturalness +and clearness of his style, but condemned +his sentiments, thought him a mere time-serving +casuist, and said that ‘the fact of his work on +Moral and Political Philosophy being made a text-book +in our Universities was a disgrace to the +national character.’ We parted at the six-mile +stone; and I returned homeward pensive but +much pleased. I had met with unexpected notice +from a person whom I believed to have been +prejudiced against me. ‘Kind and affable to me +had been his condescension, and should be honoured +ever with suitable regard.’ He was the first poet +I had known, and he certainly answered to that +inspired name. I had heard a great deal of his +powers of conversation, and was not disappointed. +In fact, I never met with any thing at all like +them, either before or since. I could easily credit +the accounts which were circulated of his holding +forth to a large party of ladies and gentlemen, an +evening or two before, on the Berkeleian Theory, +when he made the whole material universe look +like a transparency of fine words; and another +story (which I believe he has somewhere told +himself) of his being asked to a party at Birmingham, +of his smoking tobacco and going to sleep after +dinner on a sofa, where the company found him +to their no small surprise, which was increased to +wonder when he started up of a sudden, and +rubbing his eyes, looked about him, and launched<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span> +into a three hours’ description of the third heaven, +of which he had had a dream, very different from +Mr. Southey’s Vision of Judgement, and also from +that other Vision of Judgement, which Mr. Murray, +the Secretary of the Bridge Street Junto, has taken +into his especial keeping.</p> + +<p>On my way back, I had a sound in my ears, it +was the voice of Fancy: I had a light before me, +it was the face of Poetry. The one still lingers +there, the other has not quitted my side! Coleridge +in truth met me half-way on the ground of +philosophy, or I should not have been won over +to his imaginative creed. I had an uneasy, +pleasurable sensation all the time, till I was to +visit him. During those months the chill breath +of winter gave me a welcoming; the vernal air +was balm and inspiration to me. The golden +sunsets, the silver star of evening, lighted me on +my way to new hopes and prospects. <i>I was to +visit Coleridge in the Spring.</i> This circumstance +was never absent from my thoughts, and mingled +with all my feelings. I wrote to him at the time +proposed, and received an answer postponing my +intended visit for a week or two, but very cordially +urging me to complete my promise then. This +delay did not damp, but rather increase my ardour. +In the meantime I went to Llangollen Vale, by +way of initiating myself in the mysteries of natural +scenery; and I must say I was enchanted with it. +I had been reading Coleridge’s description of +England, in his fine <i>Ode on the Departing Year</i>, +and I applied it, <i>con amore</i>, to the objects before +me. That valley was to me (in a manner) the cradle +of a new existence: in the river that winds through +it, my spirit was baptized in the waters of Helicon!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span></p> + +<p>I returned home, and soon after set out on my +journey with unworn heart and untried feet. My +way lay through Worcester and Gloucester, and +by Upton, where I thought of Tom Jones and +the adventure of the muff. I remember getting +completely wet through one day, and stopping +at an inn (I think it was at Tewkesbury) where +I sat up all night to read <i>Paul and Virginia</i>. +Sweet were the showers in early youth that +drenched my body, and sweet the drops of pity +that fell upon the books I read! I recollect +a remark of Coleridge’s upon this very book, that +nothing could show the gross indelicacy of French +manners and the entire corruption of their imagination +more strongly than the behaviour of the +heroine in the last fatal scene, who turns away +from a person on board the sinking vessel, that +offers to save her life, because he has thrown off +his clothes to assist him in swimming. Was this +a time to think of such a circumstance? I once +hinted to Wordsworth, as we were sailing in his +boat on Grasmere lake, that I thought he had +borrowed the idea of his <i>Poems on the Naming of +Places</i> from the local inscriptions of the same kind +in <i>Paul and Virginia</i>. He did not own the +obligation, and stated some distinction without +a difference, in defence of his claim to originality. +And the slightest variation would be sufficient for +this purpose in his mind; for whatever <i>he</i> added +or omitted would inevitably be worth all that any +one else had done, and contain the marrow of the +sentiment.—I was still two days before the time +fixed for my arrival, for I had taken care to set +out early enough. I stopped these two days at +Bridgewater, and when I was tired of sauntering<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span> +on the banks of its muddy river, returned to the +inn, and read <i>Camilla</i>. So have I loitered my life +away, reading books, looking at pictures, going to +plays, hearing, thinking, writing on what pleased +me best. I have wanted only one thing to make +me happy; but wanting that, have wanted everything!</p> + +<p>I arrived, and was well received. The country +about Nether Stowey is beautiful, green and hilly, +and near the sea-shore. I saw it but the other day, +after an interval of twenty years, from a hill near +Taunton. How was the map of my life spread out +before me, as the map of the country lay at my feet! +In the afternoon, Coleridge took me over to All-Foxden, +a romantic old family mansion of the +St. Aubins, where Wordsworth lived. It was then +in the possession of a friend of the poet’s, who gave +him the free use of it. Somehow that period (the +time just after the French Revolution) was not +a time when <i>nothing was given for nothing</i>. The +mind opened, and a softness might be perceived +coming over the heart of individuals, beneath ‘the +scales that fence’ our self-interest. Wordsworth +himself was from home, but his sister kept house, +and set before us a frugal repast; and we had free +access to her brother’s poems, the <i>Lyrical Ballads</i>, +which were still in manuscript, or in the form of +<i>Sibylline Leaves</i>. I dipped into a few of these with +great satisfaction, and with the faith of a novice. +I slept that night in an old room with blue hangings, +and covered with the round-faced family-portraits +of the age of George I and II, and from the wooded +declivity of the adjoining park that overlooked my +window, at the dawn of day, could</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">——hear the loud stag speak.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>In the outset of life (and particularly at this<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span> +time I felt it so) our imagination has a body to it. +We are in a state between sleeping and waking, +and have indistinct but glorious glimpses of strange +shapes, and there is always something to come +better than what we see. As in our dreams the +fullness of the blood gives warmth and reality to +the coinage of the brain, so in youth our ideas +are clothed, and fed, and pampered with our +good spirits; we breathe thick with thoughtless +happiness, the weight of future years presses +on the strong pulses of the heart, and we repose +with undisturbed faith in truth and good. As +we advance, we exhaust our fund of enjoyment +and of hope. We are no longer wrapped in <i>lamb’s-wool</i>, +lulled in Elysium. As we taste the pleasures +of life, their spirit evaporates, the sense palls; and +nothing is left but the phantoms, the lifeless +shadows of what <i>has been</i>!</p> + +<p>That morning, as soon as breakfast was over, we +strolled out into the park, and seating ourselves on +the trunk of an old ash-tree that stretched along +the ground, Coleridge read aloud with a sonorous +and musical voice, the ballad of <i>Betty Foy</i>. I was +not critically or sceptically inclined. I saw touches +of truth and nature, and took the rest for granted. +But in the <i>Thorn</i>, the <i>Mad Mother</i>, and the +<i>Complaint of a Poor Indian Woman</i>, I felt that +deeper power and pathos which have been since +acknowledged,</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In spite of pride, in erring reason’s spite,<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">as the characteristics of this author; and the +sense of a new style and a new spirit in poetry +came over me. It had to me something of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span> +effect that arises from the turning up of the fresh +soil, or of the first welcome breath of Spring,</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">While yet the trembling year is unconfirmed.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">Coleridge and myself walked back to Stowey that +evening, and his voice sounded high</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Of Providence, foreknowledge, will, and fate,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fix’d fate, free-will, foreknowledge absolute,<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">as we passed through echoing grove, by fairy +stream or waterfall, gleaming in the summer +moonlight! He lamented that Wordsworth was +not prone enough to believe in the traditional +superstitions of the place, and that there was +a something corporeal, a <i>matter-of-fact-ness</i>, a clinging +to the palpable, or often to the petty, in his +poetry, in consequence. His genius was not +a spirit that descended to him through the air; it +sprung out of the ground like a flower, or unfolded +itself from a green spray, on which the goldfinch +sang. He said, however (if I remember right), that +this objection must be confined to his descriptive +pieces, that his philosophic poetry had a grand +and comprehensive spirit in it, so that his soul +seemed to inhabit the universe like a palace, and +to discover truth by intuition, rather than by +deduction. The next day Wordsworth arrived +from Bristol at Coleridge’s cottage. I think I see +him now. He answered in some degree to his +friend’s description of him, but was more gaunt +and Don Quixote-like. He was quaintly dressed +(according to the <i>costume</i> of that unconstrained +period) in a brown fustian jacket and striped +pantaloons. There was something of a roll, +a lounge in his gait, not unlike his own Peter Bell.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span> +There was a severe, worn pressure of thought +about his temples, a fire in his eye (as if he saw +something in objects more than the outward +appearance), an intense high narrow forehead, +a Roman nose, cheeks furrowed by strong purpose +and feeling, and a convulsive inclination to +laughter about the mouth, a good deal at variance +with the solemn, stately expression of the rest of +his face. Chantrey’s bust wants the marking +traits; but he was teased into making it regular +and heavy: Haydon’s head of him, introduced +into the <i>Entrance of Christ into Jerusalem</i>, is the +most like his drooping weight of thought and +expression. He sat down and talked very naturally +and freely, with a mixture of clear gushing accents +in his voice, a deep guttural intonation, and +a strong tincture of the northern <i>burr</i>, like the +crust on wine. He instantly began to make havoc +of the half of a Cheshire cheese on the table, and +said triumphantly that ‘his marriage with experience +had not been so productive as Mr. Southey’s +in teaching him a knowledge of the good things of +this life.’ He had been to see the <i>Castle Spectre</i> by +Monk Lewis, while at Bristol, and described it very +well. He said ‘it fitted the taste of the audience +like a glove.’ This <i>ad captandum</i> merit was, however, +by no means a recommendation of it, according +to the severe principles of the new school, which +reject rather than court popular effect. Wordsworth, +looking out of the low, latticed window, +said, ‘How beautifully the sun sets on that +yellow bank!’ I thought within myself, ‘With +what eyes these poets see nature!’ and ever after, +when I saw the sunset stream upon the objects +facing it, conceived I had made a discovery, or<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span> +thanked Mr. Wordsworth for having made one for +me! We went over to All-Foxden again the day +following, and Wordsworth read us the story of +Peter Bell in the open air; and the comment +made upon it by his face and voice was very +different from that of some later critics! Whatever +might be thought of the poem, ‘his face was as +a book where men might read strange matters,’ +and he announced the fate of his hero in prophetic +tones. There is a <i>chaunt</i> in the recitation both of +Coleridge and Wordsworth, which acts as a spell +upon the hearer, and disarms the judgement. +Perhaps they have deceived themselves by making +habitual use of this ambiguous accompaniment. +Coleridge’s manner is more full, animated, and +varied; Wordsworth’s more equable, sustained, +and internal. The one might be termed more +<i>dramatic</i>, the other more <i>lyrical</i>. Coleridge has +told me that he himself liked to compose in walking +over uneven ground, or breaking through the +straggling branches of a copse wood; whereas +Wordsworth always wrote (if he could) walking +up and down a straight gravel-walk, or in some +spot where the continuity of his verse met with +no collateral interruption. Returning that same +evening, I got into a metaphysical argument with +Wordsworth, while Coleridge was explaining the +different notes of the nightingale to his sister, in +which we neither of us succeeded in making +ourselves perfectly clear and intelligible. Thus +I passed three weeks at Nether Stowey and in the +neighbourhood, generally devoting the afternoons +to a delightful chat in an arbour made of bark by +the poet’s friend Tom Poole, sitting under two +fine elm-trees, and listening to the bees humming<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span> +round us, while we quaffed our <i>flip</i>. It was agreed, +among other things, that we should make a jaunt +down the Bristol Channel, as far as Lynton. We +set off together on foot, Coleridge, John Chester, +and I. This Chester was a native of Nether Stowey, +one of those who were attracted to Coleridge’s +discourse as flies are to honey, or bees in swarming-time +to the sound of a brass pan. He ‘followed +in the chace, like a dog who hunts, not like one +that made up the cry.’ He had on a brown cloth +coat, boots, and corduroy breeches, was low in +stature, bow-legged, had a drag in his walk like +a drover, which he assisted by a hazel switch, and +kept on a sort of trot by the side of Coleridge, like +a running footman by a state coach, that he might +not lose a syllable or sound, that fell from Coleridge’s +lips. He told me his private opinion, that Coleridge +was a wonderful man. He scarcely opened his lips, +much less offered an opinion the whole way: yet +of the three, had I to choose during that journey, +I would be John Chester. He afterwards followed +Coleridge into Germany, where the Kantean +philosophers were puzzled how to bring him under +any of their categories. When he sat down at +table with his idol, John’s felicity was complete; +Sir Walter Scott’s, or Mr. Blackwood’s, when they +sat down at the same table with the King, was not +more so. We passed Dunster on our right, a small +town between the brow of a hill and the sea. +I remember eyeing it wistfully as it lay below us: +contrasted with the woody scene around, it looked +as clear, as pure, as <i>embrowned</i> and ideal as any +landscape I have seen since, of Gaspar Poussin’s +or Domenichino’s. We had a long day’s march—(our +feet kept time to the echoes of Coleridge’s<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span> +tongue)—through Minehead and by the Blue +Anchor, and on to Lynton, which we did not reach +till near midnight, and where we had some +difficulty in making a lodgement. We, however, +knocked the people of the house up at last, and we +were repaid for our apprehensions and fatigue by +some excellent rashers of fried bacon and eggs. +The view in coming along had been splendid. +We walked for miles and miles on dark brown +heaths overlooking the channel, with the Welsh +hills beyond, and at times descended into little +sheltered valleys close by the sea-side, with +a smuggler’s face scowling by us, and then had +to ascend conical hills with a path winding up +through a coppice to a barren top, like a monk’s +shaven crown, from one of which I pointed out to +Coleridge’s notice the bare masts of a vessel on +the very edge of the horizon, and within the red-orbed +disk of the setting sun, like his own spectre-ship +in the <i>Ancient Mariner</i>. At Lynton the +character of the sea-coast becomes more marked +and rugged. There is a place called the ‘Valley of +Rocks’ (I suspect this was only the poetical name +for it) bedded among precipices overhanging the +sea, with rocky caverns beneath, into which the +waves dash, and where the sea-gull for ever wheels +its screaming flight. On the tops of these are huge +stones thrown transverse, as if an earthquake had +tossed them there, and behind these is a fretwork +of perpendicular rocks, something like the ‘Giant’s +Causeway’. A thunder-storm came on while we +were at the inn, and Coleridge was running out +bareheaded to enjoy the commotion of the +elements in the ‘Valley of Rocks’, but as if in spite, +the clouds only muttered a few angry sounds, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span> +let fall a few refreshing drops. Coleridge told me +that he and Wordsworth were to have made this +place the scene of a prose-tale, which was to have +been in the manner of, but far superior to, the +<i>Death of Abel</i>, but they had relinquished the +design. In the morning of the second day, we +breakfasted luxuriously in an old-fashioned parlour +on tea, toast, eggs, and honey, in the very sight of +the bee-hives from which it had been taken, and +a garden full of thyme and wild flowers that had +produced it. On this occasion Coleridge spoke +of Virgil’s <i>Georgics</i>, but not well. I do not think +he had much feeling for the classical or elegant. +It was in this room that we found a little worn-out +copy of the <i>Seasons</i>, lying in a window-seat, on +which Coleridge exclaimed, ‘<i>That</i> is true fame!’ +He said Thomson was a great poet, rather than +a good one; his style was as meretricious as his +thoughts were natural. He spoke of Cowper as +the best modern poet. He said the <i>Lyrical Ballads</i> +were an experiment about to be tried by him and +Wordsworth, to see how far the public taste would +endure poetry written in a more natural and simple +style than had hitherto been attempted; totally +discarding the artifices of poetical diction, and +making use only of such words as had probably +been common in the most ordinary language since +the days of Henry II. Some comparison was +introduced between Shakespeare and Milton. He +said ‘he hardly knew which to prefer. Shakespeare +appeared to him a mere stripling in the art; he +was as tall and as strong, with infinitely more +activity than Milton, but he never appeared to +have come to man’s estate; or if he had, he would +not have been a man, but a monster.’ He spoke<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span> +with contempt of Gray, and with intolerance of +Pope. He did not like the versification of the +latter. He observed that ‘the ears of these +couplet-writers might be charged with having +short memories, that could not retain the harmony +of whole passages.’ He thought little of Junius +as a writer; he had a dislike of Dr. Johnson; +and a much higher opinion of Burke as an orator +and politician, than of Fox or Pitt. He however +thought him very inferior in richness of style and +imagery to some of our elder prose-writers, +particularly Jeremy Taylor. He liked Richardson, +but not Fielding; nor could I get him to enter into +the merits of <i>Caleb Williams</i>.<a name="FNanchor_16_16" id="FNanchor_16_16"></a><a href="#Footnote_16_16" class="fnanchor">[16]</a> In short, he was +profound and discriminating with respect to those +authors whom he liked, and where he gave his +judgement fair play; capricious, perverse, and +prejudiced in his antipathies and distastes. We +loitered on the ‘ribbed sea-sands’, in such talk as +this, a whole morning, and I recollect met with +a curious sea-weed, of which John Chester told us +the country name! A fisherman gave Coleridge +an account of a boy that had been drowned the +day before, and that they had tried to save him +at the risk of their own lives. He said ‘he did not +know how it was that they ventured, but, Sir, we +have a <i>nature</i> towards one another.’ This expression, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span>Coleridge remarked to me, was a fine illustration +of that theory of disinterestedness which I (in +common with Butler) had adopted. I broached +to him an argument of mine to prove that <i>likeness</i> +was not mere association of ideas. I said that the +mark in the sand put one in mind of a man’s foot, +not because it was part of a former impression of +a man’s foot (for it was quite new) but because it +was like the shape of a man’s foot. He assented +to the justness of this distinction (which I have +explained at length elsewhere, for the benefit of +the curious) and John Chester listened; not from +any interest in the subject, but because he was +astonished that I should be able to suggest anything +to Coleridge that he did not already know. +We returned on the third morning, and Coleridge +remarked the silent cottage-smoke curling up the +valleys where, a few evenings before, we had seen +the lights gleaming through the dark.</p> + +<p>In a day or two after we arrived at Stowey, we +set out, I on my return home, and he for Germany. +It was a Sunday morning, and he was to preach +that day for Dr. Toulmin of Taunton. I asked him +if he had prepared anything for the occasion? +He said he had not even thought of the text, but +should as soon as we parted. I did not go to hear +him,—this was a fault,—but we met in the evening +at Bridgewater. The next day we had a long day’s +walk to Bristol, and sat down, I recollect, by +a well-side on the road, to cool ourselves and +satisfy our thirst, when Coleridge repeated to me +some descriptive lines of his tragedy of <i>Remorse</i>; +which I must say became his mouth and that +occasion better than they, some years after, did +Mr. Elliston’s and the Drury Lane boards,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span>—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh memory! shield me from the world’s poor strife,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And give those scenes thine everlasting life.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>I saw no more of him for a year or two, during +which period he had been wandering in the Hartz +Forest in Germany; and his return was cometary, +meteorous, unlike his setting out. It was not till +some time after that I knew his friends Lamb and +Southey. The last always appears to me (as I first +saw him) with a commonplace book under his arm, +and the first with a <i>bon-mot</i> in his mouth. It was +at Godwin’s that I met him with Holcroft and +Coleridge, where they were disputing fiercely +which was the best—<i>Man as he was, or man as he +is to be</i>. ‘Give me’, says Lamb, ‘man as he is <i>not</i> +to be.’ This saying was the beginning of a friendship +between us, which I believe still continues.—Enough +of this for the present.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But there is matter for another rhyme,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I to this may add a second tale.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_14_14" id="Footnote_14_14"></a><a href="#FNanchor_14_14"><span class="label">[14]</span></a> My father was one of those who mistook his talent after +all. He used to be very much dissatisfied that I preferred +his Letters to his Sermons. The last were forced and dry; +the first came naturally from him. For ease, half-plays on +words, and a supine, monkish, indolent pleasantry, I have +never seen them equalled.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_15_15" id="Footnote_15_15"></a><a href="#FNanchor_15_15"><span class="label">[15]</span></a> He complained in particular of the presumption of his +attempting to establish the future immortality of man, +‘without’ (as he said) ‘knowing what Death was or what +Life was’—and the tone in which he pronounced these two +words seemed to convey a complete image of both.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_16_16" id="Footnote_16_16"></a><a href="#FNanchor_16_16"><span class="label">[16]</span></a> He had no idea of pictures, of Claude or Raphael, and +at this time I had as little as he. He sometimes gives +a striking account at present of the Cartoons at Pisa by +Buffamalco and others; of one in particular, where Death +is seen in the air brandishing his scythe, and the great and +mighty of the earth shudder at his approach, while the +beggars and the wretched kneel to him as their deliverer. +He would, of course, understand so broad and fine a moral +as this at any time.</p></div> +</div> + + +<h2><a name="JOHN_KEBLE" id="JOHN_KEBLE"></a>JOHN KEBLE<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span></h2> + +<h3>1792-1866</h3> + +<h3>SACRED POETRY (1825)</h3> + +<h4><i>The Star in the East; with other Poems.</i> By +Josiah Conder. London. 1824.</h4> + + +<p><span class="smcap">There</span> are many circumstances about this little +volume, which tend powerfully to disarm criticism. +In the first place, it is, for the most part, of a <i>sacred</i> +character: taken up with those subjects which +least of all admit, with propriety, either in the +author or critic, the exercise of intellectual subtlety. +For the <i>practical</i> tendency, indeed, of such compositions, +both are most deeply responsible; the +author who publishes, and the critic who undertakes +to recommend or to censure them. But if they +appear to be written with any degree of sincerity +and earnestness, we naturally shrink from treating +them merely as literary efforts. To interrupt the +current of a reader’s sympathy in such a case, by +critical objections, is not merely to deprive him of +a little harmless pleasure, it is to disturb him almost +in a devotional exercise. The most considerate +reviewer, therefore, of a volume of sacred poetry, +will think it a subject on which it is easier to say too +much than too little.</p> + +<p>In the present instance, this consideration is enforced +by the unpretending tone of the volume, +which bears internal evidence, for the most part, of +not having been written to meet the eye of the world.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span> +It is in vain to say that this claim on the critic’s +favour is nullified by publication. The author may +give it up, and yet the work may retain it. We may +still feel that we have no right to judge severely of +what was not, at first, intended to come before our +judgement at all. This of course applies only to +those compositions, which indicate, by something +within themselves, this freedom from the pretension +of authorship. And such are most of those to +which we are now bespeaking our readers’ attention.</p> + +<p><i>Most</i> of them, we say, because the first poem in +the volume, <i>The Star in the East</i>, is of a more ambitious +and less pleasing character. Although in +blank verse, it is, in fact, a lyrical effusion; an ode +on the rapid progress and final triumph of the Gospel. +It looks like the composition of a young man: +harsh and turgid in parts, but interspersed with +some rather beautiful touches. The opening lines +are a fair specimen.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O to have heard th’ unearthly symphonies,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which o’er the starlight peace of Syrian skies<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Came floating like a dream, that blessed night<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When angel songs were heard by sinful men,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hymning Messiah’s advent! O to have watch’d<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The night with those poor shepherds, whom, when first<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The glory of the Lord shed sudden day—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Day without dawn, starting from midnight, day<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Brighter than morning—on those lonely hills<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Strange fear surpris’d—fear lost in wondering joy,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When from th’ angelic multitude swell’d forth<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The many-voicèd consonance of praise:—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Glory in th’ highest to God, and upon earth<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Peace, towards men good will. But once before,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In such glad strains of joyous fellowship,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The silent earth was greeted by the heavens,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When at its first foundation they looked down<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From their bright orbs, those heavenly ministries,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hailing the new-born world with bursts of joy.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span></div></div> + +<p>Notwithstanding beauties scattered here and +there, there is an effort and constrained stateliness +in the poem, very different from the rapidity and +simplicity of many of the shorter lyrics, which follow +under the titles of Sacred and Domestic Poems. +Such, for instance, as the Poor Man’s Hymn</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">As much have I of worldly good<br /></span> +<span class="i1">As e’er my master had:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I diet on as dainty food,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And am as richly clad,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tho’ plain my garb, though scant my board,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As Mary’s Son and Nature’s Lord.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The manger was his infant bed,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">His home, the mountain-cave,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He had not where to lay his head,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">He borrow’d even his grave.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Earth yielded him no resting spot,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her Maker, but she knew him not.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">As much the world’s good will I bear,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Its favours and applause,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As He, whose blessed name I bear,—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Hated without a cause,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Despis’d, rejected, mock’d by pride,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Betray’d, forsaken, crucified.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Why should I court my Master’s foe?<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Why should I fear its frown?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Why should I seek for rest below,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Or sigh for brief renown?—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A pilgrim to a better land,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An heir of joys at <span class="smcap">God</span>’s right hand?<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Or the following sweet lines on Home, which +occur among the Domestic poems:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">That is not home, where day by day<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I wear the busy hours away.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That is not home, where lonely night<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Prepares me for the toils of light—<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span> +<span class="i0">’Tis hope, and joy, and memory, give<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A home in which the heart can live—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">These walls no lingering hopes endear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No fond remembrance chains me here,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Cheerless I heave the lonely sigh—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Eliza, canst thou tell me why?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">’Tis where thou art is home to me,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And home without thee cannot be.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There are who strangely love to roam,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And find in wildest haunts their home;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And some in halls of lordly state,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who yet are homeless, desolate.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sailor’s home is on the main,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The warrior’s, on the tented plain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The maiden’s, in her bower of rest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The infant’s, on his mother’s breast—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But where thou art is home to me,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And home without thee cannot be.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There is no home in halls of pride,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They are too high, and cold, and wide.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No home is by the wanderer found:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">’Tis not in place: it hath no bound.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It is a circling atmosphere<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Investing all the heart holds dear;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A law of strange attractive force,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That holds the feelings in their course;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It is a presence undefin’d,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O’er-shadowing the conscious mind,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where love and duty sweetly blend<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To consecrate the name of friend;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where’er thou art is home to me,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And home without thee cannot be.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">My love, forgive the anxious sigh—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I hear the moments rushing by,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And think that life is fleeting fast,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That youth with us will soon be past.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh! when will time, consenting, give<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The home in which my heart can live?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There shall the past and future meet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And o’er our couch, in union sweet,<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Extend their cherub wings, and shower<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bright influence on the present hour,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh! when shall Israel’s mystic guide,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The pillar’d cloud, our steps decide,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then, resting, spread its guardian shade,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To bless the home which love hath made?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Daily, my love, shall thence arise<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Our hearts’ united sacrifice;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And home indeed a home will be,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thus consecrate and shar’d with thee.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>We will add one more specimen of the same kind, +which forms a natural and pleasing appendix to the +preceding lines.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Louise! you wept, that morn of gladness<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Which made your Brother blest;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And tears of half-reproachful sadness<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Fell on the Bridegroom’s vest:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet, pearly tears were those, to gem<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A Sister’s bridal diadem.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">No words could half so well have spoken,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">What thus was deeply shown<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By Nature’s simplest, dearest token,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">How much was then my own;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Endearing her for whom they fell,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Thee, for having loved so well.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But now no more—nor let a Brother,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Louise, regretful see,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That still ’tis sorrow to another,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">That he should happy be.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Those were, I trust, the only tears<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That day shall cost through coming years.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Smile with us. Happy and light-hearted,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">We three the time will while.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, when sometimes a season parted,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Still think of us, and smile.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But come to us in gloomy weather;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We’ll weep, when we must weep, together.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Now, what is the reason of the great difference +between these extracts and that from the <i>Star in the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span> +East</i>?—a difference which the earlier date of the +latter, so far from accounting for, only makes the +more extraordinary. In some instances, the interval +of time is very short, but at all events more effort +and turgidness might have been expected in the +earlier poems, more simplicity and care and a more +subdued tone in the later. We suspect a reason, +which both poets and poetical readers are too apt +to leave out of sight. There is a want of <i>truth</i> in +the <i>Star in the East</i>—not that the author is otherwise +than quite in earnest—but his earnestness +seems rather an artificial glow, to which he has been +worked up by reading and conversation of a particular +cast, than the overflowing warmth of his own natural +feelings, kindled by circumstances in which he was +himself placed. In a word, when he writes of the +success of the Bible Society, and the supposed +amelioration of the world in consequence, he writes +from report and fancy only; but when he speaks +of a happy home, of kindly affections, of the comforts +which piety can administer in disappointment +and sorrow; either we are greatly mistaken, or he +speaks from real and present experience. The +poetical result is what the reader has seen:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">——mens onus reponit, et peregrino<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Labore fessi venimus Larem ad nostrum—<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">We turn gladly from our fairy voyage round the +world to refresh ourselves with a picture, which we +feel to be drawn from the life, of a happy and +innocent fireside. Nor is it, in the slightest degree, +derogatory to an author’s talent to say that he has +failed, comparatively, on that subject of which he +must have known comparatively little.</p> + +<p>Let us here pause a moment to explain what is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span> +meant when we speak of such prospects as are above +alluded to, being shadowy and unreal in respect of +what is matter of experience. It is not that we +doubt the tenor of the Scripture, regarding the final +conversion of the whole world, or that we close our +eyes to the wonderful arrangements, if the expression +may be used, which Divine Providence seems everywhere +making, with a view to that great consummation. +One circumstance, in particular, arrests +our attention, as pervading the whole of modern +history, but gradually standing out in a stronger +light as the view draws nearer our own times: we +mean the rapid increase of colonization <i>from +Christian nations only</i>. So that the larger half of +the globe, and what in the nature of things will soon +become the more populous, is already, in profession, +Christian. The event, therefore, is unquestionable: +but experience, we fear, will hardly warrant the exulting +anticipations, which our author, in common with +many of whose sincerity there is no reason to doubt, +has raised upon it. It is but too conceivable that +the whole world may become nominally Christian, +yet the face of things may be very little changed for +the better. And any view of the progress of the +gospel, whether in verse or in prose, which leaves +out this possibility, is so far wanting in truth, and +in that depth of thought which is as necessary to +the higher kinds of poetical beauty as to philosophy +or theology itself.</p> + +<p>This, however, is too solemn and comprehensive +a subject to be lightly or hastily spoken of. It is +enough to have glanced at it, as accounting, in some +measure, for the general failure of modern poets in +their attempts to describe the predicted triumph of +the gospel in the latter days.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span></p> + +<p>To return to the sacred and domestic poems, +thus advantageously distinguished from that which +gives name to the volume. Affection, whether +heavenly or earthly, is the simplest idea that can +be; and in the graceful and harmonious expression +of it lies the principal beauty of these poems. In +the descriptive parts, and in the development of +abstract sentiment, there is more of effort, and +occasionally something very like affectation: approaching, +in one instance (the <i>Nightingale</i>,) far +nearer than we could wish, to the most vicious of all +styles, the style of Mr. Leigh Hunt and his miserable +followers.</p> + +<p>Now, these are just the sort of merit and the sort +of defect, which one might naturally expect to find +united; the very simplicity of attachment, which +qualifies the mind for sacred or domestic poetry, +making its movements awkward and constrained, +when scenes are to be described, or thoughts unravelled +of more complication and less immediate +interest. This is the rather to be observed, as many +other sacred poets have become less generally +pleasing and useful, than they otherwise would have +been, from this very circumstance. The simple +and touching devoutness of many of Bishop Ken’s +lyrical effusions has been unregarded, because of +the ungraceful contrivances, and heavy movement +of his narrative. The same may be said, in our +own times, of some parts of Montgomery’s writings. +His bursts of sacred poetry, compared with his +<i>Greenland</i>, remind us of a person singing enchantingly +by ear, but becoming languid and powerless +the moment he sits down to a note-book.</p> + +<p>Such writers, it is obvious, do not sufficiently +trust to the command which the simple expression<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span> +of their feelings would obtain over their readers. +They think it must be relieved with something of +more variety and imagery, to which they work +themselves up with laborious, and therefore necessarily +unsuccessful, efforts. The model for correcting +their error is to be found in the inspired volume. +We can, in general, be but incompetent judges of +this, because we have been used to it from our boyhood. +But let us suppose a person, whose ideas of +poetry were entirely gathered from modern compositions, +taking up the Psalms for the first time. +Among many other remarkable differences, he would +surely be impressed with the sacred writer’s total +carelessness about originality, and what is technically +called <i>effect</i>. He would say, ‘This is something +better than merely attractive poetry; it is +absolute and divine truth.’ The same remark ought +to be suggested by all sacred hymns; and it is, +indeed, greatly to be lamented, that such writers as +we have just mentioned should have ever lost sight +of it—should have had so little confidence in the +power of simplicity, and have condescended so +largely to the laborious refinements of the profane +Muse.</p> + +<p>To put the same truth in a light somewhat +different; it is required, we apprehend, in all poets, +but particularly in sacred poets, that they should +seem to write with a view of unburthening their +minds, and not for the sake of writing; for love of +the subject, not of the employment. The distinction +is very striking in descriptive poetry. Compare +the landscapes of Cowper with those of Burns. +There is, if we mistake not, the same sort of difference +between them, as in the conversation of two +persons on scenery, the one originally an enthusiast<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span> +in his love of the works of nature, the other driven, +by disappointment or weariness, to solace himself +with them as he might. It is a contrast which +every one must have observed, when such topics +come under discussion in society; and those who +think it worth while, may find abundant illustration +of it in the writings of this unfortunate but illustrious +pair. The one all overflowing with the love +of nature, and indicating, at every turn, that whatever +his lot in life, he could not have been happy +without her. The other visibly and wisely soothing +himself, but not without effort, by attending to +rural objects, in default of some more congenial +happiness, of which he had almost come to despair. +The latter, in consequence, laboriously sketching +every object that came in his way: the other, in one +or two rapid lines, which operate, as it were, like +a magician’s spell, presenting to the fancy just that +picture, which was wanted to put the reader’s mind +in unison with the writer’s. We would quote, as +an instance, the description of Evening in the Fourth +Book of the <i>Task</i>:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Come Ev’ning, once again, season of peace;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Return, sweet Ev’ning, and continue long!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Methinks I see thee in the streaking west<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With matron-step slow-moving, while the night<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Treads on thy sweeping train; one hand employ’d<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In letting fall the curtain of repose<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On bird and beast, the other charg’d for man<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With sweet oblivion of the cares of day:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not sumptuously adorn’d, nor needing aid,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like homely-featur’d night, of clust’ring gems;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A star or two, just twinkling on thy brow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Suffices thee; save that the moon is thine<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No less than her’s, not worn indeed on high<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With ostentatious pageantry, but set<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With modest grandeur in thy purple zone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Resplendent less, but of an ampler round.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Come then, and thou shalt find thy vot’ry calm,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or make me so. Composure is thy gift.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>And we would set over against it that purely +pastoral chant:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Now rosy May comes in wi’ flowers<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To deck her gay, green spreading bowers;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And now comes in my happy hours,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To wander wi’ my Davie.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Meet me on the warlock knowe,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Dainty Davie, dainty Davie,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">There I’ll spend the day wi’ you,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">My ain dear dainty Davie.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The crystal waters round us fa’,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The merry birds are lovers a’,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The scented breezes round us blaw,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">A wandering wi’ my Davie.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Meet me, &c.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When purple morning starts the hare<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To steal upon her early fare,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then thro’ the dews I will repair,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To meet my faithful Davie.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Meet me, &c.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When day, expiring in the west,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The curtain draws o’ nature’s rest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I flee to his arms I lo’e best,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And that’s my ain dear Davie.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Meet me, &c.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>There is surely no need to explain how this instinctive +attachment to his subject is especially +requisite in the sacred poet. If even the description +of material objects is found to languish without it, +much more will it be looked for when the best and +highest of all affections is to be expressed and communicated +to others. The nobler and worthier the +object, the greater our disappointment to find it +approached with anything like languor or constraint.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span></p> + +<p>We must just mention one more quality, which +may seem, upon consideration, essential to perfection +in this kind: viz. that the feelings the writer +expresses should appear to be specimens of his +general tone of thought, not sudden bursts and +mere flashes of goodness. Wordsworth’s beautiful +description of the Stock-dove might not unaptly +be applied to him. He should sing</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i6">‘of love with silence blending,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Slow to begin, yet never ending,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of serious faith and inward glee’.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Some may, perhaps, object to this, as a dull and +languid strain of sentiment. But before we yield +to their censures we would inquire of them what +style they consider, themselves, as most appropriate +to similar subjects in a kindred art. If grave, +simple, sustained melodies—if tones of deep but +subdued emotion are what our minds naturally +suggest to us upon the mention of sacred <i>music</i>—why +should there not be something analogous, a kind +of plain chant, in sacred <i>poetry</i> also? fervent, yet +sober; awful, but engaging; neither wild and +passionate, nor light and airy; but such as we may +with submission presume to be the most acceptable +offering in its kind, as being indeed the truest expression +of the best state of the affections. To +many, perhaps to most, men, a tone of more violent +emotion may sound at first more attractive. But +before we <i>indulge</i> such a preference, we should do +well to consider, whether it is quite agreeable to +that spirit, which alone can make us worthy readers +of sacred poetry. ‘Ἔνθεον ἥ ποιήσις’, it is true; +there must be rapture and inspiration, but these +will naturally differ in their character as the powers<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span> +do from whom they proceed. The worshippers of +Baal may be rude and frantic in their cries and +gestures; but the true Prophet, speaking to or of +the true <span class="smcap">God</span>, is all dignity and calmness.</p> + +<p>If then, in addition to the ordinary difficulties of +poetry, all these things are essential to the success +of the Christian lyrist—if what he sets before us +must be true in substance, and in manner marked +by a noble simplicity and confidence in that truth, by +a sincere attachment to it, and entire familiarity with +it—then we need not wonder that so few should have +become eminent in this branch of their art, nor need +we have recourse to the disheartening and unsatisfactory +solutions which are sometimes given of that +circumstance.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>‘Contemplative piety,’ says Dr. Johnson, ‘or the intercourse +between God and the human soul, cannot be +poetical. Man, admitted to implore the mercy of his +Creator, and plead the merits of his Redeemer, is already in +a higher state than poetry can confer.’<a name="FNanchor_17_17" id="FNanchor_17_17"></a><a href="#Footnote_17_17" class="fnanchor">[17]</a></p></div> + +<p>The sentiment is not uncommon among serious, +but somewhat fearful, believers; and though we +believe it erroneous, we desire to treat it not only +with tenderness, but with reverence. They start +at the very mention of sacred poetry, as though +poetry were in its essence a profane amusement. +It is, unquestionably, by far the safer extreme to +be too much afraid of venturing with the imagination +upon sacred ground. Yet, if it be an error, and +a practical error, it may be worth while cautiously +to examine the grounds of it. In the generality, +perhaps, it is not so much a deliberate opinion, as +a prejudice against the use of the art, arising out +of its abuse. But the great writer just referred to +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span>has endeavoured to establish it by direct reasoning. +He argues the point, first, from the nature of poetry, +and afterwards from that of devotion.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>The essence of poetry is invention; such invention as, +by producing something unexpected, surprises and delights. +The topics of devotion are few.</p></div> + +<p>It is to be hoped that many men’s experience will +refute the latter part of this statement. How can +the topics of devotion be few, when we are taught to +make every part of life, every scene in nature, an +occasion—in other words, a topic—of devotion? +It might as well be said that connubial love is an +unfit subject for poetry, as being incapable of novelty, +because, after all, it is only ringing the changes upon +one simple affection, which every one understands. +The novelty there consists, not in the original topic, +but in continually bringing ordinary things, by happy +strokes of natural ingenuity, into new associations +with the ruling passion.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There’s not a bonny flower that springs<br /></span> +<span class="i1">By fountain, shaw, or green;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There’s not a bonnie bird that sings<br /></span> +<span class="i1">But minds me of my Jean.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Why need we fear to extend this most beautiful +and natural sentiment to ‘the intercourse between +the human soul and its Maker’, possessing, as we +do, the very highest warrant for the analogy which +subsists between conjugal and divine love?</p> + +<p>Novelty, therefore, sufficient for all the purposes +of poetry, we may have on sacred subjects. Let us +pass to the next objection.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>Poetry pleases by exhibiting an idea more grateful to +the mind than things themselves afford. This effect proceeds +from the display of those parts of nature which<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span> +attract, and the concealment of those which repel, the +imagination; but religion must be shown as it is; suppression +and addition equally corrupt it; and, such as it is, +it is known already.</p></div> + +<p>A fallacy may be apprehended in both parts of +this statement. There are, surely, real landscapes +which delight the mind as sincerely and intensely +as the most perfect description could; and there are +family groups which give a more exquisite sensation +of domestic happiness than anything in Milton, or +even Shakespeare. It is partly by association with +these, the treasures of the memory, and not altogether +by mere excitement of the imagination, that +Poetry does her work. By the same rule sacred +pictures and sacred songs cannot fail to gratify the +mind which is at all exercised in devotion; recalling, +as they will, whatever of highest perfection in that +way she can remember in herself, or has learned of +others.</p> + +<p>Then again, it is not the religious doctrine itself, +so much as the effect of it upon the human mind and +heart, which the sacred poet has to describe. What +is said of suppression and addition may be true +enough with regard to the former, but is evidently +incorrect when applied to the latter: it being an +acknowledged difficulty in all devotional writings, +and not in devotional verse only, to keep clear of +the extreme of languor on the one hand, and debasing +rapture on the other. This requires a delicacy in the +perception and enunciation of truth, of which the +most earnest believer may be altogether destitute. +And since, probably, no man’s condition, in regard +to eternal things, is exactly like that of any other +man, and yet it is the business of the sacred poet to +sympathize with all, his store of subjects is clearly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span> +inexhaustible, and his powers of discrimination—in +other words, of suppression and addition—are kept +in continual exercise.</p> + +<p>Nor is he, by any means, so straitly limited in the +other and more difficult branch of his art, the exhibition +of religious doctrine itself, as is supposed in +the following statement:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>Whatever is great, desirable, or tremendous, is comprised +in the name of the Supreme Being. Omnipotence +cannot be exalted; infinity cannot be amplified; perfection +cannot be improved.</p></div> + +<p>True: all perfection is implied in the name of +<span class="smcap">God</span>; and so all the beauties and luxuries of spring +are comprised in that one word. But is it not the +very office of poetry to develop and display the +particulars of such complex ideas? in such a way, +for example, as the idea of <span class="smcap">God’s</span> omnipresence is +developed in the 139th Psalm? and thus detaining +the mind for a while, to force or help her to think +steadily on truths which she would hurry unprofitably +over, how strictly soever they may be implied +in the language which she uses. It is really surprising +that this great and acute critic did not perceive +that the objection applies as strongly against +any kind of composition of which the Divine Nature +is the subject, as against devotional poems.</p> + +<p>We forbear to press the consideration that, even if +the objection were allowed in respect of natural +religion, it would not hold against the devotional +compositions of a Christian; the object of whose +worship has condescended also to become the object +of description, affection, and sympathy, in the literal +sense of these words. But this is, perhaps, too +solemn and awful an argument for this place; and +therefore we pass on to the concluding statement<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span> +of the passage under consideration, in which the +writer turns his view downwards, and argues against +sacred poetry from the nature of man, as he had +before from the nature of <span class="smcap">God</span>.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>The employments of pious meditation are faith, thanksgiving, +repentance and supplication. Faith, invariably +uniform, cannot be invested by fancy with decorations. +Thanksgiving, the most joyful of all holy effusions, yet +addressed to a Being without passions, is confined to a few +modes, and is to be felt rather than expressed.</p></div> + +<p>What we have said of the variation of the devout +affections, as they exist in various persons, is sufficient, +we apprehend, to answer this. But the rest +of the paragraph requires some additional reflection:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>Repentance, trembling in the presence of the Judge, is +not at leisure for cadences and epithets.</p></div> + +<p>This is rather invidiously put, and looks as if the +author had not entire confidence in the truth of +what he was saying. Indeed, it may very well be +questioned; since many of the more refined passions, +it is certain, naturally express themselves in poetical +language. But repentance is not merely a passion, +nor is its only office to tremble in the presence of the +Judge. So far from it, that one great business of +sacred poetry, as of sacred music, is to quiet and +sober the feelings of the penitent—to make his compunction +as much of ‘a reasonable service’ as +possible.</p> + +<p>To proceed:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>Supplication of man to man may diffuse itself through +many topics of persuasion: but supplication to God can +only cry for mercy.</p></div> + +<p>Certainly, this would be true, if the abstract +nature of the Deity were alone considered. But<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span> +if we turn to the sacred volume, which corrects so +many of our erring anticipations, we there find that, +whether in condescension to our infirmities, or for +other wise purposes, we are furnished with inspired +precedents for addressing ourselves to God in all the +various tones, and by all the various topics, which +we should use to a good and wise man standing in the +highest and nearest relation to us. This is so +palpably the case throughout the scriptures, that it +is quite surprising how a person of so much serious +thought as Dr. Johnson could have failed to recollect +it when arguing on the subject of prayer. In +fact, there is a simple test, by which, perhaps, the +whole of his reasoning on Sacred Poetry might be +fairly and decisively tried. Let the reader, as he +goes over it, bear in mind the Psalms of David, and +consider whether every one of his statements and +arguments is not there practically refuted.</p> + +<p>It is not, then, because sacred subjects are +peculiarly unapt for poetry, that so few sacred poets +are popular. We have already glanced at some of +the causes to which we attribute it—we ought to +add another, which strikes us as important. Let us +consider how the case stands with regard to books +of devotion in <i>prose</i>.</p> + +<p>We may own it reluctantly, but must it not be +owned? that if two new publications meet the eye +at once, of which no more is known than that the +one is what is familiarly called <i>a good book</i>, the other +a work of mere literature, nine readers out of ten +will take up the second rather than the first? If +this be allowed, whatever accounts for it will contribute +to account also for the comparative failure +of devotional poetry. For this sort of coldness and +languor in the reader must act upon the author in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span> +more ways than one. The large class who write +for money or applause will of course be carried, by +the tide of popularity, towards some other subject. +Men of more sincere minds, either from true or false +delicacy, will have little heart to expose their retired +thoughts to the risk of mockery or neglect; and if +they do venture, will be checked every moment, like +an eager but bashful musician before a strange +audience, not knowing how far the reader’s feelings +will harmonize with their own. This leaves the +field open, in a great measure, to harder or more +enthusiastic spirits; who offending continually, in +their several ways, against delicacy, the one by +wildness, the other by coarseness, aggravate the +evil which they wished to cure; till the sacred +subject itself comes at last to bear the blame due to +the indifference of the reader and the indiscretion of +the writer.</p> + +<p>Such, we apprehend, would be a probable account +of the condition of sacred poetry, in a country where +religion was coldly acknowledged, and literature +earnestly pursued. How far the description may +apply to England and English literature, in their +various changes since the Reformation—how far it +may hold true of our own times—is an inquiry +which would lead us too far at present; but it is +surely worth considering. It goes deeper than any +question of mere literary curiosity. It is a sort of +test of the genuineness of those pretensions, which +many of us are, perhaps, too forward to advance, to +a higher state of morality and piety, as well as +knowledge and refinement, than has been known +elsewhere or in other times.</p> + +<p>Those who, in spite of such difficulties, desire in +earnest to do good by the poetical talent, which they<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span> +may happen to possess, have only, as it should seem, +the following alternative. Either they must veil, +as it were, the sacredness of the subject—not +necessarily by allegory, for it may be done in a +thousand other ways—and so deceive the world +of taste into devotional reading—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Succhi amari intanto ei beve,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">E dall’ inganno sua vita riceve—<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">or else, directly avowing that their subject as well as +purpose is devotion, they must be content with +a smaller number of readers; a disadvantage, however, +compensated by the fairer chance of doing +good to each.</p> + +<p>It may be worth while to endeavour to trace this +distinction, as exemplified in the most renowned of +the sacred poets of England; and to glean from +such a survey the best instruction we can, in the +happy art of turning the most fascinating part of +literature to the highest purposes of religion.</p> + +<p>We must premise that we limit the title of ‘sacred +poet’ by excluding those who only devoted a small +portion of their time and talent now and then, to +sacred subjects. In all ages of our literary history +it seems to have been considered almost as an +essential part of a poet’s duty to give up some pages +to scriptural story, or to the praise of his Maker, +how remote so ever from anything like religion the +general strain of his writings might be. Witness +the Lamentation of Mary Magdalene in the works +of Chaucer, and the beautiful legend of Hew of +Lincoln, which he has inserted in his Canterbury +Tales; witness also the hymns of Ben Jonson. But +these fragments alone will not entitle their authors +to be enrolled among sacred poets. They indicate<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span> +the taste of their age, rather than their own; a fact +which may be thought to stand rather in painful +contrast with the literary history of later days.</p> + +<p>There is another class likewise, of whom little +need be said in this place; we mean those who +composed, strictly and only, for the sake of unburthening +their own minds, without any thought of +publication. But as Chaucer’s sacred effusions +indicate chiefly the character of the times, so poems +such as those we now allude to, mark only the turn +of mind of the individual writers; and our present +business is rather with that sort of poetry which +combines both sorts of instruction; that, namely, +which bears internal evidence of having been written +by sincere men, with an intention of doing good, and +with consideration of the taste of the age in which +they lived.</p> + +<p>Recurring then to the distinction above laid down, +between the direct and indirect modes of sacred +poetry; at the head of the two classes, as the reader +may perhaps have anticipated, we set the glorious +names of Spenser and of Milton. The claim of +Spenser to be considered as a sacred poet does by no +means rest upon his hymns alone: although even +those would be enough alone to embalm and consecrate +the whole volume which contains them; +as a splinter of the true cross is supposed by Catholic +sailors to ensure the safety of the vessel. But whoever +will attentively consider the <i>Faerie Queene</i> itself, +will find that it is, almost throughout, such as might +have been expected from the author of those truly +sacred hymns. It is a continual, deliberate endeavour +to enlist the restless intellect and chivalrous feeling +of an inquiring and romantic age, on the side of +goodness and faith, of purity and justice.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span></p> + +<p>This position is to be made good, not solely or +perhaps chiefly, yet with no small force, from the +allegorical structure of the poem. Most of us, +perhaps, are rather disposed to undervalue this +contrivance; and even among the genuine admirers +of Spenser, there are not a few who on purpose leave +it out of their thoughts; finding, as they say, that +it only embarrasses their enjoyment of the poetry. +This is certainly far from reasonable: it is a relic +of childish feeling, and mere love of amusement, +which ill becomes any one who is old enough to +appreciate the real beauties of Spenser. Yet it is so +natural, so obviously to be expected, that we must +suppose a scholar and philosopher (for such Spenser +was, as well as a poet) to have been aware of it, and +to have made up his mind to it, with all its disadvantages, +for some strong reason or other. And +what reason so likely as the hope of being seriously +useful, both to himself and his readers?</p> + +<p>To <i>himself</i>, because the constant recurrence to his +allegory would serve as a check upon a fancy otherwise +too luxuriant, and would prevent him from +indulging in such liberties as the Italian poets, in +other respects his worthy masters, were too apt to +take. The consequence is, that even in his freest +passages, and those which one would most wish +unwritten, Spenser is by no means a <i>seductive</i> poet. +Vice in him, however truly described, is always +made contemptible or odious. The same may be +said of Milton and Shakespeare; but Milton was of +a cast of mind originally austere and rigorous. He +looked on vice as a judge; Shakespeare, as a satirist. +Spenser was far more indulgent than either, and acted +therefore the more wisely in setting himself a rule, +which should make it essential to the plan of his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span> +poem to be always recommending some virtue; +and remind him, like a voice from heaven, that the +place on which he was standing was holy ground.</p> + +<p>Then as to the benefit which the <i>readers</i> of the +<i>Faerie Queene</i> may derive from its allegorical form; +a good deal surely is to be gained from the mere +habit of looking at things with a view to something +beyond their qualities merely sensible; to their +sacred and moral meaning, and to the high associations +they were intended to create in us. Neither +the works nor the word of God, neither poetry nor +theology, can be duly comprehended without constant +mental exercise of this kind. The comparison +of the Old Testament with the New is nothing else +from beginning to end. And without something +of this sort, poetry, and all the other arts, would +indeed be relaxing to the tone of the mind. The +allegory obviates this ill effect, by serving as a frequent +remembrancer of this higher application. +Not that it is necessary to bend and strain everything +into conformity with it; a little leaven, of +the genuine kind, will go a good way towards +leavening the whole lump. And so it is in the <i>Faerie +Queene</i>; for one stanza of direct allegory there are +perhaps fifty of poetical embellishment; and it is in +these last, after all, that the chief moral excellency +of the poem lies; as we are now about to show.</p> + +<p>But to be understood rightly, we would premise, +that there is a disposition,—the very reverse of that +which leads to parody and caricature,—which is +common indeed to all generous minds, but is perhaps +unrivalled in Spenser. As parody and caricature +debase what is truly noble, by connecting it with +low and ludicrous associations; so a mind, such as +we are now speaking of, ennobles what of itself<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span> +might seem trivial; its thoughts and language, on +all occasions, taking a uniform and almost involuntary +direction towards the best and highest +things.</p> + +<p>This, however, is a subject which can be hardly +comprehended without examples. The first which +occurs to us is the passage which relates the origin +of Belphœbe.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Her birth was of the womb of morning dew,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And her conception of the joyous prime,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And all her whole creation did her show<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pure and unspotted from all loathly crime<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That is ingenerate in fleshly slime.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So was this Virgin born, so was she bred,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So was she trained up from time to time,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In all chaste virtue and true bounti-hed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till to her due perfection she was ripenèd.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>It is evident how high and sacred a subject was +present to the poet’s mind in composing this stanza; +and any person who is well read in the Bible, with +a clue like this may satisfy himself that all Spenser’s +writings are replete with similar tacit allusions to +the language and the doctrines of sacred writ; +allusions breathed, if we may so speak, rather than +uttered, and much fitter to be silently considered, +than to be dragged forward for quotation or minute +criticism. Of course, the more numerous and +natural such allusions are, the more entirely are +we justified in the denomination we have ventured +to bestow on their author, of a truly ‘sacred’ +poet.</p> + +<p>It may be felt, as some derogation from this high +character, what he has himself avowed—that much +of his allegory has a turn designedly given it in +honour of Queen Elizabeth; a turn which will be<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span> +called courtly or adulatory according to the humour +of the critic. But, in the first place, such was the +custom of the times; it was adopted even in sermons +by men whose sincerity it would be almost sacrilege +to question. Then, the merits of Queen Elizabeth +in respect of the Protestant cause were of that +dazzling order, which might excuse a little poetical +exuberance in her praise. And, what is very deserving +of consideration, it is certain that the most gentle +and generous spirits are commonly found laying +themselves open to this charge of excessive compliment +in addressing princes and patrons. Witness +the high style adopted by the venerable Hooker, in +speaking of this very Queen Elizabeth: ‘Whose +sacred power, matched with incomparable goodness +of nature, hath hitherto been God’s most happy +instrument, by him miraculously kept for works of +so miraculous preservation and safety unto others,’ +&c. Another instance of the same kind may be +seen in Jeremy Taylor’s dedication of his <i>Worthy +Communicant</i> to the Princess of Orange. Nor is it +any wonder it should be so, since such men feel most +ardently the blessing and benefit as well as the +difficulty of whatever is right in persons of such +exalted station; and are also most strongly tempted +to bear their testimony against the illiberal and +envious censures of the vulgar. All these things, +duly weighed, may seem to leave little, if anything, +in the panegyrical strains of this greatest of laureates, +to be excused by the common infirmity of human +nature; little to detract from our deliberate conviction +that he was seriously guided, in the exercise +of his art, by a sense of duty, and zeal for what is +durably important.</p> + +<p>Spenser then was essentially a <i>sacred</i> poet; but<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span> +the delicacy and insinuating gentleness of his disposition +were better fitted to the veiled than the +direct mode of instruction. His was a mind which +would have shrunk more from the chance of debasing +a sacred subject by unhandsome treatment, than of +incurring ridicule by what would be called unseasonable +attempts to hallow things merely secular. It +was natural therefore for him to choose not a scriptural +story, but a tale of chivalry and romance; +and the popular literature, and, in no small measure, +the pageantry and manners of his time, would join +to attract his efforts that way. In this way too he +was enabled, with more propriety and grace, to +introduce allusions, political or courtly, to subjects +with which his readers were familiar; thus agreeably +diversifying his allegory, and gratifying his +affection for his friends and patrons, without the +coarseness of direct compliment.</p> + +<p>In Milton, most evidently, a great difference was +to be expected: both from his own character and +from that of the times in which he lived. Religion +was in those days the favourite topic of discussion; +and it is indeed painful to reflect, how sadly it was +polluted by intermixture with earthly passions: +the most awful turns and most surprising miracles +of the Jewish history being made to serve the base +purposes of persons, of whom it is hard to say +whether they were more successful in misleading +others, or in deceiving themselves. It was an +effort worthy of a manly and devout spirit to rescue +religion from such degradation, by choosing a subject, +which, being scriptural, would suit the habit of +the times, yet, from its universal and eternal importance, +would give least opportunity for debasing +temporary application. Then it was the temper of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span> +the man always to speak out. He carried it to +a faulty excess, as his prose works too amply demonstrate. +The more unfashionable his moral was, +the more he would have disdained to veil it: neither +had he the shrinking delicacy of Spenser to keep him +back, through fear of profaning things hallowed by +an unworthy touch.</p> + +<p>Thus the great epic poem of our language came to +be, avowedly, a sacred poem. One hardly dares to +wish any thing other than it is in such a composition; +yet it may be useful to point out in what respects +the moral infirmity of the times, or of the author, +has affected the work; so that we are occasionally +tempted to regret even Milton’s choice. But as the +leading error of his mind appears to have been +<i>intellectual</i> pride, and as the leading fault of the +generation with which he acted was unquestionably +<i>spiritual</i> pride, so the main defects of his poetry may +probably be attributed to the same causes.</p> + +<p>There is a studious undervaluing of the female +character, which may be most distinctly perceived +by comparing the character of Eve with that of the +Lady in Comus: the latter conceived, as we imagine, +before the mind of the poet had become so deeply +tainted with the fault here imputed to him. A remarkable +instance of it is his describing Eve as unwilling, +or unworthy, to discourse herself with the +angel.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">Such pleasure she reserved,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Adam relating; she sole auditress.—<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The sentiment may be natural enough, since the +primaeval curse upon women: but does it not argue +rather too strong a sense of her original inferiority, +to put it into her mind before the fall?</p> + +<p>What again can be said for the reproachful and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span> +insulting tone, in which, more than once, the good +angels are made to address the bad ones? or of the +too attractive colours, in which, perhaps unconsciously, +the poet has clothed the Author of Evil +himself? It is a well-known complaint among many +of the readers of <i>Paradise Lost</i>, that they can hardly +keep themselves from sympathizing, in some sort, +with Satan, as the hero of the poem. The most +probable account of which surely is, that the author +himself partook largely of the haughty and vindictive +republican spirit which he has assigned to the +character, and consequently, though perhaps unconsciously, +drew the portrait with a peculiar zest.</p> + +<p>These blemishes are in part attributable to the +times in which he lived: but there is another now +to be mentioned, which cannot be so accounted for: +we mean a want of purity and spirituality in his +conceptions of Heaven and heavenly joys. His +Paradise is a vision not to be surpassed; but his +attempts to soar higher are embarrassed with too +much of earth still clinging as it were to his wings. +Remarks of this kind are in general best understood +by comparison, and we invite our readers to compare +Milton with Dante, in their descriptions of Heaven. +The one as simple as possible in his imagery, producing +intense effect by little more than various +combinations of <i>three</i> leading ideas—light, motion, +and music—as if he feared to introduce anything +more gross and earthly, and would rather be censured, +as doubtless he often is, for coldness and +poverty of invention. Whereas Milton, with very +little selection or refinement, transfers to the immediate +neighbourhood of God’s throne the imagery +of Paradise and Earth. Indeed he seems himself to +have been aware of something unsatisfactory in this,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span> +and has inserted into the mouth of an angel, a kind +of apology for it:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">Though what if earth<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Be but the shadow of heav’n, and things therein<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Each to other like, more than on earth is thought?<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>These are blemishes, and sometimes almost +tempt us to wish that even Milton had taken some +subject not so immediately and avowedly connected +with religion. But they do not affect his claim +to be considered as the very lodestar and pattern of +that class of sacred poets in England. As such +we have here considered him next to Spenser; not +that there were wanting others of the same order +before him. In fact, most of the distinguished +names in the poetical annals of Elizabeth, James I, +and Charles I, might be included in the list. It may +be enough just to recollect Drayton and Cowley, +Herbert, Crashaw and Quarles.</p> + +<p>The mention of these latter names suggests the +remark, how very desirable it is to encourage as +indulgent and, if we may so term it, <i>catholic</i> a spirit +as may be, in poetical criticism. From having been +over-praised in their own days, they are come now +to be as much undervalued; yet their quaintness of +manner and constrained imagery, adopted perhaps +in compliance with the taste of their age, should +hardly suffice to overbalance their sterling merits. +We speak especially of Crashaw and Quarles: for +Herbert is a name too venerable to be more than +mentioned in our present discussion.</p> + +<p>After Milton, sacred poetry seems to have greatly +declined, both in the number and merit of those who +cultivated it. No other could be expected from the +conflicting evils of those times: in which one party +was used to brand everything sacred with the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span> +name of Puritanism, and the other to suspect every +thing poetical of being contrary to morality and +religion.</p> + +<p>Yet most of the great names of that age, especially +among the Romanists, as Dryden, Pope, and before +them Habington, continued to dedicate some of their +poetry to religion. By their faith they were remote +from the controversies which agitated the +established church, and their devotion might indulge +itself without incurring the suspicion of a fanatical +spirit. Then the solemnity of their worship is fitted +to inspire splendid and gorgeous strains, such as +Dryden’s paraphrase of the Veni Creator; and their +own fallen fortunes in England, no less naturally, +would fill them with a sense of decay very favourable +to the plaintive tenderness of Habington and +Crashaw.</p> + +<p>A feeling of this kind, joined to the effect of distressing +languor and sickness, may be discerned, +occasionally, in the writings of Bishop Ken; though +he was far indeed from being a Romanist. We +shall hardly find, in all ecclesiastical history, a greener +spot than the later years of this courageous and +affectionate pastor; persecuted alternately by both +parties, and driven from his station in his declining +age; yet singing on, with unabated cheerfulness, to +the last. His poems are not popular, nor probably +ever will be, for reasons already touched upon; but +whoever in earnest loves his three well-known +hymns, and knows how to value such unaffected +strains of poetical devotion, will find his account, in +turning over his four volumes, half narrative and +half lyric, and all avowedly on sacred subjects; the +narrative often cumbrous, and the lyric verse not +seldom languid and redundant: yet all breathing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span> +such an angelic spirit, interspersed with such pure +and bright touches of poetry, that such a reader as +we have supposed will scarcely find it in his heart to +criticize them.</p> + +<p>Between that time and ours, the form of sacred +poetry which has succeeded best in attracting public +attention, is the didactic: of which Davies in Queen +Elizabeth’s reign, Sir Richard Blackmore in King +William’s, Young in the middle, and Cowper in the +close, of the last century, may fairly be taken as +specimens, differing from each other according to +the differences of their respective literary eras. +Davies, with his Lucretian majesty (although he +wants the moral pathos of the Roman poet), representing +aptly enough the age of Elizabeth; Blackmore, +with his easy paragraphs, the careless style of +King Charles’s days; Young, with his pointed sentences, +transferring to graver subjects a good deal +of the manner of Pope; and Cowper, with his +agreeable but too unsparing descriptions, coming +nearer to the present day, which appears, both +in manners and in scenery, to delight in Dutch +painting, rather than in what is more delicately +classical.</p> + +<p>With regard to the indirect, and, perhaps, more +effective, species of sacred poetry, we fear it must +be acknowledged, to the shame of the last century, +that there is hardly a single specimen of it (excepting, +perhaps, Gray’s Elegy, and possibly some of the +most perfect of Collins’s poems) which has obtained +any celebrity. We except the writers of our own +times, who do not fall within the scope of this +inquiry.</p> + +<p>To Spenser, therefore, upon the whole, the English +reader must revert, as being, pre-eminently, the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span> +sacred poet of his country: as most likely, in every +way, to answer the purposes of his art; especially +in an age of excitation and refinement, in which +the gentler and more homely beauties, both of +character and of scenery, are too apt to be despised: +with passion and interest enough to attract the most +ardent, and grace enough to win the most polished; +yet by a silent preference everywhere inculcating the +love of better and more enduring things; and so most +exactly fulfilling what he has himself declared to +be ‘the general end of all his book’—‘to fashion a +gentleman, or noble person, in virtuous and gentle +discipline’: and going the straight way to the +accomplishment of his own high-minded prayer:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">That with the glory of so goodly sight,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The hearts of men, which fondly here admire<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fair-seeming shows, and feed on vain delight,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Transported with celestial desire<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of those fair forms, may lift themselves up higher,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And learn to love, with zealous humble duty,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Th’ eternal fountain of that heavenly beauty.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_17_17" id="Footnote_17_17"></a><a href="#FNanchor_17_17"><span class="label">[17]</span></a> <i>Life of Waller.</i></p></div> +</div> + + +<h2><a name="JOHN_HENRY_NEWMAN" id="JOHN_HENRY_NEWMAN"></a>JOHN HENRY NEWMAN<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span></h2> + +<h3>1801-1890</h3> + +<h3>POETRY<br /> +<small><span class="smcap">With Reference to Aristotle’s Poetics</span> (1829).</small></h3> + +<h4><i>The Theatre of the Greeks; or the History, Literature, and +Criticism of the Grecian Drama. With an original +Treatise on the Principal Tragic and Comic Metres.</i> +Second Edition. Cambridge. 1827.</h4> + + +<p><span class="smcap">This</span> work is well adapted for the purpose it has +in view—the illustration of the Greek drama. +It has been usual for the young student to engage +in a perusal of this difficult branch of classical +literature, with none of that previous preparation +or collateral assistance which it pre-eminently +requires. Not to mention his ordinary want of +information as regards the history of the drama, +which, though necessary to the full understanding +the nature of that kind of poetry, may still seem +too remotely connected with the existing Greek +plays to be an actual deficiency; nor, again, his +ignorance of the dramatic dialect and metres, +which, without external helps, may possibly be +overcome by minds of superior talent while engaged +upon them; at least without some clear ideas of +the usages of the ancient stage, the Greek dramas +are but partially intelligible. The circumstances +under which the representation was conducted, +the form and general arrangements of the theatre, +the respective offices and disposition of the actors,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span> +the nature and duties of the chorus, the proprieties +of the scene itself, are essential subjects of +information, yet they are generally neglected. +The publication before us is a compilation of +the most useful works or parts of works on the +criticism, history, and antiquities of the drama; +among which will be found extracts from Bentley’s +<i>Dissertation on the Epistles of Phalaris</i> and from +Schlegel’s work on Dramatic Literature; the more +important parts of Twining’s Translation of Aristotle’s +<i>Poetics</i>, and critical remarks, by Dawes, +Porson, Elmsley, Tate, and the writers in the +<i>Museum Criticum</i>.</p> + +<p>If we were disposed to find fault with a useful +work, we should describe it as over-liberal of +condensed critical information. Such ample assistance +is given to the student, that little is left to +exercise his own personal thought and judgement. +This is a fault of not a few publications of the +present day, written for our universities. From +a false estimate of the advantages of accurate +scholarship, the reader is provided with a multitude +of minute facts, which are useful to his mind, not +when barely remembered, but chiefly when he has +acquired them for himself. It is of comparatively +trifling importance, whether the scholar knows the +force of οὐ μή or ἀλλα γάρ; but it may considerably +improve his acumen or taste, to have gone through +a process of observation, comparison, and induction, +more or less original and independent of grammarians +and critics. It is an officious aid which +renders the acquisition of a language mechanical. +Commentators are of service to stimulate the +mind, and suggest thought; and though, when +we view the wide field of criticism, it is impossible<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span> +they should do more, yet, when that field is +narrowed to the limit of academical success, there +is a danger of their indulging indolence, or confirming +the contracted views of dullness. These remarks +are not so much directed against a valuable work +like the present, the very perusal of which may be +made an exercise for the mind, as against an +especial fault of the age. The uses of knowledge +in forming the intellectual and moral character, +are too commonly overlooked; and the possession +itself being viewed as a peculiar good, short ways +are on all subjects excogitated for avoiding the +labour of learning; whereas the very length and +process of the journey is in many the chief, in all +an important advantage.</p> + +<p>But, dismissing a train of thought which would +soon lead us very far from the range of subjects +which the <i>Theatre of the Greeks</i> introduces to our +notice, we propose to offer some speculations of +our own on Greek tragedy and poetry in general, +founded on the doctrine of Aristotle as contained +in the publication before us. A compilation of +standard works, (and such in its general character +is the <i>Greek Theatre</i>,) scarcely affords the occasion +of lengthened criticism on itself; whereas it may +be of use to the classical student to add some +further illustrations of the subject which is the +common basis of the works compiled.</p> + +<p>Aristotle considers the excellence of a tragedy +to depend upon its <i>plot</i>—and, since a tragedy, as +such, is obviously the exhibition of an <i>action</i>, +no one can deny his statement to be abstractedly +true. Accordingly he directs his principal attention +to the economy of the fable; determines its range +of subjects, delineates its proportions, traces its<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span> +progress from a complication of incidents to their +just and satisfactory arrangement, investigates +the means of making a train of events striking +or affecting, and shows how the exhibition of +character may be made subservient to the purposes +of the action. His treatise is throughout +interesting and valuable. It is one thing, however, +to form the beau idéal of a tragedy on scientific +principles; another to point out the actual beauty +of a particular school of dramatic composition. +The Greek tragedians are not generally felicitous +in the construction of their plots. Aristotle, then, +rather tells us what tragedy should be, than what +Greek tragedy really was. And this doubtless was +the intention of the philosopher. Since, however, +the Greek drama has obtained so extended and +lasting a celebrity, and yet its excellence does not +fall under the strict rules of the critical art, we +should inquire in what it consists.</p> + +<p>That the charm of Greek tragedy does not +ordinarily arise from scientific correctness of plot, +is certain as a matter of fact. Seldom does any +great interest arise from the action; which, +instead of being progressive and sustained, is +commonly either a mere necessary condition of +the drama, or a convenience for the introduction +of matter more important than itself. It is often +stationary—often irregular—sometimes either +wants or outlives the catastrophe. In the plays +of Aeschylus it is always simple and inartificial—in +four out of the seven there is hardly any plot +at all;—and, though it is of more prominent +importance in those of Sophocles, yet even here +the <i>Oedipus at Colonus</i> is a mere series of incidents, +and the <i>Ajax</i> a union of two separate tales; while<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span> +in the <i>Philoctetes</i>, which is apparently busy, the +circumstances of the action are but slightly +connected with the <i>dénouement</i>. The carelessness +of Euripides in the construction of his plots is well +known. The action then will be more justly +viewed as the vehicle for introducing the personages +of the drama, than as the principal object of the +poet’s art; it is not in the plot, but in the +characters, sentiments, and diction, that the +actual merit and poetry of the composition is +placed. To show this to the satisfaction of the +reader, would require a minuter investigation of +details than our present purpose admits; yet +a few instances in point may suggest others to +the memory. E. g. in neither the <i>Oedipus Coloneus</i> +nor the <i>Philoctetes</i>, the two most beautiful plays +of Sophocles, is the plot striking; but how +exquisite is the delineation of the characters of +Antigone and Oedipus, in the former tragedy, +particularly in their interview with Polynices, +and the various descriptions of the scene itself +which the Chorus furnishes! In the <i>Philoctetes</i>, +again, it is the contrast between the worldly +wisdom of Ulysses, the inexperienced frankness +of Neoptolemus, and the simplicity of the afflicted +Philoctetes, which constitutes the principal charm +of the drama. Or we may instance the spirit and +nature displayed in the grouping of the characters +in the <i>Prometheus</i> which is almost without action;—the +stubborn enemy of the new dynasty of gods; +Oceanus trimming, as an accomplished politician, +with the change of affairs; the single-hearted and +generous Nereids; and Hermes the favourite and +instrument of the usurping potentate. So again, +the beauties of the <i>Thebae</i> are almost independent<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a></span> +of the plot;—it is the Chorus which imparts grace +and interest to the actionless scene; and the +speech of Antigone at the end, one of the most +simply striking in any play, has, scientifically +speaking, no place in the tragedy, which should +already have been brought to its conclusion. +Amid the multitude of the beauties of the irregular +Euripides, it is obvious to notice the characters of +Alcestis and the Clytemnestra of the <i>Electra</i>; the +soliloquies of <i>Medea</i>; the picturesque situation +of Ion, the minister of the Pythian temple; the +opening scene of the <i>Orestes</i>; and the dialogues +between Phaedra and her attendant in the +<i>Hippolytus</i>, and the old man and Antigone in +the <i>Phoenissae</i>;—passages which are either +unconnected with the development of the plot, +or of an importance superior to it. Thus the Greek +drama, as a fact, was modelled on no scientific +principle. It was a pure recreation of the imagination, +revelling without object or meaning beyond +its own exhibition. Gods, heroes, kings, and +dames, enter and retire: they may have a good +reason for appearing—they may have a very poor +one; whatever it is, still we have no right to ask +for it;—the question is impertinent. Let us +listen to their harmonious and majestic language—to +the voices of sorrow, joy, compassion, or +religious emotion—to the animated odes of the +chorus. Why interrupt so divine a display of +poetical genius by inquiries degrading it to the +level of every-day events, and implying incompleteness +in the action till a catastrophe arrives? +The very spirit of beauty breathes through every +part of the composition. We may liken the Greek +drama to the music of the Italian school; in which<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span> +the wonder is, how so much richness of invention +in detail can be accommodated to a style so simple +and uniform. Each is the development of grace, +fancy, pathos, and taste, in the respective media +of representation and sound.</p> + +<p>However true then it may be, that one or two +of the most celebrated dramas answer to the +requisitions of Aristotle’s doctrine, still for the +most part, Greek Tragedy has its own distinct +and peculiar praise, which must not be lessened +by a criticism conducted on principles, whether +correct or not, still leading to excellence of another +character. This being, as we hope, shown, we +shall be still bolder, and proceed to question even +the sufficiency of the rules of Aristotle for the +production of dramas of the highest order. These +rules, it would appear, require a plot not merely +natural and unaffected, as a vehicle of more +poetical matter, but one laboured and complicated +as the sole legitimate channel of tragic effect; +and thus tend to withdraw the mind of the poet +from the spontaneous exhibition of pathos or +imagination, to a minute diligence in the formation +of a plan. To explain our views on the subject, +we will institute a short comparison between three +tragedies, the <i>Agamemnon</i>, the <i>Oedipus</i>, and the +<i>Bacchae</i>, one of each of the tragic poets, where, +by reference to Aristotle’s principles, we think it +will be found that the most perfect in plot is not +the most poetical.</p> + +<p>Of these the action of the <i>Oedipus Tyrannus</i> is +frequently instanced by the critic as a specimen +of judgement and skill in the selection and +combination of the incidents; and in this point +of view it is truly a masterly composition. The<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span> +clearness, precision, certainty, and vigour, with +which the line of the action moves on to its +termination, is admirable. The character of +Oedipus too is finely drawn, and identified with +the development of the action.</p> + +<p>The <i>Agamemnon</i> of Aeschylus presents us with +the slow and difficult birth of a portentous secret—an +event of old written in the resolves of destiny, +a crime long meditated in the bosom of the human +agents. The Chorus here has an importance +altogether wanting in the Chorus of the <i>Oedipus</i>. +They throw a pall of ancestral honour over the +bier of the hereditary monarch, which would have +been unbecoming in the case of the upstart king +of Thebes. Till the arrival of Agamemnon, they +occupy our attention, as the prophetic organ, not +commissioned indeed but employed by heaven, +to proclaim the impending horrors. Succeeding +to the brief intimation of the watcher who opens +the play, they seem oppressed with forebodings +of woe and crime which they can neither justify +nor analyse. The expression of their anxiety +forms the stream in which the plot flows—every +thing, even news of joy, takes a colouring from +the depth of their gloom. On the arrival of the +king, they retire before Cassandra, a more regularly +commissioned prophetess; who, speaking first in +figure, then in plain terms, only ceases that we +may hear the voice of the betrayed monarch +himself, informing us of the striking of the fatal +blow. Here then the very simplicity of the fable +constitutes its especial beauty. The death of +Agamemnon is intimated at first—it is accomplished +at last: throughout we find but the growing in +volume and intensity of one and the same note—it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span> +is a working up of one musical ground, by +fugue and imitation, into the richness of combined +harmony. But we look in vain for the +progressive and thickening incidents of the +<i>Oedipus</i>.</p> + +<p>The action of the <i>Bacchae</i> is also simple. It is +the history of the reception of the worship of +Bacchus in Thebes; who, first depriving Pentheus +of his reason, and thereby drawing him on to his +ruin, establishes his divinity. The interest of the +scene arises from the gradual process by which the +derangement of the Theban king is effected, which +is powerfully and originally described. It would +be comic, were it unconnected with religion. As it +is, it exhibits the grave irony of a god triumphing +over the impotent presumption of man, the sport +and terrible mischievousness of an insulted deity. +It is an exemplification of the adage, <i>quem deus +vult perdere, prius dementat</i>. So delicately balanced +is the action along the verge of the sublime and +grotesque, that it is both solemn and humorous, +without violence to the propriety of the composition: +the mad and merry fire of the Chorus, the imbecile +mirth of old Cadmus and Tiresias, and the infatuation +of Pentheus, who is ultimately induced to +dress himself in female garb to gain admittance +among the Bacchae, are made to harmonize with +the terrible catastrophe which concludes the life +of the intruder. Perhaps the victim’s first discovery +of the disguised deity is the finest conception in +this splendid drama. His madness enables him to +discern the emblematic horns on the head of +Bacchus, which were hid from him when in his +sound mind; yet this discovery, instead of leading +him to an acknowledgement of the divinity, provides<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span> +him only with matter for a stupid and perplexed +astonishment.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">καὶ ταῦρος ἡμῖν πρόσθεν ἡγεῖσθαι δοκεῖς,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">καὶ σῶ κέρατε κρατὶ προσπεφυκέναι.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">ἀλλ’ ἦ ποτ’ ἦσθα θήρ; τεταύρωσαι γὰρ οὖν.<a name="FNanchor_18_18" id="FNanchor_18_18"></a><a href="#Footnote_18_18" class="fnanchor">[18]</a><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">This play is on the whole the most favourable +specimen of the genius of Euripides—not breathing +the sweet composure, the melodious fullness, the +majesty and grace of Sophocles; nor rudely and +overpoweringly tragic as Aeschylus; but brilliant, +versatile, imaginative, as well as deeply pathetic.</p> + +<p>Here then are two dramas of extreme poetical +power, but deficient in skilfulness of plot. Are +they on that account to be rated below the <i>Oedipus</i>, +which, in spite of its many beauties, has not even +a share of the richness and sublimity of either?</p> + +<p>Aristotle, then, it must be allowed, treats +dramatic composition more as an exhibition of +ingenious workmanship, than as a free and +unfettered effusion of genius. The inferior poem +may, on his principle, be the better tragedy. He +may indeed have intended solely to delineate the +outward framework most suitable to the reception +of the spirit of poetry, not to discuss the nature +of poetry itself. If so, it cannot be denied that, +the poetry being given equal in the two cases, +the more perfect plot will merit the greater share +of praise. And it may seem to agree with this +view of his meaning, that he pronounces Euripides, +in spite of the irregularity of his plots, to be, after +all, the most tragic of the Greek dramatists, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span>inasmuch (i. e.) as he excels in his appeal to those +passions which the outward form of the drama +merely subserves. Still there is surely too much +stress laid by the philosopher upon the artificial +part; which, after all, leads to negative, more +than to positive excellence; and should rather be +the natural and (so to say) unintentional result of +the poet’s feeling and imagination, than be +separated from them as the direct object of his +care. Perhaps it is hardly fair to judge of Aristotle’s +sentiments by the fragment of his work which has +come down to us. Yet as his natural taste led +him to delight in the explication of systems, and +in those large and connected views which his +vigorous talent for thinking through subjects +supplied, we may be allowed to suspect him of +entertaining too cold and formal conceptions of +the nature of poetical composition, as if its beauties +were less subtle and delicate than they really are. +A word has power to convey a world of information +to the imagination, and to act as a spell upon the +feelings: there is no need of sustained fiction—often +no room for it.<a name="FNanchor_19_19" id="FNanchor_19_19"></a><a href="#Footnote_19_19" class="fnanchor">[19]</a> Some confirmation of the judgement +we have ventured to pass on the greatest of +analytical philosophers, is the account he gives of +the source of poetical pleasure; which he almost +identifies with a gratification of the reasoning +faculty, placing it in the satisfaction derived from +recognizing in fiction a resemblance to the realities +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span>of life—συμβαίνει θεωροῦντας μανθάνειν καὶ συλλογίζεσθαι, τί ἕκαστον.<a name="FNanchor_20_20" id="FNanchor_20_20"></a><a href="#Footnote_20_20" class="fnanchor">[20]</a></p> + +<p>But as we have treated, rather unceremoniously, +a deservedly high authority, we will try to +compensate for our rudeness, by illustrating his +general doctrine of the nature of poetry, which +we hold to be most true and philosophical.</p> + +<p>Poetry, according to Aristotle, is a representation +of the ideal. Biography and history represent +individual characters and actual facts; poetry, on +the contrary, generalizing from the phenomena of +nature and life, supplies us with pictures drawn +not after an existing pattern, but after a creation +of the mind. <i>Fidelity</i> is the primary merit of +biography and history; the essence of poetry is +<i>fiction</i>. <i>Poesis nihil aliud est</i> (says Bacon) <i>quam +historiae imitatio ad placitum</i>. It delineates that +perfection which the imagination suggests, and to +which as a limit the present system of divine +Providence actually tends. Moreover, by confining +the attention to one series of events and scene of +action, it bounds and finishes off the confused +luxuriance of real nature; while, by a skilful +adjustment of circumstances, it brings into sight +the connexion of cause and effect, completes the +dependence of the parts one on another, and harmonizes +the proportions of the whole. It is then +but the type and model of history or biography, if +we may be allowed the comparison, bearing some +resemblance to the abstract mathematical formula +of physics, before it is modified by the contingencies +of gravity and friction. Hence, while it +recreates the imagination by the superhuman loveliness +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span>of its views, it provides a solace for the mind +broken by the disappointments and sufferings of +actual life; and becomes, moreover, the utterance of +the inward emotions of a right moral feeling, seeking +a purity and a truth which this world will not give.</p> + +<p>It follows that the poetical mind is one full of +the eternal forms of beauty and perfection; these +are its material of thought, its instrument and +medium of observation—these colour each object +to which it directs its view. It is called imaginative +or creative, from the originality and independence +of its modes of thinking, compared with the +common-place and matter-of-fact conceptions of +ordinary minds, which are fettered down to the +particular and individual. At the same time it +feels a natural sympathy with everything great and +splendid in the physical and moral world; and selecting +such from the mass of common phenomena, +incorporates them, as it were, into the substance of +its own creations. From living thus in a world of +its own, it speaks the language of dignity, emotion, +and refinement. Figure is its necessary medium +of communication with man; for in the feebleness +of ordinary words to express its ideas, and in the +absence of terms of abstract perfection, the +adoption of metaphorical language is the only +poor means allowed it for imparting to others +its intense feelings. A metrical garb has, in all +languages, been appropriated to poetry—it is but +the outward development of the music and +harmony within. The verse, far from being +a restraint on the true poet, is the suitable index +of his sense, and is adopted by his free and +deliberate choice.</p> + +<p>We shall presently show the applicability of our<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span> +doctrine to the various departments of poetical +composition; first, however, it will be right to +volunteer an explanation which may save it from +much misconception and objection. Let not our +notion be thought arbitrarily to limit the number +of poets, generally considered such. It will be +found to lower particular works, or parts of works, +rather than the writers themselves; sometimes to +condemn only the vehicle in which the poetry is +conveyed. There is an ambiguity in the word +poetry, which is taken to signify both the talent +itself, and the written composition which is the +result of it. Thus there is an apparent, but no +real contradiction, in saying a poem may be but +partially poetical; in some passages more so than +in others; and sometimes not poetical at all. +We only maintain—not that writers forfeit the +name of poet who fail at times to answer to our +requisitions, but—that they are poets only so far +forth and inasmuch as they do answer to them. +We may grant, for instance, that the vulgarities +of old Phoenix in the ninth <i>Iliad</i>, or of the nurse +of Orestes in the <i>Choephoroe</i>, or perhaps of +the grave-diggers in <i>Hamlet</i>, are in themselves +unworthy of their respective authors, and refer +them to the wantonness of exuberant genius; and +yet maintain that the scenes in question contain +much <i>incidental</i> poetry. Now and then the lustre +of the true metal catches the eye, redeeming +whatever is unseemly and worthless in the rude +ore; still the ore is not the metal. Nay sometimes, +and not unfrequently in Shakespeare, the introduction +of unpoetical matter may be necessary for +the sake of relief, or as a vivid expression of +recondite conceptions, and (as it were) to make<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</a></span> +friends with the reader’s imagination. This +necessity, however, cannot make the additions +in themselves beautiful and pleasing. Sometimes, +on the other hand, while we do not deny the +incidental beauty of a poem, we are ashamed and +indignant on witnessing the unworthy substance +in which that beauty is imbedded. This remark +applies strongly to the immoral compositions to +which Lord Byron devoted his last years. Now +to proceed with our proposed investigation.</p> + +<p>We will notice <i>descriptive poetry</i> first. Empedocles +wrote his physics in verse, and Oppian his history +of animals. Neither were poets—the one was an +historian of nature, the other a sort of biographer +of brutes. Yet a poet may make natural history +or philosophy the material of his composition. +But under his hands they are no longer a bare +collection of facts or principles, but are painted +with a meaning, beauty, and harmonious order not +their own. Thomson has sometimes been commended +for the novelty and minuteness of his +remarks upon nature. This is not the praise of +a poet; whose office rather is to represent <i>known</i> +phenomena in a new connexion or medium. In +<i>L’Allegro</i> and <i>Il Penseroso</i> the poetical magician +invests the commonest scenes of a country life with +the hues, first of a mirthful, then of a pensive mind.<a name="FNanchor_21_21" id="FNanchor_21_21"></a><a href="#Footnote_21_21" class="fnanchor">[21]</a> +Pastoral poetry is a description of rustics, agriculture, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</a></span>and cattle, softened off and corrected from the +rude health of nature. Virgil, and much more Pope +and others, have run into the fault of colouring +too highly;—instead of drawing generalized and +ideal forms of <i>shepherds</i>, they have given us pictures +of <i>gentlemen</i> and <i>beaux</i>. Their composition may +be poetry, but it is not pastoral poetry.</p> + +<p>The difference between poetical and historical +<i>narrative</i> may be illustrated by the ‘Tales Founded +on Facts’, generally of a religious character, so +common in the present day, which we must not be +thought to approve, because we use them for our +purpose. The author finds in the circumstances +of the case many particulars too trivial for public +notice, or irrelevant to the main story, or partaking +perhaps too much of the peculiarity of individual +minds:—these he omits. He finds connected +events separated from each other by time or place, +or a course of action distributed among a multitude +of agents; he limits the scene or duration of the tale, +and dispenses with his host of characters by condensing +the mass of incident and action in the history +of a few. He compresses long controversies into +a concise argument—and exhibits characters by +dialogue—and (if such be his object) brings +prominently forward the course of Divine Providence +by a fit disposition of his materials. Thus he +selects, combines, refines, colours—in fact, <i>poetizes</i>. +His facts are no longer <i>actual</i> but <i>ideal</i>—a tale +<i>founded on</i> facts is a tale <i>generalized from</i> facts. +The authors of <i>Peveril of the Peak</i>, and of <i>Brambletye +House</i>, have given us their respective +descriptions of the profligate times of Charles II. +Both accounts are interesting, but for different +reasons. That of the latter writer has the fidelity<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a></span> +of history; Walter Scott’s picture is the hideous +reality unintentionally softened and decorated by +the poetry of his own mind. Miss Edgeworth sometimes +apologizes for certain incidents in her tales, by +stating they took place ‘by one of those strange +chances which occur in life, but seem incredible +when found in writing’. Such an excuse evinces +a misconception of the principle of fiction, which, +being the <i>perfection</i> of the actual, prohibits the +introduction of any such anomalies of experience. +It is by a similar impropriety that painters +sometimes introduce unusual sunsets, or other +singular phenomena of lights and forms. Yet +some of Miss Edgeworth’s works contain much +poetry of narrative. <i>Manœuvring</i> is perfect in +its way—the plot and characters are natural, +without being too real to be pleasing.</p> + +<p><i>Character</i> is made poetical by a like process. +The writer draws indeed from experience; but +unnatural peculiarities are laid aside, and harsh +contrasts reconciled. If it be said, the fidelity of +the imitation is often its greatest merit, we have +only to reply, that in such cases the pleasure is +not poetical, but consists in the mere recognition. +All novels and tales which introduce real characters, +are in the same degree unpoetical. Portrait-painting, +to be poetical, should furnish an abstract +representation of an individual; the abstraction +being more rigid, inasmuch as the painting is +confined to one point of time. The artist should +draw independently of the accidents of attitude, +dress, occasional feeling, and transient action. +He should depict the general spirit of his subject—as +if he were copying from memory, not from +a few particular sittings. An ordinary painter<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a></span> +will delineate with rigid fidelity, and will make +a caricature. But the learned artist contrives so +to temper his composition, as to sink all offensive +peculiarities and hardnesses of individuality, without +diminishing the striking effect of the likeness, or +acquainting the casual spectator with the secret of +his art. Miss Edgeworth’s representations of the +Irish character are actual, and not poetical—nor +were they intended to be so. They are interesting, +because they are faithful. If there is poetry about +them, it exists in the personages themselves, not +in her representation of them. She is only the +accurate reporter in word of what was poetical in +fact. Hence, moreover, when a deed or incident +is striking in itself, a judicious writer is led to +describe it in the most simple and colourless terms, +his own being unnecessary; e. g. if the greatness +of the action itself excites the imagination, or the +depth of the suffering interests the feelings. In the +usual phrase, the circumstances are left to ‘speak for +themselves’.</p> + +<p>Let it not be said that our doctrine is adverse to +that individuality in the delineation of character, +which is a principal charm of fiction. It is not +necessary for the ideality of a composition to avoid +those minuter shades of difference between man and +man, which give to poetry its plausibility and life; +but merely such violation of general nature, such +improbabilities, wanderings, or coarsenesses, as +interfere with the refined and delicate enjoyment +of the imagination; which would have the elements +of beauty extracted out of the confused multitude +of ordinary actions and habits, and combined with +consistency and ease. Nor does it exclude the +introduction of imperfect or odious characters.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</a></span> +The original conception of a weak or guilty mind +may have its intrinsic beauty. And much more so, +when it is connected with a tale which finally adjusts +whatever is reprehensible in the personages themselves. +Richard and Iago are subservient to the plot. +Moral excellence of character may sometimes be +even a fault. The Clytemnestra of Euripides is so +interesting, that the divine vengeance, which is the +main subject of the drama, seems almost unjust. +Lady Macbeth, on the contrary, is the conception +of one deeply learned in the poetical art. She is +polluted with the most heinous crimes, and meets +the fate she deserves. Yet there is nothing in the +picture to offend the taste, and much to feed the +imagination. Romeo and Juliet are too good for +the termination to which the plot leads—so are +Ophelia and the bride of Lammermoor. In these +cases there is something inconsistent with correct +beauty, and therefore unpoetical. We do not say +the fault could be avoided without sacrificing more +than would be gained; still it is a fault. It is +scarcely possible for a poet satisfactorily to connect +innocence with ultimate unhappiness, when the +notion of a future life is excluded. Honours paid +to the memory of the dead are some alleviation of +the harshness. In his use of the doctrine of a future +life, Southey is admirable. Other writers are content +to conduct their heroes to temporal happiness—Southey +refuses present comfort to his Ladurlad, +Thalaba, and Roderick, but carries them on through +suffering to another world. The death of his hero +is the termination of the action; yet so little in two +of them, at least, does this catastrophe excite +sorrowful feelings, that some readers may be +startled to be reminded of the fact. If a melancholy<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[242]</a></span> +is thrown over the conclusion of the <i>Roderick</i>, it is +from the peculiarities of the hero’s previous history.</p> + +<p>Opinions, feelings, manners, and customs, are +made poetical by the delicacy or splendour with +which they are expressed. This is seen in the <i>ode</i>, +<i>elegy</i>, <i>sonnet</i>, and <i>ballad</i>; in which a single idea +perhaps, or familiar occurrence, is invested by the +poet with pathos or dignity. The ballad of <i>Old +Robin Gray</i> will serve, for an instance, out of +a multitude; again, Lord Byron’s <i>Hebrew Melody</i>, +beginning ‘Were my bosom as false’, &c.; or +Cowper’s <i>Lines on his Mother’s Picture</i>; or Milman’s +‘Funeral Hymn’ in the <i>Martyr of Antioch</i>; +or Milton’s <i>Sonnet on his Blindness</i>; or Bernard +Barton’s <i>Dream</i>. As picturesque specimens, we +may name Campbell’s <i>Battle of the Baltic</i>; or +Joanna Baillie’s <i>Chough and Crow</i>; and for the +more exalted and splendid style, Gray’s <i>Bard</i>; or +Milton’s <i>Hymn on the Nativity</i>; in which facts, +with which every one is familiar, are made new by +the colouring of a poetical imagination. It must +all along be observed, that we are not adducing +instances for their own sake; but in order to +illustrate our general doctrine, and to show its +applicability to those compositions which are, by +universal consent, acknowledged to be poetical.</p> + +<p>The department of poetry we are now speaking +of, is of much wider extent than might at first sight +appear. It will include such moralizing and +philosophical poems as Young’s <i>Night Thoughts</i>, +and Byron’s <i>Childe Harold</i>.<a name="FNanchor_22_22" id="FNanchor_22_22"></a><a href="#Footnote_22_22" class="fnanchor">[22]</a> There is much bad +taste, at present, in the judgement passed on +compositions of this kind. It is the fault of the day +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[243]</a></span>to mistake mere eloquence for poetry; whereas, in +direct opposition to the conciseness and simplicity +of the poet, the talent of the orator consists in +making much of a single idea. ‘<i>Sic dicet ille ut +verset saepe multis modis eandem et unam rem, ut +haereat in eadem commoreturque sententia.</i>’ This is +the great art of Cicero himself, who, whether he is +engaged in statement, argument, or raillery, never +ceases till he has exhausted the subject; going +round about it, and placing it in every different +light, yet without repetition to offend or weary the +reader. This faculty seems to consist in the power +of throwing off harmonious sentences, which, while +they have a respectable proportion of meaning, +yet are especially intended to charm the ear. In +popular poems, common ideas are unfolded with +copiousness, and set off in polished verse—and this +is called poetry. In the <i>Pleasures of Hope</i> we find +this done with exquisite taste; but it is in his +minor poems that the author’s powerful and free +poetical genius rises to its natural elevation. In +<i>Childe Harold</i>, too, the writer is carried through his +Spenserian stanza with the unweariness and equable +fullness of accomplished eloquence; opening, +illustrating, and heightening one idea, before he +passes on to another. His composition is an +extended funeral oration over buried joys and +pleasures. His laments over Greece, Rome, and +the fallen in various engagements, have quite the +character of panegyrical orations; while by the +very attempt to describe the celebrated buildings +and sculptures of antiquity, he seems to confess that +<i>they</i> are the poetical text, his the rhetorical comment. +Still it is a work of splendid talent, though, +as a whole, not of the highest poetical excellence.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[244]</a></span> +Juvenal is, perhaps, the only ancient author who +habitually substitutes declamation for poetry.<a name="FNanchor_23_23" id="FNanchor_23_23"></a><a href="#Footnote_23_23" class="fnanchor">[23]</a></p> + +<p>The <i>philosophy of mind</i> may equally be made +subservient to poetry, as the philosophy of nature. +It is a common fault to mistake a mere knowledge +of the heart for poetical talent. Our greatest +masters have known better;—they have subjected +metaphysics to their art. In <i>Hamlet</i>, <i>Macbeth</i>, +<i>Richard</i>, and <i>Othello</i>, the philosophy of mind is but +the material of the poet. These personages are +ideal; they are effects of the contact of a given +internal character with given outward circumstances, +the results of combined conditions determining (so +to say) a moral curve of original and inimitable +properties. Philosophy is exhibited in the same +subserviency to poetry in many parts of Crabbe’s +<i>Tales of the Hall</i>. In the writings of this author +there is much to offend a refined taste; but at +least in the work in question there is much of +a highly poetical cast. It is a representation of +the action and re-action of two minds upon each +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[245]</a></span>other and upon the world around them. Two +brothers of different characters and fortunes, and +strangers to each other, meet. Their habits of +mind, the formation of those habits by external +circumstances, their respective media of judgement, +their points of mutual attraction and repulsion, +the mental position of each in relation to a variety +of trifling phenomena of every-day nature and life, +are beautifully developed in a series of tales moulded +into a connected narrative. We are tempted to +single out the fourth book, which gives an account +of the childhood and education of the younger +brother, and which for variety of thought as well +as fidelity of description is in our judgement beyond +praise. The Waverley novels would afford us +specimens of a similar excellence. One striking +peculiarity of these tales is the author’s practice of +describing a group of characters bearing the same +general features of mind, and placed in the same +general circumstances; yet so contrasted with each +other in minute differences of mental constitution, +that each diverges from the common starting-place +into a path peculiar to himself. The brotherhood of +villains in <i>Kenilworth</i>, of knights in <i>Ivanhoe</i>, and of +enthusiasts in <i>Old Mortality</i> are instances of this. +This bearing of character and plot on each other is +not often found in Byron’s poems. The Corsair is +intended for a remarkable personage. We pass by +the inconsistencies of his character, considered by +itself. The grand fault is that, whether it be natural +or not, we are obliged to accept the author’s word for +the fidelity of his portrait. We are told, not shown, +what the hero was. There is nothing in the plot +which results from his peculiar formation of mind. +An every-day bravo might equally well have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[246]</a></span> +satisfied the requirements of the action. Childe +Harold, again, if he is any thing, is a being professedly +isolated from the world, and uninfluenced by it. +One might as well draw Tityrus’s stags grazing in +the air, as a character of this kind; which yet, +with more or less alteration, passes through successive +editions in his other poems. Byron had very little +versatility or elasticity of genius; he did not know +how to make poetry out of existing materials. +He declaims in his own way, and has the upper hand +as long as he is allowed to go on; but, if interrogated +on principles of nature and good sense, he is at once +put out and brought to a stand. Yet his conception +of Sardanapalus and Myrrha is fine and ideal, and +in the style of excellence which we have just been +admiring in Shakespeare and Scott.</p> + +<p>These illustrations of Aristotle’s doctrine may +suffice.</p> + +<p>Now let us proceed to a fresh position; which, +as before, shall first be broadly stated, then modified +and explained. How does originality differ from the +poetical talent? Without affecting the accuracy of +a definition, we may call the latter the originality of +right moral feeling.</p> + +<p>Originality may perhaps be defined as the power +of abstracting for oneself, and is in thought what +strength of mind is in action. Our opinions are +commonly derived from education and society. +Common minds transmit as they receive, good and +bad, true and false; minds of original talent feel +a continual propensity to investigate subjects and +strike out views for themselves;—so that even old +and established truths do not escape modification +and accidental change when subjected to this +process of mental digestion. Even the style of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[247]</a></span> +original writers is stamped with the peculiarities +of their minds. When originality is found apart +from good sense, which more or less is frequently +the case, it shows itself in paradox and rashness of +sentiment, and eccentricity of outward conduct. +Poetry, on the other hand, cannot be separated from +its good sense, or taste, as it is called; which is one +of its elements. It is originality energizing in the +world of beauty; the originality of grace, purity, +refinement, and feeling. We do not hesitate to say, +that poetry is ultimately founded on correct moral +perception;—that where there is no sound principle +in exercise there will be no poetry, and that on the +whole (originality being granted) in proportion to +the standard of a writer’s moral character, will his +compositions vary in poetical excellence. This +position, however, requires some explanation.<a name="FNanchor_24_24" id="FNanchor_24_24"></a><a href="#Footnote_24_24" class="fnanchor">[24]</a></p> + +<p>Of course, then, we do not mean to imply that +a poet must necessarily <i>display</i> virtuous and religious +feeling;—we are not speaking of the actual <i>material</i> +of poetry, but of its <i>sources</i>. A right moral state of +heart is the formal and scientific condition of +a poetical mind. Nor does it follow from our +position that every poet must in fact be a man of +consistent and practical principle; except so far as +good feeling commonly produces or results from +good practice. Burns was a man of inconsistent +practice—still, it is known, of much really sound +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[248]</a></span>principle at bottom. Thus his acknowledged +poetical talent is in no wise inconsistent with the +truth of our doctrine, which will refer the beauty +which exists in his compositions to the remains of +a virtuous and diviner nature within him. Nay, +further than this, our theory holds good even though +it be shown that a bad man may write a poem. As +motives short of the purest lead to actions intrinsically +good, so frames of mind short of virtuous will +produce a partial and limited poetry. But even +where it is exhibited, the poetry of a vicious mind +will be inconsistent and debased; i. e. so far only +such, as the traces and shadows of holy truth still +remain upon it. On the other hand, a right moral +feeling places the mind in the very centre of that +circle from which all the rays have their origin and +range; whereas minds otherwise placed command +but a portion of the whole circuit of poetry. Allowing +for human infirmity and the varieties of opinion, +Milton, Spenser, Cowper, Wordsworth, and Southey, +may be considered, as far as their writings go, to +approximate to this moral centre. The following +are added as further illustrations of our meaning. +Walter Scott’s centre is chivalrous honour; Shakespeare +exhibits the ἦθος], the physiognomy of an +unlearned and undisciplined piety; Homer the +religion of nature and the heart, at times debased +by polytheism. All these poets are religious:—the +occasional irreligion of Virgil’s poetry is painful +to the admirers of his general taste and delicacy. +Dryden’s <i>Alexander’s Feast</i> is a magnificent composition, +and has high poetical beauties; but to +a delicate judgement there is something intrinsically +unpoetical in the end to which it is devoted, the +praises of revel and sensuality. It corresponds to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[249]</a></span> +a process of clever reasoning erected on an untrue +foundation—the one is a fallacy, the other is out +of taste. Lord Byron’s <i>Manfred</i> is in parts intensely +poetical; yet the refined mind naturally shrinks +from the spirit which here and there reveals itself, +and the basis on which the fable is built. From +a perusal of it we should infer, according to the above +theory, that there was right and fine feeling in the +poet’s mind, but that the central and consistent +character was wanting. From the history of his +life we know this to be the fact. The connexion +between want of the religious principle and want of +poetical feeling, is seen in the instances of Hume +and Gibbon; who had radically unpoetical minds. +Rousseau is not an exception to our doctrine, for +his heart was naturally religious. Lucretius too +had much poetical talent; but his work evinces +that his miserable philosophy was rather the result +of a bewildered judgement than a corrupt heart.</p> + +<p>According to the above theory, revealed religion +should be especially poetical—and it is so in fact. +While its disclosures have an originality in them to +engage the intellect, they have a beauty to satisfy +the moral nature. It presents us with those ideal +forms of excellence in which a poetical mind delights, +and with which all grace and harmony are associated. +It brings us into a new world—a world of overpowering +interest, of the sublimest views, and the tenderest +and purest feelings. The peculiar grace of mind of +the New Testament writers is as striking as the +actual effect produced upon the hearts of those +who have imbibed their spirit. At present we are +not concerned with the practical, but the poetical +nature of revealed truth. With Christians a poetical +view of things is a duty—we are bid to colour all<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[250]</a></span> +things with hues of faith, to see a divine meaning +in every event, and a superhuman tendency. Even +our friends around are invested with unearthly +brightness—no longer imperfect men, but beings +taken into divine favour, stamped with his seal, +and in training for future happiness. It may be +added that the virtues peculiarly Christian are +especially poetical;—meekness, gentleness, compassion, +contentment, modesty, not to mention +the devotional virtues: whereas the ruder and +more ordinary feelings are the instruments of +rhetoric more justly than of poetry—anger, indignation, +emulation, martial spirit, and love of +independence.</p> + +<p>A few remarks on poetical composition, and we +have done.—The art of composition is merely +accessory to the poetical talent. But where that +talent exists it necessarily gives its own character +to the style, and renders it perfectly different from +all others. As the poet’s habits of mind lead to +contemplation rather than communication with +others, he is more or less obscure, according to the +particular style of poetry he has adopted; less so, +in epic or narrative and dramatic representation—more +so, in odes and choruses. He will be obscure, +moreover, from the depth of his feelings, which +require a congenial reader to enter into them—and +from their acuteness, which shrinks from any +formal accuracy in the expression of them. And he +will be obscure, not only from the carelessness of +genius and from the originality of his conceptions, +but (it may be) from natural deficiency in the +power of clear and eloquent expression, which, we +must repeat, is a talent distinct from poetry, though +often mistaken for it.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[251]</a></span></p> + +<p>Dexterity in composition, or <i>eloquence</i> as it may +be called in a contracted sense of the word, is +however manifestly more or less necessary in every +branch of literature, though its elements may be +different in each. <i>Poetical</i> eloquence consists, first +in the power of illustration—which the poet uses, +not as the orator, voluntarily, for the sake of +clearness or ornament; but almost by constraint, +as the sole outlet and expression of intense inward +feeling. The spontaneous power of comparison is +in some poetical minds entirely wanting; these of +course cannot show to advantage as poets.—Another +talent necessary to composition is the +power of unfolding the meaning in an orderly +manner. A poetical mind is often too impatient to +explain itself justly; it is overpowered by a rush +of emotions, which sometimes want of power, +sometimes the indolence of inward enjoyment +prevents it from describing. Nothing is more +difficult than to analyse the feelings of our own +minds; and the power of doing so, whether natural +or acquired, is clearly distinct from experiencing +them. Yet, though distinct from the poetical talent, +it is obviously necessary to its exhibition. Hence +it is a common praise bestowed upon writers, that +they express what we have often felt but could +never describe. The power of arrangement, which +is necessary for an extended poem, is a modification +of the same talent;—being to poetry what method +is to logic. Besides these qualifications, poetical +compositions requires that command of language +which is the mere effect of practice. The poet is +a compositor; words are his types; he must have +them within reach, and in unlimited abundance. +Hence the need of careful labour to the accomplished<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[252]</a></span> +poet—not in order that his diction may attract, +but that language may be subjected to him. He +studies the art of composition as we might learn +dancing or elocution; not that we may move or +speak according to rule, but that by the very +exercise our voice and carriage may become so +unembarrassed as to allow of our doing what we +will with them.</p> + +<p>A talent for composition then is no essential part +of poetry, though indispensable to its exhibition. +Hence it would seem that attention to the language +<i>for its own sake</i> evidences not the true poet but the +mere artist. Pope is said to have tuned our tongue. +We certainly owe much to him—his diction is rich, +musical, and expressive. Still he is not on this +account a poet; he elaborated his composition +for its own sake. If we give him poetical praise on +this account, we may as appropriately bestow it on +a tasteful cabinet-maker. This does not forbid us +to ascribe the grace of his verse to an inward +principle of poetry, which supplied him with +archetypes of the beautiful and splendid to work by. +But a similar internal gift must direct the skill of +every fancy-artist who subserves the luxuries and +elegancies of life. On the other hand, though Virgil +is celebrated as a master of composition, yet his +style is so identified with his conceptions, as their +outward development, as to preclude the possibility +of our viewing the one apart from the other. In +Milton, again, the harmony of the verse is but the +echo of the inward music which the thoughts of +the poet breathe. In Moore’s style the ornament +continually outstrips the sense. Cowper and +Walter Scott, on the other hand, are slovenly in +their versification. Sophocles writes, on the whole,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[253]</a></span> +without studied attention to the style; but +Euripides frequently affects a simplicity and +prettiness which exposed him to the ridicule of the +comic poets. Lastly, the style of Homer’s poems is +perfect in their particular department. It is free, +manly, simple, perspicuous, energetic, and varied. +It is the style of one who rhapsodized without +deference to hearer or judge, in an age prior to the +temptations which more or less prevailed over +succeeding writers—before the theatre had degraded +poetry into an exhibition, and criticism narrowed +it into an art.</p> + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_18_18" id="Footnote_18_18"></a><a href="#FNanchor_18_18"><span class="label">[18]</span></a> +</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A Bull, thou seem’st to lead us; on thy head<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Horns have grown forth: wast heretofore a beast?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For such thy semblance now.<br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_19_19" id="Footnote_19_19"></a><a href="#FNanchor_19_19"><span class="label">[19]</span></a> The sudden inspiration, e. g. of the blind Oedipus, in +the second play bearing his name, by which he is enabled, +ἄθικτος ἡγητῆρος [‘without a guide’], to lead the way to his +place of death, in our judgement, produces more poetical +effect than all the skilful intricacy of the plot of the <i>Tyrannus</i>. +The latter excites an interest which scarcely lasts +beyond the first reading—the former <i>decies repetita placebit</i>.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_20_20" id="Footnote_20_20"></a><a href="#FNanchor_20_20"><span class="label">[20]</span></a> In seeing the picture one is at the same time learning,—gathering +the meaning of things.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_21_21" id="Footnote_21_21"></a><a href="#FNanchor_21_21"><span class="label">[21]</span></a> It is the charm of the descriptive poetry of a religious +mind, that nature is viewed in a moral connexion. Ordinary +writers (e. g.) compare aged men to trees in autumn—a +gifted poet will reverse the metaphor. Thus:— +</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘How quiet shows the woodland scene!<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Each flower and tree, its duty done,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Reposing in decay serene,<br /></span> +<span class="i1"><i>Like weary men when age is won</i>,’ &c.<br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_22_22" id="Footnote_22_22"></a><a href="#FNanchor_22_22"><span class="label">[22]</span></a> We would here mention Rogers’s <i>Italy</i>, if such a cursory +notice could convey our high opinion of its merit.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_23_23" id="Footnote_23_23"></a><a href="#FNanchor_23_23"><span class="label">[23]</span></a> The difference between oratory and poetry is well +illustrated by a passage in a recent tragedy. +</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i1"><i>Col.</i> Joined! by what tie?<br /></span> +<span class="i1"><i>Rien.</i> By hatred—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By danger—the two hands that tightest grasp<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Each other—the two cords that soonest knit<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A fast and stubborn tie; your true love knot<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is nothing to it. Faugh! the supple touch<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of pliant interest, or the dust of time,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or the pin-point of temper, loose or rot<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or snap love’s silken band. Fear and old hate,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They are sure weavers—they work for the storm,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The whirlwind, and the rocking surge; their knot<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Endures till death.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The idea is good, and if expressed in a line or two, might +have been poetry—spread out into nine or ten lines, it +yields but a languid and ostentatious declamation.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_24_24" id="Footnote_24_24"></a><a href="#FNanchor_24_24"><span class="label">[24]</span></a> A living prelate, in his Academical Prelections, even +suggests the converse of our position—‘<i>Neque enim facile +crediderim de eo qui semel hac imbutus fuerit disciplina, qui +in id tota mentis acie assuefactus fuerit incumbere, ut quid +sit in rebus decens, quid pulchrum, quid congruum, penitus +intueretur, quin idem harum rerum perpetuum amorem foveat, +et cum ab his studiis discesserit, etiam ad reliqua vitae officia +earum imaginem quasi animo infixam transferat.</i>’</p></div> +</div> + + +<h2><a name="THOMAS_CARLYLE" id="THOMAS_CARLYLE"></a>THOMAS CARLYLE<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[254]</a></span></h2> + +<h3>1795-1881</h3> + +<h3>THE HERO AS POET. DANTE; SHAKESPEARE<br /> +(1840)</h3> + + +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> Hero as Divinity, the Hero as Prophet, are +productions of old ages; not to be repeated in the +new. They presuppose a certain rudeness of conception, +which the progress of mere scientific knowledge +puts an end to. There needs to be, as it were, +a world vacant, or almost vacant of scientific forms, +if men in their loving wonder are to fancy their +fellow-man either a god or one speaking with the +voice of a god. Divinity and Prophet are past. +We are now to see our Hero in the less ambitious, +but also less questionable, character of Poet; a +character which does not pass. The Poet is +a heroic figure belonging to all ages; whom all +ages possess, when once he is produced, whom the +newest age as the oldest may produce;—and will +produce, always when Nature pleases. Let Nature +send a Hero-soul; in no age is it other than possible +that he may be shaped into a Poet.</p> + +<p>Hero, Prophet, Poet,—many different names, in +different times and places, do we give to Great +Men; according to varieties we note in them, +according to the sphere in which they have displayed +themselves! We might give many more +names, on this same principle. I will remark again, +however, as a fact not unimportant to be understood,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[255]</a></span> +that the different <i>sphere</i> constitutes the +grand origin of such distinction; that the Hero +can be Poet, Prophet, King, Priest or what you +will, according to the kind of world he finds himself +born into. I confess, I have no notion of a +truly great man that could not be <i>all</i> sorts of men. +The Poet who could merely sit on a chair, and compose +stanzas, would never make a stanza worth +much. He could not sing the Heroic warrior, unless +he himself were at least a Heroic warrior too. +I fancy there is in him the Politician, the Thinker, +Legislator, Philosopher;—in one or the other +degree, he could have been, he is all these. So too +I cannot understand how a Mirabeau, with that +great glowing heart, with the fire that was in it, +with the bursting tears that were in it, could not +have written verses, tragedies, poems, and touched +all hearts in that way, had his course of life and +education led him thitherward. The grand fundamental +character is that of Great Man; that the +man be great. Napoleon has words in him which +are like Austerlitz Battles. Louis Fourteenth’s +Marshals are a kind of poetical men withal; the +things Turenne says are full of sagacity and +geniality, like sayings of Samuel Johnson. The +great heart, the clear deep-seeing eye: there it +lies; no man whatever, in what province soever, +can prosper at all without these. Petrarch and +Boccaccio did diplomatic messages, it seems, quite +well: one can easily believe it; they had done +things a little harder than these! Burns, a gifted +song-writer, might have made a still better +Mirabeau. Shakespeare,—one knows not what +<i>he</i> could not have made, in the supreme degree.</p> + +<p>True, there are aptitudes of Nature too. Nature<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[256]</a></span> +does not make all great men, more than all other +men, in the self-same mould. Varieties of aptitude +doubtless; but infinitely more of circumstance; +and far oftenest it is the <i>latter</i> only that are looked +to. But it is as with common men in the learning +of trades. You take any man, as yet a vague +capability of a man, who could be any kind of +craftsman; and make him into a smith, a carpenter, +a mason: he is then and thenceforth that +and nothing else. And if, as Addison complains, +you sometimes see a street-porter staggering under +his load on spindle-shanks, and near at hand a +tailor with the frame of a Samson handling a bit +of cloth and small Whitechapel needle,—it cannot +be considered that aptitude of Nature alone has been +consulted here either!—The Great Man also, to +what shall he be bound apprentice? Given your +Hero, is he to become Conqueror, King, Philosopher, +Poet? It is an inexplicably complex controversial-calculation +between the world and him! +He will read the world and its laws; the world +with its laws will be there to be read. What the +world, on <i>this</i> matter, shall permit and bid is, as +we said, the most important fact about the world.—</p> + + +<p class="newsection">Poet and Prophet differ greatly in our loose +modern notions of them. In some old languages, +again, the titles are synonymous; <i>Vates</i> means +both Prophet and Poet: and indeed at all times, +Prophet and Poet, well understood, have much +kindred of meaning. Fundamentally indeed they +are still the same; in this most important respect +especially, That they have penetrated both of +them into the sacred mystery of the Universe; +what Goethe calls ‘the open secret’. ‘Which is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[257]</a></span> +the great secret?’ asks one.—‘The <i>open</i> secret,’—open +to all, seen by almost none! That divine +mystery, which lies everywhere in all Beings, ‘the +Divine Idea of the World, that which lies at the +bottom of Appearance,’ as Fichte styles it; of +which all Appearance, from the starry sky to the +grass of the field, but especially the Appearance +of Man and his work, is but the <i>vesture</i>, the embodiment +that renders it visible. This divine mystery +<i>is</i> in all times and in all places; veritably is. In +most times and places it is greatly overlooked; +and the Universe, definable always in one or the +other dialect, as the realized Thought of God, is +considered a trivial, inert, commonplace matter,—as +if, says the Satirist, it were a dead thing, which +some upholsterer had put together! It could do +no good, at present, to <i>speak</i> much about this; but +it is a pity for every one of us if we do not know it, +live ever in the knowledge of it. Really a most +mournful pity;—a failure to live at all, if we live +otherwise!</p> + +<p>But now, I say, whoever may forget this divine +mystery, the <i>Vates</i>, whether Prophet or Poet, has +penetrated into it; is a man sent hither to make it +more impressively known to us. That always is his +message; he is to reveal that to us,—that sacred +mystery which he more than others lives ever +present with. While others forget it, he knows it;—I +might say, he has been driven to know it; +without consent asked of <i>him</i>, he finds himself +living in it, bound to live in it. Once more, here +is no Hearsay, but a direct Insight and Belief; this +man too could not help being a sincere man! Whosoever +may live in the shows of things, it is for him +a necessity of nature to live in the very fact of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[258]</a></span> +things. A man, once more, in earnest with the +Universe, though all others were but toying with +it. He is a <i>Vates</i>, first of all, in virtue of being +sincere. So far Poet and Prophet, participators in +the ‘open secret,’ are one.</p> + +<p>With respect to their distinction again: The +<i>Vates</i> Prophet, we might say, has seized that sacred +mystery rather on the moral side, as Good and Evil, +Duty and Prohibition; the <i>Vates</i> Poet on what +the Germans call the æsthetic side, as Beautiful, +and the like. The one we may call a revealer of +what we are to do, the other of what we are to love. +But indeed these two provinces run into one +another, and cannot be disjoined. The Prophet +too has his eye on what we are to love: how else +shall he know what it is we are to do? The highest +Voice ever heard on this Earth said withal, ‘Consider +the lilies of the field; they toil not, neither +do they spin: yet Solomon in all his glory was not +arrayed like one of these.’ A glance, that, into the +deepest deep of Beauty. ‘The lilies of the field,’—dressed +finer than earthly princes, springing up +there in the humble furrow-field; a beautiful <i>eye</i> +looking out on you, from the great inner Sea of +Beauty! How could the rude Earth make these, +if her Essence, rugged as she looks and is, were not +inwardly Beauty?—In this point of view, too, a +saying of Goethe’s, which has staggered several, +may have meaning: ‘The Beautiful’, he intimates, +‘is higher than the Good; the Beautiful includes +in it the Good.’ The <i>true</i> Beautiful; which however, +I have said somewhere, ‘differs from the +<i>false</i>, as Heaven does from Vauxhall!’ So much +for the distinction and identity of Poet and +Prophet.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[259]</a></span>—</p> + +<p>In ancient and also in modern periods, we find +a few Poets who are accounted perfect; whom it +were a kind of treason to find fault with. This is +noteworthy; this is right: yet in strictness it is +only an illusion. At bottom, clearly enough, there +is no perfect Poet! A vein of Poetry exists in the +hearts of all men; no man is made altogether of +Poetry. We are all poets when we <i>read</i> a poem +well. The ‘imagination that shudders at the Hell +of Dante,’ is not that the same faculty, weaker in +degree, as Dante’s own? No one but Shakespeare +can embody, out of Saxo Grammaticus, the story +of <i>Hamlet</i> as Shakespeare did: but every one models +some kind of story out of it; every one embodies +it better or worse. We need not spend time in +defining. Where there is no specific difference, as +between round and square, all definition must be +more or less arbitrary. A man that has <i>so</i> much +more of the poetic element developed in him as to +have become noticeable, will be called Poet by his +neighbours. World-Poets too, those whom we are +to take for perfect Poets, are settled by critics in +the same way. One who rises <i>so</i> far above the +general level of Poets will, to such and such critics, +seem a Universal Poet; as he ought to do. And +yet it is, and must be, an arbitrary distinction. +All Poets, all men, have some touches of the Universal; +no man is wholly made of that. Most +Poets are very soon forgotten: but not the noblest +Shakespeare or Homer of them can be remembered +<i>for ever</i>;—a day comes when he too is not!</p> + +<p>Nevertheless, you will say, there must be a +difference between true Poetry and true Speech not +Poetical: what is the difference? On this point +many things have been written, especially by late<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[260]</a></span> +German Critics, some of which are not very intelligible +at first. They say, for example, that the +Poet has an <i>infinitude</i> in him; communicates an +<i>Unendlichkeit</i>, a certain character of ‘infinitude’, +to whatsoever he delineates. This, though not +very precise, yet on so vague a matter is worth +remembering: if well meditated, some meaning +will gradually be found in it. For my own part, +I find considerable meaning in the old vulgar distinction +of Poetry being <i>metrical</i>, having music in +it, being a Song. Truly, if pressed to give a definition, +one might say this as soon as anything else: +If your delineation be authentically <i>musical</i>, musical +not in word only, but in heart and substance, in all +the thoughts and utterances of it, in the whole +conception of it, then it will be poetical; if not, +not.—Musical: how much lies in that! A <i>musical</i> +thought is one spoken by a mind that has penetrated +into the inmost heart of the thing; detected +the inmost mystery of it, namely the <i>melody</i> that +lies hidden in it; the inward harmony of coherence +which is its soul, whereby it exists, and has a right +to be, here in this world. All inmost things, we +may say, are melodious; naturally utter themselves +in Song. The meaning of Song goes deep. +Who is there that, in logical words, can express the +effect music has on us? A kind of inarticulate +unfathomable speech, which leads us to the edge +of the Infinite, and lets us for moments gaze into +that!</p> + +<p>Nay all speech, even the commonest speech, has +something of song in it: not a parish in the world +but has its parish-accent;—the rhythm or <i>tune</i> +to which the people there <i>sing</i> what they have to +say! Accent is a kind of chanting; all men have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[261]</a></span> +accent of their own,—though they only <i>notice</i> that +of others. Observe too how all passionate language +does of itself become musical,—with a finer music +than the mere accent; the speech of a man even +in zealous anger becomes a chant, a song. All deep +things are Song. It seems somehow the very central +essence of us, Song; as if all the rest were but +wrappages and hulls! The primal element of us; +of us, and of all things. The Greeks fabled of +Sphere-Harmonies: it was the feeling they had +of the inner structure of Nature; that the soul of +all her voices and utterances was perfect music. +Poetry, therefore, we will call <i>musical Thought</i>. +The Poet is he who <i>thinks</i> in that manner. At +bottom, it turns still on power of intellect; it is +a man’s sincerity and depth of vision that makes +him a Poet. See deep enough, and you see musically; +the heart of Nature <i>being</i> everywhere music, +if you can only reach it.</p> + +<p>The <i>Vates</i> Poet, with his melodious Apocalypse +of Nature, seems to hold a poor rank among us, in +comparison with the <i>Vates</i> Prophet; his function, +and our esteem of him for his function, alike slight. +The Hero taken as Divinity; the Hero taken as +Prophet; then next the Hero taken only as Poet: +does it not look as if our estimate of the Great Man, +epoch after epoch, were continually diminishing? +We take him first for a god, then for one god-inspired; +and now in the next stage of it, his most +miraculous word gains from us only the recognition +that he is a Poet, beautiful verse-maker, +man of genius, or such-like!—It looks so; but I +persuade myself that intrinsically it is not so. If +we consider well, it will perhaps appear that in +man still there is the <i>same</i> altogether peculiar<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[262]</a></span> +admiration for the Heroic Gift, by what name +soever called, that there at any time was.</p> + +<p>I should say, if we do not now reckon a Great +Man literally divine, it is that our notions of God, +of the supreme unattainable Fountain of Splendour, +Wisdom and Heroism, are ever rising <i>higher</i>; not +altogether that our reverence for these qualities, +as manifested in our like, is getting lower. This is +worth taking thought of. Sceptical Dilettantism, +the curse of these ages, a curse which will not last +for ever, does indeed in this the highest province +of human things, as in all provinces, make sad +work; and our reverence for great men, all crippled, +blinded, paralytic as it is, comes out in poor plight, +hardly recognizable. Men worship the shows of +great men; the most disbelieve that there is any +reality of great men to worship. The dreariest, +fatallest faith; believing which, one would literally +despair of human things. Nevertheless look, +for example, at Napoleon! A Corsican lieutenant +of artillery; that is the show of <i>him</i>: yet is he +not obeyed, <i>worshipped</i> after his sort, as all the +Tiaraed and Diademed of the world put together +could not be? High Duchesses, and ostlers of +inns, gather round the Scottish rustic, Burns;—a +strange feeling dwelling in each that they never +heard a man like this; that, on the whole, this is +the man! In the secret heart of these people it +still dimly reveals itself, though there is no accredited +way of uttering it at present, that this +rustic, with his black brows and flashing sun-eyes, +and strange words moving laughter and tears, is +of a dignity far beyond all others, incommensurable +with all others. Do not we feel it so? But now, +were Dilettantism, Scepticism, Triviality, and all<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[263]</a></span> +that sorrowful brood, cast-out of us,—as, by God’s +blessing, they shall one day be; were faith in the +shows of things entirely swept out, replaced by +clear faith in the <i>things</i>, so that a man acted on +the impulse of that only, and counted the other +non-extant; what a new livelier feeling towards +this Burns were it!</p> + +<p>Nay here in these ages, such as they are, have +we not two mere Poets, if not deified, yet we may +say beatified? Shakespeare and Dante are Saints +of Poetry; really, if we will think of it, <i>canonized</i>, +so that it is impiety to meddle with them. The +unguided instinct of the world, working across all +these perverse impediments, has arrived at such +result. Dante and Shakespeare are a peculiar Two. +They dwell apart, in a kind of royal solitude; none +equal, none second to them: in the general feeling +of the world, a certain transcendentalism, a glory +as of complete perfection, invests these two. They +<i>are</i> canonized, though no Pope or Cardinals took +hand in doing it! Such, in spite of every perverting +influence, in the most unheroic times, is still +our indestructible reverence for heroism.—We will +look a little at these Two, the Poet Dante and the +Poet Shakespeare: what little it is permitted us +to say here of the Hero as Poet will most fitly +arrange itself in that fashion.</p> + + +<p class="newsection">Many volumes have been written by way of commentary +on Dante and his Book; yet, on the whole, +with no great result. His Biography is, as it were, +irrecoverably lost for us. An unimportant, wandering, +sorrowstricken man, not much note was +taken of him while he lived; and the most of that +has vanished, in the long space that now intervenes.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[264]</a></span> +It is five centuries since he ceased writing +and living here. After all commentaries, the Book +itself is mainly what we know of him. The Book;—and +one might add that Portrait commonly attributed +to Giotto, which, looking on it, you cannot +help inclining to think genuine, whoever did it. +To me it is a most touching face; perhaps of all +faces that I know, the most so. Lonely there, +painted as on vacancy, with the simple laurel +wound round it; the deathless sorrow and pain, +the known victory which is also deathless;—significant +of the whole history of Dante! I think it +is the mournfullest face that ever was painted from +reality; an altogether tragic, heart-affecting face. +There is in it, as foundation of it, the softness, tenderness, +gentle affection as of a child; but all this +is as if congealed into sharp contradiction, into +abnegation, isolation, proud hopeless pain. A soft +ethereal soul looking out so stern, implacable, +grim-trenchant, as from imprisonment of thick-ribbed +ice! Withal it is a silent pain too, a silent +scornful one: the lip is curled in a kind of god-like +disdain of the thing that is eating-out his heart,—as +if it were withal a mean insignificant thing, as +if he whom it had power to torture and strangle +were greater than it. The face of one wholly in +protest, and lifelong unsurrendering battle, against +the world. Affection all converted into indignation: +an implacable indignation; slow, equable, silent, +like that of a god! The eye too, it looks out as in +a kind of <i>surprise</i>, a kind of inquiry, Why the world +was of such a sort? This is Dante: so he looks, +this ‘voice of ten silent centuries’, and sings us +‘his mystic unfathomable song’.</p> + +<p>The little that we know of Dante’s Life corresponds<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[265]</a></span> +well enough with this Portrait and this +Book. He was born at Florence, in the upper class +of society, in the year 1265. His education was +the best then going; much school-divinity, Aristotelean +logic, some Latin classics,—no inconsiderable +insight into certain provinces of things: +and Dante, with his earnest intelligent nature, we +need not doubt, learned better than most all +that was learnable. He has a clear cultivated +understanding, and of great subtlety; this best +fruit of education he had contrived to realize from +these scholastics. He knows accurately and well +what lies close to him; but, in such a time, without +printed books or free intercourse, he could not +know well what was distant: the small clear light, +most luminous for what is near, breaks itself into +singular <i>chiaroscuro</i> striking on what is far off. +This was Dante’s learning from the schools. In +life, he had gone through the usual destinies; been +twice out campaigning as a soldier for the Florentine +State, been on embassy; had in his thirty-fifth +year, by natural gradation of talent and service, +become one of the Chief Magistrates of Florence. +He had met in boyhood a certain Beatrice Portinari, +a beautiful little girl of his own age and rank, and +grown-up thenceforth in partial sight of her, in +some distant intercourse with her. All readers +know his graceful affecting account of this; and +then of their being parted; of her being wedded +to another, and of her death soon after. She makes +a great figure in Dante’s Poem; seems to have made +a great figure in his life. Of all beings it might +seem as if she, held apart from him, far apart at +last in the dim Eternity, were the only one he had +ever with his whole strength of affection loved.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[266]</a></span> +She died: Dante himself was wedded; but it +seems not happily, far from happily. I fancy, the +rigorous earnest man, with his keen excitabilities, +was not altogether easy to make happy.</p> + +<p>We will not complain of Dante’s miseries: had +all gone right with him as he wished it, he might +have been Prior, Podestà, or whatsoever they call +it, of Florence, well accepted among neighbours,—and +the world had wanted one of the most notable +words ever spoken or sung. Florence would have +had another prosperous Lord Mayor; and the ten +dumb centuries continued voiceless, and the ten +other listening centuries (for there will be ten of +them and more) had no <i>Divina Commedia</i> to hear! +We will complain of nothing. A nobler destiny +was appointed for this Dante; and he, struggling +like a man led towards death and crucifixion, could +not help fulfilling it. Give <i>him</i> the choice of his +happiness! He knew not, more than we do, what +was really happy, what was really miserable.</p> + +<p>In Dante’s Priorship, the Guelf-Ghibelline, +Bianchi-Neri, or some other confused disturbances +rose to such a height, that Dante, whose party had +seemed the stronger, was with his friends cast +unexpectedly forth into banishment; doomed +thenceforth to a life of woe and wandering. His +property was all confiscated and more; he had +the fiercest feeling that it was entirely unjust, +nefarious in the sight of God and man. He tried +what was in him to get reinstated; tried even by +warlike surprisal, with arms in his hand: but it +would not do; bad only had become worse. There +is a record, I believe, still extant in the Florence +Archives, dooming this Dante, wheresoever caught, +to be burnt alive. Burnt alive; so it stands, they<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[267]</a></span> +say: a very curious civic document. Another +curious document, some considerable number of +years later, is a Letter of Dante’s to the Florentine +Magistrates, written in answer to a milder proposal +of theirs, that he should return on condition of +apologizing and paying a fine. He answers, with +fixed stern pride: ‘If I cannot return without +calling myself guilty, I will never return, <i>nunquam +revertar</i>.’</p> + +<p>For Dante there was now no home in this world. +He wandered from patron to patron, from place +to place; proving, in his own bitter words, ‘How +hard is the path, <i>Come è duro calle</i>.’ The wretched +are not cheerful company. Dante, poor and +banished, with his proud earnest nature, with his +moody humours, was not a man to conciliate men. +Petrarch reports of him that being at Can della +Scala’s court, and blamed one day for his gloom +and taciturnity, he answered in no courtier-like +way. Della Scala stood among his courtiers, with +mimes and buffoons (<i>nebulones ac histriones</i>) making +him heartily merry; when turning to Dante, he +said: ‘Is it not strange, now, that this poor fool +should make himself so entertaining; while you, +a wise man, sit there day after day, and have +nothing to amuse us with at all?’ Dante answered +bitterly: ‘No, not strange; your Highness is to +recollect the Proverb, <i>Like to Like</i>;’—given the +amuser, the amusee must also be given! Such a +man, with his proud silent ways, with his sarcasms +and sorrows, was not made to succeed at court. +By degrees, it came to be evident to him that he +had no longer any resting-place, or hope of benefit, +in this earth. The earthly world had cast him +forth, to wander, wander; no living heart to love<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[268]</a></span> +him now; for his sore miseries there was no solace +here.</p> + +<p>The deeper naturally would the Eternal World +impress itself on him; that awful reality over +which, after all, this Time-world, with its Florences +and banishments, only flutters as an unreal shadow. +Florence thou shalt never see: but Hell and Purgatory +and Heaven thou shalt surely see! What +is Florence, Can della Scala, and the World and +Life altogether? <span class="smcap">Eternity</span>: thither, of a truth, +not elsewhither, art thou and all things bound! +The great soul of Dante, homeless on earth, made +its home more and more in that awful other world. +Naturally his thoughts brooded on that, as on the +one fact important for him. Bodied or bodiless, it +is the one fact important for all men:—but to Dante, +in that age, it was bodied in fixed certainty of scientific +shape; he no more doubted of that <i>Malebolge</i> +Pool, that it all lay there with its gloomy circles, +with its <i>alti guai</i>, and that he himself should see it, +than we doubt that we should see Constantinople +if we went thither. Dante’s heart, long filled with +this, brooding over it in speechless thought and awe, +bursts forth at length into ‘mystic unfathomable +song’; and this his <i>Divine Comedy</i>, the most +remarkable of all modern Books, is the result.</p> + +<p>It must have been a great solacement to Dante, +and was, as we can see, a proud thought for him at +times, That he, here in exile, could do this work; +that no Florence, nor no man or men, could hinder +him from doing it, or even much help him in doing +it. He knew too, partly, that it was great; the +greatest a man could do. ‘If thou follow thy star, +<i>Se tu segui tua stella</i>,’—so could the Hero, in his +forsakenness, in his extreme need, still say to himself:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[269]</a></span> +‘Follow thou thy star, thou shalt not fail of +a glorious heaven!’ The labour of writing, we find, +and indeed could know otherwise, was great and +painful for him; he says, This Book, ‘which has +made me lean for many years.’ Ah yes, it was won, +all of it, with pain and sore toil,—not in sport, but +in grim earnest. His Book, as indeed most good +Books are, has been written, in many senses, with +his heart’s blood. It is his whole history, this Book. +He died after finishing it; not yet very old, at the +age of fifty-six;—broken-hearted rather, as is said. +He lies buried in his death-city Ravenna: <i>Hic +claudor Dantes patriis extorris ab oris</i>. The Florentines +begged back his body, in a century after; the +Ravenna people would not give it. ‘Here am I +Dante laid, shut out from my native shores.’</p> + + +<p class="newsection">I said, Dante’s Poem was a Song: it is Tieck who +calls it ‘a mystic unfathomable Song’; and such +is literally the character of it. Coleridge remarks +very pertinently somewhere, that wherever you find +a sentence musically worded, of true rhythm and +melody in the words, there is something deep and +good in the meaning too. For body and soul, word +and idea, go strangely together here as everywhere. +Song: we said before, it was the Heroic of Speech! +All <i>old</i> Poems, Homer’s and the rest, are authentically +Songs. I would say, in strictness, that all +right Poems are; that whatsoever is not <i>sung</i> is +properly no Poem, but a piece of Prose cramped +into jingling lines,—to the great injury of the grammar, +to the great grief of the reader, for most part! +What we want to get at is the <i>thought</i> the man +had, if he had any: why should he twist it into +jingle, if he <i>could</i> speak it out plainly? It is only<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[270]</a></span> +when the heart of him is rapt into true passion of +melody, and the very tones of him, according to +Coleridge’s remark, become musical by the greatness, +depth and music of his thoughts, that we can +give him right to rhyme and sing; that we call him +a Poet, and listen to him as the Heroic of Speakers,—whose +speech <i>is</i> Song. Pretenders to this are +many; and to an earnest reader, I doubt, it is for +most part a very melancholy, not to say an insupportable +business, that of reading rhyme! Rhyme +that had no inward necessity to be rhymed;—it +ought to have told us plainly, without any jingle, +what it was aiming at. I would advise all men who +<i>can</i> speak their thought, not to sing it; to understand +that, in a serious time, among serious men, +there is no vocation in them for singing it. Precisely +as we love the true song, and are charmed by +it as by something divine, so shall we hate the false +song, and account it a mere wooden noise, a thing +hollow, superfluous, altogether an insincere and +offensive thing.</p> + +<p>I give Dante my highest praise when I say of his +<i>Divine Comedy</i> that it is, in all senses, genuinely a +Song. In the very sound of it there is a <i>canto fermo</i>; +it proceeds as by a chant. The language, his simple +<i>terza rima</i>, doubtless helped him in this. One reads +along naturally with a sort of <i>lilt</i>. But I add, that +it could not be otherwise; for the essence and +material of the work are themselves rhythmic. Its +depth, and rapt passion and sincerity, makes it +musical;—go <i>deep</i> enough, there is music everywhere. +A true inward symmetry, what one calls +an architectural harmony, reigns in it, proportionates +it all: architectural; which also partakes +of the character of music. The three kingdoms,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[271]</a></span> +<i>Inferno</i>, <i>Purgatorio</i>, <i>Paradiso</i>, look out on one +another like compartments of a great edifice; a +great supernatural world-cathedral, piled up there, +stern, solemn, awful; Dante’s World of Souls! It +is, at bottom, the <i>sincerest</i> of all Poems; sincerity, +here too, we find to be the measure of worth. It +came deep out of the author’s heart of hearts; and +it goes deep, and through long generations, into ours. +The people of Verona, when they saw him on the +streets, used to say, ‘<i>Eccovi l’ uom ch’ è stato all’ +Inferno</i>, See, there is the man that was in Hell!’ +Ah, yes, he had been in Hell;—in Hell enough, in +long severe sorrow and struggle; as the like of him +is pretty sure to have been. Commedias that come-out +<i>divine</i> are not accomplished otherwise. Thought, +true labour of any kind, highest virtue itself, is it +not the daughter of Pain? Born as out of the black +whirlwind;—true <i>effort</i>, in fact, as of a captive +struggling to free himself: that is Thought. In all +ways we are ‘to become perfect through <i>suffering</i>.’—But, +as I say, no work known to me is so elaborated +as this of Dante’s. It has all been as if molten, +in the hottest furnace of his soul. It had made him +‘lean’ for many years. Not the general whole only; +every compartment of it is worked-out, with intense +earnestness, into truth, into clear visuality. Each +answers to the other; each fits in its place, like +a marble stone accurately hewn and polished. It +is the soul of Dante, and in this the soul of the +Middle Ages, rendered for ever rhythmically visible +there. No light task; a right intense one: but +a task which is <i>done</i>.</p> + +<p>Perhaps one would say, <i>intensity</i>, with the much +that depends on it, is the prevailing character of +Dante’s genius. Dante does not come before us<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[272]</a></span> +as a large catholic mind; rather as a narrow, and +even sectarian mind: it is partly the fruit of his +age and position, but partly too of his own nature. +His greatness has, in all senses, concentered itself +into fiery emphasis and depth. He is world-great +not because he is world-wide, but because he is +world-deep. Through all objects he pierces as it +were down into the heart of Being. I know nothing +so intense as Dante. Consider, for example, to +begin with the outermost development of his intensity, +consider how he paints. He has a great power +of vision; seizes the very type of a thing; presents +that and nothing more. You remember that first +view he gets of the Hall of Dite: <i>red</i> pinnacle, red-hot +cone of iron glowing through the dim immensity +of gloom;—so vivid, so distinct, visible at once and +for ever! It is as an emblem of the whole genius of +Dante. There is a brevity, an abrupt precision in +him: Tacitus is not briefer, more condensed; and +then in Dante it seems a natural condensation, +spontaneous to the man. One smiting word; and +then there is silence, nothing more said. His silence +is more eloquent than words. It is strange with +what a sharp decisive grace he snatches the true +likeness of a matter: cuts into the matter as with +a pen of fire. Plutus, the blustering giant, collapses +at Virgil’s rebuke; it is ‘as the sails sink, the mast +being suddenly broken’. Or that poor Sordello, +with the <i>cotto aspetto</i>, ‘face <i>baked</i>’, parched brown +and lean; and the ‘fiery snow’ that falls on them +there, a ‘fiery snow without wind’, slow, deliberate, +never-ending! Or the lids of those Tombs; square +sarcophaguses, in that silent dim-burning Hall, each +with its Soul in torment; the lids laid open there; +they are to be shut at the Day of Judgement,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[273]</a></span> +through Eternity. And how Farinata rises; and +how Cavalcante falls—at hearing of his Son, and +the past tense ‘<i>fue</i>!’ The very movements in +Dante have something brief; swift, decisive, almost +military. It is of the inmost essence of his genius +this sort of painting. The fiery, swift Italian nature +of the man, so silent, passionate, with its quick +abrupt movements, its silent ‘pale rages’, speaks +itself in these things.</p> + +<p>For though this of painting is one of the outermost +developments of a man, it comes like all else from +the essential faculty of him; it is physiognomical +of the whole man. Find a man whose words paint +you a likeness, you have found a man worth something; +mark his manner of doing it, as very characteristic +of him. In the first place, he could not have +discerned the object at all, or seen the vital type +of it, unless he had, what we may call, <i>sympathized</i> +with it,—had sympathy in him to bestow on objects. +He must have been <i>sincere</i> about it too; sincere +and sympathetic: a man without worth cannot +give you the likeness of any object; he dwells in +vague outwardness, fallacy and trivial hearsay, +about all objects. And indeed may we not say that +intellect altogether expresses itself in this power +of discerning what an object is? Whatsoever of +faculty a man’s mind may have will come out here. +Is it even of business, a matter to be done? The +gifted man is he who <i>sees</i> the essential point, and +leaves all the rest aside as surplusage: it is his +faculty too, the man of business’s faculty, that he +discern the true <i>likeness</i>, not the false superficial +one, of the thing he has got to work in. And how +much of <i>morality</i> is in the kind of insight we get +of anything; ‘the eye seeing in all things what it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[274]</a></span> +brought with it the faculty of seeing!’ To the +mean eye all things are trivial, as certainly as to the +jaundiced they are yellow. Raphael, the Painters +tell us, is the best of all Portrait-painters withal. +No most gifted eye can exhaust the significance of +any object. In the commonest human face there +lies more than Raphael will take away with him.</p> + +<p>Dante’s painting is not graphic only, brief, true, +and of a vividness as of fire in dark night; taken on +the wider scale, it is everyway noble, and the outcome +of a great soul. Francesca and her Lover, +what qualities in that! A thing woven as out of +rainbows, on a ground of eternal black. A small +flute-voice of infinite wail speaks there, into our +very heart of hearts. A touch of womanhood in it +too: <i>della bella persona, che mi fu tolta</i>; and how, +even in the Pit of woe, it is a solace that <i>he</i> will +never part from her! Saddest tragedy in these +<i>alti guai</i>. And the racking winds, in that <i>aer bruno</i>, +whirl them away again, to wail for ever!—Strange +to think: Dante was the friend of this poor Francesca’s +father; Francesca herself may have sat upon +the Poet’s knee, as a bright innocent little child. +Infinite pity, yet also infinite rigour of law: it is +so Nature is made; it is so Dante discerned that +she was made. What a paltry notion is that of his +<i>Divine Comedy’s</i> being a poor splenetic impotent +terrestrial libel; putting those into Hell whom he +could not be avenged upon on earth! I suppose if +ever pity, tender as a mother’s, was in the heart +of any man, it was in Dante’s. But a man who does +not know rigour cannot pity either. His very pity +will be cowardly, egoistic,—sentimentality, or little +better. I know not in the world an affection equal +to that of Dante. It is a tenderness, a trembling,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[275]</a></span> +longing, pitying love: like the wail of Aeolean harps, +soft, soft; like a child’s young heart;—and then +that stern, sore-saddened heart! These longings +of his towards his Beatrice; their meeting together +in the <i>Paradiso</i>; his gazing in her pure transfigured +eyes, her that had been purified by death so long, +separated from him so far:—one likens it to the +gong of angels; it is among the purest utterances +of affection, perhaps the very purest, that ever came +out of a human soul.</p> + +<p>For the <i>intense</i> Dante is intense in all things; he +has got into the essence of all. His intellectual insight +as painter, on occasion too as reasoner, is but the +result of all other sorts of intensity. Morally great, +above all, we must call him; it is the beginning of +all. His scorn, his grief are as transcendent as his +love;—as indeed, what are they but the <i>inverse</i> or +<i>converse</i> of his love? ‘<i>A Dio spiacenti, ed a’ nemici +sui</i>, Hateful to God and to the enemies of God:’ +lofty scorn, unappeasable silent reprobation and +aversion; ‘<i>Non ragionam di lor</i>, We will not speak +of <i>them</i>, look only and pass.’ Or think of this: +‘They have not the <i>hope</i> to die, <i>Non han speranza +di morte</i>.’ One day, it had risen sternly benign on +the scathed heart of Dante, that he, wretched, +never-resting, worn as he was, would full surely <i>die</i>; +‘that Destiny itself could not doom him not to die.’ +Such words are in this man. For rigour, earnestness +and depth, he is not to be paralleled in the modern +world; to seek his parallel we must go into the +Hebrew Bible, and live with the antique Prophets +there.</p> + +<p>I do not agree with much modern criticism, in +greatly preferring the <i>Inferno</i> to the two other parts +of the Divine <i>Commedia</i>. Such preference belongs,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[276]</a></span> +I imagine, to our general Byronism of taste, and is +like to be a transient feeling. The <i>Purgatorio</i> and +<i>Paradiso</i>, especially the former, one would almost +say, is even more excellent than it. It is a noble +thing that <i>Purgatorio</i>, ‘Mountain of Purification’; +an emblem of the noblest conception of that age. +If Sin is so fatal, and Hell is and must be so rigorous, +awful, yet in Repentance too is man purified; +Repentance is the grand Christian act. It is beautiful +how Dante works it out. The <i>tremolar dell’ +onde</i>, that ‘trembling’ of the ocean-waves, under +the first pure gleam of morning, dawning afar on +the wandering Two, is as the type of an altered +mood. Hope has now dawned; never-dying Hope, +if in company still with heavy sorrow. The obscure +sojourn of daemons and reprobate is under foot; +a soft breathing of penitence mounts higher and +higher, to the Throne of Mercy itself. ‘Pray for +me,’ the denizens of that Mount of Pain all say to +him. ‘Tell my Giovanna to pray for me,’ my +daughter Giovanna; ‘I think her mother loves me +no more!’ They toil painfully up by that winding +steep, ‘bent-down like corbels of a building,’ some +of them,—crushed together so ‘for the sin of pride’; +yet nevertheless in years, in ages and aeons, they +shall have reached the top, which is Heaven’s gate, +and by Mercy shall have been admitted in. The +joy too of all, when one has prevailed; the whole +Mountain shakes with joy, and a psalm of praise +rises, when one soul has perfected repentance, and +got its sin and misery left behind! I call all this +a noble embodiment of a true noble thought.</p> + +<p>But indeed the Three compartments mutually +support one another, are indispensable to one +another. The <i>Paradiso</i>, a kind of inarticulate music<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[277]</a></span> +to me, is the redeeming side of the <i>Inferno</i>; the +<i>Inferno</i> without it were untrue. All three make up +the true Unseen World, as figured in the Christianity +of the Middle Ages; a thing for ever memorable, +for ever true in the essence of it, to all men. It was +perhaps delineated in no human soul with such +depth of veracity as in this of Dante’s; a man <i>sent</i> +to sing it, to keep it long memorable. Very notable +with what brief simplicity he passes out of the +every-day reality, into the Invisible one; and in +the second or third stanza, we find ourselves in the +World of Spirits; and dwell there, as among things +palpable, indubitable! To Dante they <i>were</i> so; +the real world, as it is called, and its facts, was +but the threshold to an infinitely higher Fact of a +World. At bottom, the one was as <i>preter</i>natural +as the other. Has not each man a soul? He will +not only be a spirit, but is one. To the earnest +Dante it is all one visible Fact; he believes it, sees +it; is the Poet of it in virtue of that. Sincerity, +I say again, is the saving merit, now as always.</p> + +<p>Dante’s Hell, Purgatory, Paradise, are a symbol +withal, an emblematic representation of his Belief +about this Universe:—some Critic in a future age, +like those Scandinavian ones the other day, who +has ceased altogether to think as Dante did, may +find this too all an ‘Allegory’, perhaps an idle +Allegory! It is a sublime embodiment, or sublimest, +of the soul of Christianity. It expresses, as +in huge world-wide architectural emblems, how the +Christian Dante felt Good and Evil to be the two +polar elements of this Creation, on which it all +turns; that these two differ not by <i>preferability</i> of +one to the other, but by incompatibility absolute +and infinite; that the one is excellent and high as<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[278]</a></span> +light and Heaven, the other hideous, black as +Gehenna and the Pit of Hell! Everlasting Justice, +yet with Penitence, with everlasting Pity,—all +Christianism, as Dante and the Middle Ages had it, +is emblemed there. Emblemed: and yet, as I urged +the other day, with what entire truth of purpose; +how unconscious of any embleming! Hell, Purgatory, +Paradise: these things were not fashioned +as emblems; was there, in our Modern European +Mind, any thought at all of their being emblems! +Were they not indubitable awful facts; the whole +heart of man taking them for practically true, all +Nature everywhere confirming them? So is it +always in these things. Men do not believe an +Allegory. The future Critic, whatever his new +thought may be, who considers this of Dante to +have been all got-up as an Allegory, will commit +one sore mistake!—Paganism we recognized as +a veracious expression of the earnest awe-struck +feeling of man towards the Universe; veracious, +true once, and still not without worth for us. But +mark here the difference of Paganism and Christianism; +one great difference. Paganism emblemed +chiefly the Operations of Nature; the destinies, +efforts, combinations, vicissitudes of things and +men in this world; Christianism emblemed the Law +of Human Duty, the Moral Law of Man. One was +for the sensuous nature: a rude helpless utterance +of the <i>first</i> Thought of men,—the chief recognized +virtue, Courage, Superiority to Fear. The other +was not for the sensuous nature, but for the moral. +What a progress is here, if in that one respect only!—</p> + + +<p class="newsection">And so in this Dante, as we said, had ten silent +centuries, in a very strange way, found a voice.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[279]</a></span> +The <i>Divina Commedia</i> is of Dante’s writing; yet +in truth <i>it</i> belongs to ten Christian centuries, only +the finishing of it is Dante’s. So always. The +craftsman there, the smith with that metal of his, +with these tools, with these cunning methods,—how +little of all he does is properly <i>his</i> work! All +past inventive men work there with him;—as +indeed with all of us, in all things. Dante is the +spokesman of the Middle Ages; the Thought they +lived by stands here, in everlasting music. These +sublime ideas of his, terrible and beautiful, are the +fruit of the Christian Meditation of all the good men +who had gone before him. Precious they; but also +is not he precious? Much, had not he spoken, would +have been dumb; not dead, yet living voiceless.</p> + +<p>On the whole, is it not an utterance, this mystic +Song, at once of one of the greatest human souls, +and of the highest thing that Europe had hitherto +realized for itself? Christianism, as Dante sings it, +is another than Paganism in the rude Norse mind; +another than ‘Bastard Christianism’ half articulately +spoken in the Arab desert, seven hundred +years before!—The noblest <i>idea</i> made <i>real</i> hitherto +among men, is sung, and emblemed forth abidingly, +by one of the noblest men. In the one sense and in +the other, are we not right glad to possess it? As +I calculate, it may last yet for long thousands of years. +For the thing that is uttered from the inmost parts +of a man’s soul, differs altogether from what is +uttered by the outer part. The outer is of the day, +under the empire of mode; the outer passes away, +in swift endless changes; the inmost is the same +yesterday, to-day, and for ever. True souls, in all +generations of the world, who look on this Dante, +will find a brotherhood in him; the deep sincerity<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[280]</a></span> +of his thoughts, his woes and hopes, will speak likewise +to their sincerity; they will feel that this +Dante too was a brother. Napoleon in Saint-Helena +is charmed with the genial veracity of old Homer. +The oldest Hebrew Prophet, under a vesture the +most diverse from ours, does yet, because he speaks +from the heart of man, speak to all men’s hearts. +It is the one sole secret of continuing long memorable. +Dante, for depth of sincerity, is like an antique +Prophet too; his words, like theirs, come from his +very heart. One need not wonder if it were predicted +that his Poem might be the most enduring +thing our Europe has yet made; for nothing so +endures as a truly spoken word. All cathedrals, +pontificalities, brass and stone, and outer arrangement +never so lasting, are brief in comparison to an +unfathomable heart-song like this: one feels as if +it might survive, still of importance to men, when +these had all sunk into new irrecognizable combinations, +and had ceased individually to be. +Europe has made much; great cities, great empires, +encyclopaedias, creeds, bodies of opinion and practice: +but it has made little of the class of Dante’s +Thought. Homer yet <i>is</i>, veritably present face to +face with every open soul of us; and Greece, where +is <i>it</i>? Desolate for thousands of years; away, +vanished; a bewildered heap of stones and rubbish, +the life and existence of it all gone. Like a dream; +like the dust of King Agamemnon! Greece was; +Greece, except in the <i>words</i> it spoke, is not.</p> + +<p>The uses of this Dante? We will not say much +about his ‘uses’. A human soul who has once got +into that primal element of <i>Song</i>, and sung forth +fitly somewhat therefrom, has worked in the <i>depths</i> +of our existence; feeding through long times the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[281]</a></span> +life-<i>roots</i> of all excellent human things whatsoever,—in +a way that ‘utilities’ will not succeed well in +calculating! We will not estimate the Sun by the +quantity of gas-light it saves us; Dante shall be +invaluable, or of no value. One remark I may make: +the contrast in this respect between the Hero-Poet +and the Hero-Prophet. In a hundred years, +Mahomet, as we saw, had his Arabians at Grenada +and at Delhi; Dante’s Italians seem to be yet very +much where they were. Shall we say, then, Dante’s +effect on the world was small in comparison? Not +so: his arena is far more restricted; but also it +is far nobler, clearer;—perhaps not less but more +important. Mahomet speaks to great masses of +men, in the coarse dialect adapted to such; a dialect +filled with inconsistencies, crudities, follies: on the +great masses alone can he act, and there with good +and with evil strangely blended. Dante speaks to +the noble, the pure and great, in all times and places. +Neither does he grow obsolete, as the other does. +Dante burns as a pure star, fixed there in the firmament, +at which the great and the high of all ages +kindle themselves: he is the possession of all the +chosen of the world for uncounted time. Dante, +one calculates, may long survive Mahomet. In this +way the balance may be made straight again.</p> + +<p>But, at any rate, it is not by what is called their +effect on the world by what <i>we</i> can judge of their +effect there, that a man and his work are measured. +Effect? Influence? Utility? Let a man <i>do</i> his +work; the fruit of it is the care of Another than he. +It will grow its own fruit; and whether embodied +in Caliph Thrones and Arabian Conquests, so that +it ‘fills all Morning and Evening Newspapers’, and +all Histories, which are a kind of distilled Newspapers;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[282]</a></span> +or not embodied so at all;—what matters +that? That is not the real fruit of it! The Arabian +Caliph, in so far only as he did something, was +something. If the great Cause of Man, and Man’s +work in God’s Earth, got no furtherance from the +Arabian Caliph, then no matter how many scimitars +he drew, how many gold piastres pocketed, and +what uproar and blaring he made in this world,—<i>he</i> +was but a loud-sounding inanity and futility; +at bottom, he <i>was</i> not at all. Let us honour the +great empire of <i>Silence</i>, once more! The boundless +treasury which we do <i>not</i> jingle in our pockets, or +count up and present before men! It is perhaps, +of all things, the usefulest for each of us to do, in +these loud times.— —</p> + + +<p class="newsection">As Dante, the Italian man, was sent into our world +to embody musically the Religion of the Middle Ages, +the Religion of our Modern Europe, its Inner Life; +so Shakespeare, we may say, embodies for us the +Outer Life of our Europe as developed then, its +chivalries, courtesies, humours, ambitions, what +practical way of thinking, acting, looking at the +world, men then had. As in Homer we may still +construe Old Greece; so in Shakespeare and Dante, +after thousands of years, what our Modern Europe +was, in Faith and in Practice, will still be legible. +Dante has given us the Faith or soul; Shakespeare, +in a not less noble way, has given us the Practice +or body. This latter also we were to have; a man +was sent for it, the man Shakespeare. Just when +that chivalry way of life had reached its last finish, +and was on the point of breaking down into slow +or swift dissolution, as we now see it everywhere, +this other sovereign Poet, with his seeing eye, with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[283]</a></span> +his perennial singing voice, was sent to take note +of it, to give long-enduring record of it. Two fit +men: Dante, deep, fierce as the central fire of the +world; Shakespeare, wide, placid, far-seeing, as the +Sun, the upper light of the world. Italy produced +the one world-voice; we English had the honour +of producing the other.</p> + +<p>Curious enough how, as it were by mere accident, +this man came to us. I think always, so great, quiet, +complete and self-sufficing is this Shakespeare, had +the Warwickshire Squire not prosecuted him for +deer-stealing, we had perhaps never heard of him +as a Poet! The woods and skies, the rustic Life of +Man in Stratford there, had been enough for this +man! But indeed that strange outbudding of our +whole English Existence, which we call the Elizabethan +Era, did not it too come as of its own accord? +The ‘Tree Igdrasil’ buds and withers by its own +laws,—too deep for our scanning. Yet it does bud +and wither, and every bough and leaf of it is there, +by fixed eternal laws; not a Sir Thomas Lucy but +comes at the hour fit for him. Curious, I say, and +not sufficiently considered: how everything does +co-operate with all; not a leaf rotting on the highway +but is indissoluble portion of solar and stellar +systems; no thought, word or act of man but has +sprung withal out of all men, and works sooner or +later, recognizably or irrecognizably, on all men! +It is all a Tree: circulation of sap and influences, +mutual communication of every minutest leaf with +the lowest talon of a root, with every other greatest +and minutest portion of the whole. The Tree +Igdrasil, that has its roots down in the Kingdoms +of Hela and Death, and whose boughs overspread +the highest Heaven!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[284]</a></span>—</p> + +<p>In some sense it may be said that this glorious +Elizabethan Era with its Shakespeare, as the outcome +and flowerage of all which had preceded it, +is itself attributable to the Catholicism of the Middle +Ages. The Christian Faith, which was the theme +of Dante’s Song, had produced this Practical Life +which Shakespeare was to sing. For Religion then, +as it now and always is, was the soul of Practice; +the primary vital fact in men’s life. And remark +here, as rather curious, that Middle-Age Catholicism +was abolished, so far as Acts of Parliament could +abolish it, before Shakespeare, the noblest product +of it, made his appearance. He did make his appearance +nevertheless. Nature at her own time, with +Catholicism or what else might be necessary, sent +him forth; taking small thought of Acts of Parliament. +King-Henrys, Queen-Elizabeths go their +way; and Nature too goes hers. Acts of Parliament, +on the whole, are small, notwithstanding the noise +they make. What Act of Parliament, debate at +St. Stephens, on the hustings or elsewhere, was it +that brought this Shakespeare into being? No +dining at Freemasons’ Tavern, opening subscription-lists, +selling of shares, and infinite other jangling and +true or false endeavouring! This Elizabethan Era, +and all its nobleness and blessedness, came without +proclamation, preparation of ours. Priceless Shakespeare +was the free gift of Nature; given altogether +silently;—received altogether silently, as if it had +been a thing of little account. And yet, very literally, +it is a priceless thing. One should look at that side +of matters too.</p> + +<p>Of this Shakespeare of ours, perhaps the opinion +one sometimes hears a little idolatrously expressed +is, in fact, the right one; I think the best judgement<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[285]</a></span> +not of this country only, but of Europe at large, is +slowly pointing to the conclusion, That Shakespeare +is the chief of all Poets hitherto; the greatest intellect +who, in our recorded world, has left record of +himself in the way of literature. On the whole, I +know not such a power of vision, such a faculty of +thought, if we take all the characters of it, in any +other man. Such a calmness of depth; placid joyous +strength; all things imaged in that great soul of his +so true and clear, as in a tranquil unfathomable sea! +It has been said, that in the constructing of Shakespeare’s +Dramas there is, apart from all other +‘faculties’ as they are called, an understanding +manifested, equal to that in Bacon’s <i>Novum Organum</i>. +That is true; and it is not a truth that +strikes every one. It would become more apparent +if we tried, any of us for himself, how, out of Shakespeare’s +dramatic materials, <i>we</i> could fashion such +a result! The built house seems all so fit,—everyway +as it should be, as if it came there by its +own law and the nature of things,—we forget the +rude disorderly quarry it was shaped from. The +very perfection of the house, as if Nature herself had +made it, hides the builder’s merit. Perfect, more +perfect than any other man, we may call Shakespeare +in this: he discerns, knows as by instinct, +what condition he works under, what his materials +are, what his own force and its relation to them is. +It is not a transitory glance of insight that will +suffice; it is deliberate illumination of the whole +matter; it is a calmly <i>seeing</i> eye; a great intellect, +in short. How a man, of some wide thing that he +has witnessed, will construct a narrative, what kind +of picture and delineation he will give of it,—is the +best measure you could get of what intellect is in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[286]</a></span> +the man. Which circumstance is vital and shall +stand prominent; which unessential, fit to be suppressed; +where is the true <i>beginning</i>, the true +sequence and ending? To find out this, you task +the whole force of insight that is in the man. He +must <i>understand</i> the thing; according to the depth +of his understanding, will the fitness of his answer +be. You will try him so. Does like join itself to like; +does the spirit of method stir in that confusion, so +that its embroilment becomes order? Can the man +say, <i>Fiat lux</i>, Let there be light; and out of chaos +make a world? Precisely as there, is <i>light</i> in himself, +will he accomplish this.</p> + +<p>Or indeed we may say again, it is in what I called +Portrait-painting, delineating of men and things, +especially of men, that Shakespeare is great. All +the greatness of the man comes out decisively here. +It is unexampled, I think, that calm creative perspicacity +of Shakespeare. The thing he looks at +reveals not this or that face of it, but its inmost +heart and generic secret: it dissolves itself as in +light before him, so that he discerns the perfect +structure of it. Creative, we said: poetic creation, +what is this too but <i>seeing</i> the thing sufficiently? +The <i>word</i> that will describe the thing, follows of +itself from such clear intense sight of the thing. +And is not Shakespeare’s <i>morality</i>, his valour, candour, +tolerance, truthfulness; his whole victorious +strength and greatness, which can triumph over +such obstructions, visible there too? Great as the +world! No <i>twisted</i>, poor convex-concave mirror, +reflecting all objects with its own convexities and +concavities; a perfectly <i>level</i> mirror;—that is to +say withal, if we will understand it, a man justly +related to all things and men, a good man. It is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[287]</a></span> +truly a lordly spectacle how this great soul takes in +all kinds of men and objects, a Falstaff, an Othello, +a Juliet, a Coriolanus; sets them all forth to us +in their round completeness; loving, just, the equal +brother of all. <i>Novum Organum</i>, and all the intellect +you will find in Bacon, is of a quite secondary order; +earthy, material, poor in comparison with this. +Among modern men, one finds, in strictness, almost +nothing of the same rank. Goethe alone, since the +days of Shakespeare, reminds me of it. Of him too +you say that he <i>saw</i> the object; you may say what +he himself says of Shakespeare: ‘His characters are +like watches with dial-plates of transparent crystal; +they show you the hour like others, and the inward +mechanism also is all visible.’</p> + +<p>The seeing eye! It is this that discloses the inner +harmony of things; what Nature meant, what +musical idea Nature has wrapped up in these often +rough embodiments. Something she did mean. +To the seeing eye that something were discernible. +Are they base, miserable things? You can laugh +over them, you can weep over them; you can in +some way or other genially relate yourself to them;—you +can, at lowest, hold your peace about them, +turn away your own and others’ face from them, +till the hour come for practically exterminating and +extinguishing them! At bottom, it is the Poet’s +first gift, as it is all men’s, that he have intellect +enough. He will be a Poet if he have: a Poet in +word; or failing that, perhaps still better, a Poet +in act. Whether he write at all; and if so, whether +in prose or in verse, will depend on accidents: who +knows on what extremely trivial accidents,—perhaps +on his having had a singing-master, on his being +taught to sing in his boyhood! But the faculty<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[288]</a></span> +which enables him to discern the inner heart of +things, and the harmony that dwells there (for what +soever exists has a harmony in the heart of it, or it +would not hold together and exist), is not the result +of habits or accidents, but the gift of Nature herself; +the primary outfit for a Heroic Man in what sort +soever. To the Poet, as to every other, we say first +of all, <i>See</i>. If you cannot do that, it is of no use to +keep stringing rhymes together, jingling sensibilities +against each other, and <i>name</i> yourself a Poet; there +is no hope for you. If you can, there is, in prose or +verse, in action or speculation, all manner of hope. +The crabbed old Schoolmaster used to ask, when +they brought him a new pupil, ‘But are ye sure he’s +<i>not a dunce</i>?’ Why, really one might ask the same +thing, in regard to every man proposed for whatsoever +function; and consider it as the one inquiry +needful: Are ye sure he’s not a dunce? There is, +in this world, no other entirely fatal person.</p> + +<p>For, in fact, I say the degree of vision that dwells +in a man is a correct measure of the man. If called +to define Shakespeare’s faculty, I should say +superiority of Intellect, and think I had included +all under that. What indeed are faculties? We +talk of faculties as if they were distinct, things +separable; as if a man had intellect, imagination, +fancy, &c., as he has hands, feet and arms. That +is a capital error. Then again, we hear of a man’s +‘intellectual nature’, and of his ‘moral nature’, as +if these again were divisible, and existed apart. +Necessities of language do perhaps prescribe such +forms of utterance; we must speak, I am aware, +in that way, if we are to speak at all. But words +ought not to harden into things for us. It seems to +me, our apprehension of this matter is, for most part,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[289]</a></span> +radically falsified thereby. We ought to know +withal, and to keep for ever in mind, that these +divisions are at bottom but <i>names</i>; that man’s +spiritual nature, the vital Force which dwells in +him, is essentially one and indivisible; that what +we call imagination, fancy, understanding, and so +forth, are but different figures of the same Power +of Insight, all indissolubly connected with each +other, physiognomically related; that if we knew +one of them, we might know all of them. Morality +itself, what we call the moral quality of a man, what +is this but another <i>side</i> of the one vital Force whereby +he is and works? All that a man does is physiognomical +of him. You may see how a man would +fight, by the way in which he sings; his courage, or +want of courage, is visible in the word he utters, in +the opinion he has formed, no less than in the stroke +he strikes. He is <i>one</i>; and preaches the same Self +abroad in all these ways.</p> + +<p>Without hands a man might have feet, and could +still walk: but, consider it,—without morality, +intellect were impossible for him; a thoroughly +immoral <i>man</i> could not know anything at all! To +know a thing, what we can call knowing, a man must +first <i>love</i> the thing, sympathize with it: that is, be +<i>virtuously</i> related to it. If he have not the justice +to put down his own selfishness at every turn, the +courage to stand by the dangerous-true at every +turn, how shall he know? His virtues, all of them, +will lie recorded in his knowledge. Nature, with +her truth, remains to the bad, to the selfish and the +pusillanimous for ever a sealed book: what such +can know of Nature is mean, superficial, small; for +the uses of the day merely.—But does not the very +Fox know something of Nature? Exactly so: it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[290]</a></span> +knows where the geese lodge! The human Reynard, +very frequent everywhere in the world, what more +does he know but this and the like of this? Nay, +it should be considered too, that if the Fox had not +a certain vulpine <i>morality</i>, he could not even know +where the geese were, or get at the geese! If he +spent his time in splenetic atrabiliar reflections on +his own misery, his ill usage by Nature, Fortune and +other Foxes, and so forth; and had not courage, +promptitude, practicality, and other suitable vulpine +gifts and graces, he would catch no geese. We +may say of the Fox too, that his morality and insight +are of the same dimensions; different faces of the +same internal unity of vulpine life!—These things +are worth stating; for the contrary of them acts +with manifold very baleful perversion, in this time: +what limitations, modifications they require, your +own candour will supply.</p> + +<p>If I say, therefore, that Shakespeare is the greatest +of Intellects, I have said all concerning him. But +there is more in Shakespeare’s intellect than we have +yet seen. It is what I call an unconscious intellect; +there is more virtue in it than he himself is aware +of. Novalis beautifully remarks of him, that those +Dramas of his are Products of Nature too, deep as +Nature herself. I find a great truth in this saying. +Shakespeare’s Art is not Artifice; the noblest worth +of it is not there by plan or precontrivance. It +grows up from the deeps of Nature, through this +noble sincere soul, who is a voice of Nature. The +latest generations of men will find new meanings in +Shakespeare, new elucidations of their own human +being; ‘new harmonies with the infinite structure +of the Universe; concurrences with later ideas, +affinities with the higher powers and senses of man.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[291]</a></span>’ +This well deserves meditating. It is Nature’s highest +award to a true simple great soul, that he get thus +to be <i>a part of herself</i>. Such a man’s works, whatsoever +he with utmost conscious exertion and forethought +shall accomplish, grow up withal <i>un</i>consciously, +from the unknown deeps in him;—as the +oak-tree grows from the Earth’s bosom, as the +mountains and waters shape themselves; with a +symmetry grounded on Nature’s own laws, conformable +to all Truth whatsoever. How much in +Shakespeare lies hid; his sorrows, his silent struggles +known to himself; much that was not known at all, +not speakable at all: like <i>roots</i>, like sap and forces +working underground! Speech is great; but Silence +is greater.</p> + +<p>Withal the joyful tranquillity of this man is notable. +I will not blame Dante for his misery: it is as battle +without victory; but true battle,—the first, indispensable +thing. Yet I call Shakespeare greater than +Dante, in that he fought truly, and did conquer. +Doubt it not, he had his own sorrows: those +<i>Sonnets</i> of his will even testify expressly in what +deep waters he had waded, and swum struggling +for his life;—as what man like him ever failed to +have to do? It seems to me a heedless notion, +our common one, that he sat like a bird on the +bough; and sang forth, free and offhand, never +knowing the troubles of other men. Not so; with +no man is it so. How could a man travel forward +from rustic deer-poaching to such tragedy-writing, +and not fall in with sorrows by the way? Or, still +better, how could a man delineate a Hamlet, a +Coriolanus, a Macbeth, so many suffering heroic +hearts, if his own heroic heart had never suffered?—And +now, in contrast with all this, observe his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[292]</a></span> +mirthfulness, his genuine overflowing love of +laughter! You would say, in no point does he +<i>exaggerate</i> but only in laughter. Fiery objurgations, +words that pierce and burn, are to be found +in Shakespeare; yet he is always in measure here; +never what Johnson would remark as a specially +‘good hater’. But his laughter seems to pour +from him in floods; he heaps all manner of ridiculous +nicknames on the butt he is bantering, +tumbles and tosses him in all sorts of horse-play; +you would say, roars and laughs. And then, if not +always the finest, it is always a genial laughter. +Not at mere weakness, at misery or poverty; +never. No man who <i>can</i> laugh, what we call +laughing, will laugh at these things. It is some +poor character only <i>desiring</i> to laugh, and have +the credit of wit, that does so. Laughter means +sympathy; good laughter is not ‘the crackling +of thorns under the pot’. Even at stupidity and +pretension this Shakespeare does not laugh otherwise +than genially. Dogberry and Verges tickle +our very hearts; and we dismiss them covered +with explosions of laughter: but we like the poor +fellows only the better for our laughing; and hope +they will get on well there, and continue Presidents +of the City-watch.—Such laughter, like sunshine +on the deep sea, is very beautiful to me.</p> + + +<p class="newsection">We have no room to speak of Shakespeare’s +individual works; though perhaps there is much +still waiting to be said on that head. Had we, +for instance, all his plays reviewed as <i>Hamlet</i>, in +<i>Wilhelm Meister</i>, is! A thing which might, one +day, be done. August Wilhelm Schlegel has a +remark on his Historical Plays, <i>Henry Fifth</i> and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[293]</a></span> +the others, which is worth remembering. He calls +them a kind of National Epic. Marlborough, you +recollect, said, he knew no English History but +what he had learned from Shakespeare. There +are really, if we look to it, few as memorable +Histories. The great salient points are admirably +seized; all rounds itself off, into a kind of rhythmic +coherence; it is, as Schlegel says, <i>epic</i>;—as indeed +all delineation by a great thinker will be. There +are right beautiful things in those Pieces, which +indeed together form one beautiful thing. That +battle of Agincourt strikes me as one of the most +perfect things, in its sort, we anywhere have of +Shakespeare’s. The description of the two hosts: +the worn-out, jaded English; the dread hour, big +with destiny, when the battle shall begin; and +then that deathless valour: ‘Ye good yeomen, +whose limbs were made in England!’ There is +a noble Patriotism in it,—far other than the +‘indifference’ you sometimes hear ascribed to +Shakespeare. A true English heart breathes, +calm and strong, through the whole business; not +boisterous, protrusive; all the better for that. +There is a sound in it like the ring of steel. This +man too had a right stroke in him, had it come +to that!</p> + +<p>But I will say, of Shakespeare’s works generally, +that we have no full impress of him there; even +as full as we have of many men. His works are +so many windows, through which we see a glimpse +of the world that was in him. All his works seem, +comparatively speaking, cursory, imperfect, written +under cramping circumstances; giving only here +and there a note of the full utterance of the man. +Passages there are that come upon you like splendour<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[294]</a></span> +out of Heaven; bursts of radiance, illuminating +the very heart of the thing: you say, ‘That +is <i>true</i>, spoken once and forever; wheresoever and +whensoever there is an open human soul, that will +be recognized as true!’ Such bursts, however, +make us feel that the surrounding matter is not +radiant; that it is, in part, temporary, conventional. +Alas, Shakespeare had to write for the +Globe Playhouse: his great soul had to crush +itself, as it could, into that and no other mould. +It was with him, then, as it is with us all. No man +works save under conditions. The sculptor cannot +set his own free Thought before us; but his +Thought as he could translate it into the stone +that was given, with the tools that were given. +<i>Disjecta membra</i> are all that we find of any Poet, +or of any man.</p> + + +<p class="newsection">Whoever looks intelligently at this Shakespeare +may recognize that he too was a <i>Prophet</i>, in his +way; of an insight analogous to the Prophetic, +though he took it up in another strain. Nature +seemed to this man also divine; <i>un</i>speakable, +deep as Tophet, high as Heaven: ‘We are such +stuff as Dreams are made of!’ That scroll in +Westminster Abbey, which few read with understanding, +is of the depth of any Seer. But the +man sang; did not preach, except musically. We +called Dante the melodious Priest of Middle-Age +Catholicism. May we not call Shakespeare the +still more melodious Priest of a <i>true</i> Catholicism, +the ‘Universal Church’ of the Future and of all +times? No narrow superstition, harsh asceticism, +intolerance, fanatical fierceness or perversion: a +Revelation, so far as it goes, that such a thousandfold<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[295]</a></span> +hidden beauty and divineness dwells in all +Nature; which let all men worship as they can! +We may say without offence, that there rises +a kind of universal Psalm out of this Shakespeare +too; not unfit to make itself heard among the still +more sacred Psalms. Not in disharmony with +these, if we understood them, but in unison!—I +cannot call this Shakespeare a ‘Sceptic’, as some +do; his indifference to the creeds and theological +quarrels of his time misleading them. No: neither +unpatriotic, though he says little about his Patriotism; +no sceptic, though he says little about his +Faith. Such ‘indifference’ was the fruit of his +greatness withal: his whole heart was in his own +grand sphere of worship (we may call it such); +these other controversies, vitally important to +other men, were not vital to him.</p> + +<p>But call it worship, call it what you will, is it +not a right glorious thing and set of things, this +that Shakespeare has brought us? For myself, +I feel that there is actually a kind of sacredness +in the fact of such a man being sent into this +Earth. Is he not an eye to us all; a blessed +heaven-sent Bringer of Light?—And, at bottom, +was it not perhaps far better that this Shakespeare, +everyway an unconscious man, was <i>conscious</i> of +no Heavenly message? He did not feel, like +Mahomet, because he saw into those internal +Splendours, that he specially was the ‘Prophet +of God’: and was he not greater than Mahomet +in that? Greater; and also, if we compute +strictly, as we did in Dante’s case, more successful. +It was intrinsically an error that notion of +Mahomet’s, of his supreme Prophethood; and has +come down to us inextricably involved in error to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[296]</a></span> +this day; dragging along with it such a coil of +fables, impurities, intolerances, as makes it a questionable +step for me here and now to say, as I have +done, that Mahomet was a true Speaker at all, and +not rather an ambitious charlatan, perversity, and +simulacrum, no Speaker, but a Babbler! Even +in Arabia, as I compute, Mahomet will have +exhausted himself and become obsolete, while this +Shakespeare, this Dante may still be young;—while +this Shakespeare may still pretend to be a +Priest of Mankind, of Arabia as of other places, +for unlimited periods to come! Compared with +any speaker or singer one knows, even with +Aeschylus or Homer, why should he not, for +veracity and universality, last like them? He is +<i>sincere</i> as they; reaches deep down like them, to +the universal and perennial. But as for Mahomet, +I think it had been better for him <i>not</i> to be so +conscious! Alas, poor Mahomet; all that he was +<i>conscious</i> of was a mere error; a futility and +triviality,—as indeed such ever is. The truly great +in him too was the unconscious: that he was +a wild Arab lion of the desert, and did speak out +with that great thunder-voice of his, not by words +which he <i>thought</i> to be great, but by actions, by +feelings, by a history which <i>were</i> great! His Koran +has become a stupid piece of prolix absurdity; we +do not believe, like him, that God wrote that! +The Great Man here too, as always, is a Force of +Nature: whatsoever is truly great in him springs +up from the <i>in</i>articulate deeps.</p> + + +<p class="newsection">Well: this is our poor Warwickshire Peasant, +who rose to be Manager of a Playhouse, so that he +could live without begging; whom the Earl of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[297]</a></span> +Southampton cast some kind glances on; whom +Sir Thomas Lucy, many thanks to him, was for +sending to the Treadmill! We did not account +him a god, like Odin, while he dwelt with us;—on +which point there were much to be said. But I +will say rather, or repeat: In spite of the sad state +Hero-worship now lies in, consider what this +Shakespeare has actually become among us. +Which Englishman we ever made, in this land of +ours, which million of Englishmen, would we not +give up rather than the Stratford Peasant? There +is no regiment of highest Dignitaries that we would +sell him for. He is the grandest thing we have yet +done. For our honour among foreign nations, as +an ornament to our English Household, what item +is there that we would not surrender rather than +him? Consider now, if they asked us, Will you +give up your Indian Empire or your Shakespeare, +you English; never have had any Indian Empire, +or never have had any Shakespeare? Really it +were a grave question. Official persons would +answer doubtless in official language; but we, for +our part too, should not we be forced to answer: +Indian Empire, or no Indian Empire; we cannot +do without Shakespeare! Indian Empire will go, +at any rate, some day; but this Shakespeare does +not go, he lasts for ever with us; we cannot give +up our Shakespeare!</p> + +<p>Nay, apart from spiritualities; and considering +him merely as a real, marketable, tangibly-useful +possession. England, before long, this Island of +ours, will hold but a small fraction of the English: +in America, in New Holland, east and west to the +very Antipodes, there will be a Saxondom covering +great spaces of the Globe. And now, what is it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[298]</a></span> +that can keep all these together into virtually one +Nation, so that they do not fall out and fight, but +live at peace, in brotherlike intercourse, helping +one another? This is justly regarded as the +greatest practical problem, the thing all manner +of sovereignties and governments are here to +accomplish: what is it that will accomplish this? +Acts of Parliament, administrative prime-ministers +cannot. America is parted from us, so far as Parliament +could part it. Call it not fantastic, for +there is much reality in it: Here, I say, is an +English King, whom no time or chance, Parliament +or combination of Parliaments, can dethrone! +This King Shakespeare, does not he shine, in +crowned sovereignty, over us all, as the noblest, +gentlest, yet strongest of rallying-signs; <i>in</i>destructible; +really more valuable in that point of view, +than any other means or appliance whatsoever? +We can fancy him as radiant aloft over all the +Nations of Englishmen, a thousand years hence. +From Paramatta, from New York, wheresoever, +under what sort of Parish-Constable soever, +English men and women are, they will say to +one another: ‘Yes, this Shakespeare is ours: we +produced him, we speak and think by him; we +are of one blood and kind with him.’ The most +common-sense politician, too, if he pleases, may +think of that.</p> + +<p>Yes, truly, it is a great thing for a Nation that +it get an articulate voice; that it produce a man +who will speak forth melodiously what the heart +of it means! Italy, for example, poor Italy lies +dismembered, scattered asunder, not appearing in +any protocol or treaty as a unity at all; yet the +noble Italy is actually <i>one</i>: Italy produced its<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[299]</a></span> +Dante: Italy can speak! The Czar of all the +Russias, he is strong, with so many bayonets, +Cossacks, and cannons: and does a great feat in +keeping such a tract of Earth politically together; +but he cannot yet speak. Something great in him, +but it is a dumb greatness. He has had no voice +of genius, to be heard of all men and times. He +must learn to speak. He is a great dumb monster +hitherto. His cannons and Cossacks will all +have rusted into nonentity, while that Dante’s +voice is still audible. The Nation that has a +Dante is bound together as no dumb Russia can +be.—We must here end what we had to say of +the <i>Hero-Poet</i>.</p> + + + +<h2><a name="JAMES_HENRY_LEIGH_HUNT" id="JAMES_HENRY_LEIGH_HUNT"></a>JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[300]</a></span></h2> + +<h3>1784-1859</h3> + +<h3>AN ANSWER TO THE QUESTION<br /> + +WHAT IS POETRY? (1844)</h3> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Poetry</span>, strictly and artistically so called, that +is to say, considered not merely as poetic feeling, +which is more or less shared by all the world, but +as the operation of that feeling, such as we see it in +the poet’s book, is the utterance of a passion for +truth, beauty, and power, embodying and illustrating +its conceptions by imagination and fancy, +and modulating its language on the principle of +variety in uniformity. Its means are whatever +the universe contains; and its ends, pleasure and +exaltation. Poetry stands between nature and +convention, keeping alive among us the enjoyment +of the external and the spiritual world: it has +constituted the most enduring fame of nations; +and, next to Love and Beauty, which are its +parents, is the greatest proof to man of the pleasure +to be found in all things, and of the probable riches +of infinitude.</p> + +<p>Poetry is a passion,<a name="FNanchor_25_25" id="FNanchor_25_25"></a><a href="#Footnote_25_25" class="fnanchor">[25]</a> because it seeks the deepest +impressions; and because it must undergo, in +order to convey, them.</p> + +<p>It is a passion for truth, because without truth +the impression would be false or defective.</p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[301]</a></span></p> +<p>It is a passion for beauty, because its office is to +exalt and refine by means of pleasure, and because +beauty is nothing but the loveliest form of pleasure.</p> + +<p>It is a passion for power, because power is impression +triumphant, whether over the poet, as +desired by himself, or over the reader, as affected +by the poet.</p> + +<p>It embodies and illustrates its impressions by +imagination, or images of the objects of which it +treats, and other images brought in to throw light +on those objects, in order that it may enjoy and +impart the feeling of their truth in its utmost conviction +and affluence.</p> + +<p>It illustrates them by fancy, which is a lighter +play of imagination, or the feeling of analogy +coming short of seriousness, in order that it may +laugh with what it loves, and show how it can +decorate it with fairy ornament.</p> + +<p>It modulates what it utters, because in running +the whole round of beauty it must needs include +beauty of sound; and because, in the height of +its enjoyment, it must show the perfection of its +triumph, and make difficulty itself become part of +its facility and joy.</p> + +<p>And lastly, Poetry shapes this modulation into +uniformity for its outline, and variety for its parts, +because it thus realizes the last idea of beauty +itself, which includes the charm of diversity within +the flowing round of habit and ease.</p> + +<p>Poetry is imaginative passion. The quickest +and subtlest test of the possession of its essence +is in expression; the variety of things to be expressed +shows the amount of its resources; and +the continuity of the song completes the evidence of +its strength and greatness. He who has thought,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[302]</a></span> +feeling, expression, imagination, action, character, +and continuity, all in the largest amount and +highest degree, is the greatest poet.</p> + +<p>Poetry includes whatsoever of painting can be +made visible to the mind’s eye, and whatsoever of +music can be conveyed by sound and proportion +without singing or instrumentation. But it far +surpasses those divine arts in suggestiveness, range, +and intellectual wealth;—the first, in expression +of thought, combination of images, and the triumph +over space and time; the second, in all that can +be done by speech, apart from the tones and modulations +of pure sound. Painting and music, however, +include all those portions of the gift of poetry +that can be expressed and heightened by the visible +and melodious. Painting, in a certain apparent +manner, is things themselves; music, in a certain +audible manner, is their very emotion and grace. +Music and painting are proud to be related to +poetry, and poetry loves and is proud of them.</p> + +<p>Poetry begins where matter of fact or of science +ceases to be merely such, and to exhibit a further +truth; that is to say, the connexion it has with +the world of emotion, and its power to produce +imaginative pleasure. Inquiring of a gardener, for +instance, what flower it is we see yonder, he +answers, ‘a lily’. This is matter of fact. The +botanist pronounces it to be of the order of +‘Hexandria Monogynia’. This is matter of +science. It is the ‘lady’ of the garden, says +Spenser; and here we begin to have a poetical +sense of its fairness and grace. It is</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The plant and flower of <i>light</i>,<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">says Ben Jonson; and poetry then shows us the +beauty of the flower in all its mystery and splendour.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[303]</a></span></p> + +<p>If it be asked, how we know perceptions like +these to be true, the answer is, by the fact of their +existence—by the consent and delight of poetic +readers. And as feeling is the earliest teacher, and +perception the only final proof, of things the most +demonstrable by science, so the remotest imaginations +of the poets may often be found to have the +closest connexion with matter of fact; perhaps +might always be so, if the subtlety of our perceptions +were a match for the causes of them. Consider this +image of Ben Jonson’s—of a lily being the flower +of light. Light, undecomposed, is white; and as +the lily is white, and light is white, and whiteness +itself is nothing <i>but</i> light, the two things, so far, are +not merely similar, but identical. A poet might +add, by an analogy drawn from the connexion of +light and colour, that there is a ‘golden dawn’ +issuing out of the white lily, in the rich yellow of +the stamens. I have no desire to push this +similarity farther than it may be worth. Enough +has been stated to show that, in poetical as in other +analogies, ‘the same feet of Nature’, as Bacon says, +may be seen ‘treading in different paths’; and +that the most scornful, that is to say, dullest +disciple of fact, should be cautious how he betrays +the shallowness of his philosophy by discerning no +poetry in its depths.</p> + +<p>But the poet is far from dealing only with these +subtle and analogical truths. Truth of every kind +belongs to him, provided it can bud into any kind +of beauty, or is capable of being illustrated and +impressed by the poetic faculty. Nay, the simplest +truth is often so beautiful and impressive of itself, +that one of the greatest proofs of his genius consists +in his leaving it to stand alone, illustrated by<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[304]</a></span> +nothing but the light of its own tears or smiles, +its own wonder, might, or playfulness. Hence the +complete effect of many a simple passage in our +old English ballads and romances, and of the passionate +sincerity in general of the greatest early +poets, such as Homer and Chaucer, who flourished +before the existence of a ‘literary world’, and were +not perplexed by a heap of notions and opinions, +or by doubts how emotion ought to be expressed. +The greatest of their successors never write equally +to the purpose, except when they can dismiss +everything from their minds but the like simple +truth. In the beautiful poem of <i>Sir Eger, Sir +Graham and Sir Gray-Steel</i> (see it in Ellis’s <i>Specimens</i>, +or Laing’s <i>Early Metrical Tales</i>), a knight +thinks himself disgraced in the eyes of his mistress:—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Sir Eger said, ‘If it be so,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then wot I well I must forgo<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Love-liking, and manhood, all clean!’<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>The water rush’d out of his een!</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">Sir Gray-Steel is killed:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza" style="margin-bottom: 0.5em"> +<span class="i0">Gray-Steel into his death thus thraws<a name="FNanchor_26_26" id="FNanchor_26_26"></a><a href="#Footnote_26_26" class="fnanchor">[26]</a><br /></span> +<span class="i0">He <i>walters<a name="FNanchor_27_27" id="FNanchor_27_27"></a><a href="#Footnote_27_27" class="fnanchor">[27]</a> and the grass up draws;</i><br /></span> +</div> +<div class="stanza" style="margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 0em"> +<span class="i3"><span style="padding-right: 1em">*</span><span style="padding-right: 1em">*</span><span style="padding-right: 1em">*</span><span style="padding-right: 1em">*</span><span style="padding-right: 1em">*</span><span style="padding-right: 1em">*</span><span style="padding-right: 1em">*</span><br /></span> +</div> +<div class="stanza" style="margin-top: 0em"> +<span class="i0"><i>A little while then lay he still</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>(Friends that him saw, liked full ill)</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>And bled into his armour bright.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The abode of Chaucer’s <i>Reeve</i>, or Steward, in the +<i>Canterbury Tales</i>, is painted in two lines, which +nobody ever wished longer:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">His wonning<a name="FNanchor_28_28" id="FNanchor_28_28"></a><a href="#Footnote_28_28" class="fnanchor">[28]</a> was full fair upon an heath,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With greeny trees yshadowed was his place.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Every one knows the words of Lear, ‘most<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[305]</a></span> +<i>matter-of-fact</i>, most melancholy.’</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">Pray, do not mock me;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I am a very foolish fond old man,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fourscore and upwards:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not an hour more, nor less; and, to deal plainly<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I fear I am not in my perfect mind.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>It is thus, by exquisite pertinence, melody, and +the implied power of writing with exuberance, if +need be, that beauty and truth become identical +in poetry, and that pleasure, or at the very worst, +a balm in our tears, is drawn out of pain.</p> + +<p>It is a great and rare thing, and shows a lovely +imagination, when the poet can write a commentary, +as it were, of his own, on such sufficing +passages of nature, and be thanked for the addition. +There is an instance of this kind in Warner, an old +Elizabethan poet, than which I know nothing +sweeter in the world. He is speaking of Fair +Rosamond, and of a blow given her by Queen +Eleanor.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">With that she dash’d her on the lips,<br /></span> +<span class="i1"><i>So dyèd double red:</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Hard was the heart that gave the blow,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i1"><i>Soft were those lips that bled</i>.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>There are different kinds and degrees of imagination, +some of them necessary to the formation of +every true poet, and all of them possessed by the +greatest. Perhaps they may be enumerated as +follows:—First, that which presents to the mind +any object or circumstance in every-day life; as +when we imagine a man holding a sword, or looking +out of a window;—Second, that which presents +real, but not every-day circumstances; as King<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[306]</a></span> +Alfred tending the loaves, or Sir Philip Sidney +giving up the water to the dying soldier;—Third, +that which combines character and events directly +imitated from real life, with imitative realities of +its own invention; as the probable parts of the +histories of Priam and <i>Macbeth</i>, or what may be +called natural fiction as distinguished from supernatural;—Fourth, +that which conjures up things +and events not to be found in nature; as Homer’s +gods, and Shakespeare’s witches, enchanted horses +and spears, Ariosto’s hippogriff, &c.;—Fifth, that +which, in order to illustrate or aggravate one image, +introduces another; sometimes in simile, as when +Homer compares Apollo descending in his wrath +at noon-day to the coming of night-time: sometimes +in metaphor, or simile comprised in a word, as +in Milton’s ‘motes that <i>people</i> the sunbeams’; +sometimes in concentrating into a word the main +history of any person or thing, past or even future, +as in the ‘starry Galileo’ of Byron, and that +ghastly foregone conclusion of the epithet ‘murdered’ +applied to the yet living victim in Keats’s +story from Boccaccio,—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So the two brothers and their <i>murder’d</i> man<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rode towards fair Florence;—<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">sometimes in the attribution of a certain representative +quality which makes one circumstance +stand for others; as in Milton’s grey-fly winding +its ‘<i>sultry</i> horn’, which epithet contains the heat +of a summer’s day;—Sixth, that which reverses +this process, and makes a variety of circumstances +take colour from one, like nature seen with jaundiced +or glad eyes, or under the influence of storm +or sunshine; as when in <i>Lycidas</i>, or the Greek<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[307]</a></span> +pastoral poets, the flowers and the flocks are made +to sympathize with a man’s death; or, in the +Italian poet, the river flowing by the sleeping +Angelica seems talking of love—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Parea che l’erba le fiorisse intorno,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>E d’amor ragionasse quella riva!</i><br /></span> +<span class="i6"><i>Orlando Innamorato</i>, Canto iii.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">or in the voluptuous homage paid to the sleeping +Imogen by the very light in the chamber, and the +reaction of her own beauty upon itself; or in the +‘witch element’ of the tragedy of <i>Macbeth</i> and the +May-day night of <i>Faust</i>;—Seventh, and last, that +which by a single expression, apparently of the +vaguest kind, not only meets but surpasses in its +effect the extremest force of the most particular +description; as in that exquisite passage of +Coleridge’s <i>Christabel</i>, where the unsuspecting +object of the witch’s malignity is bidden to go to +bed:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Quoth Christabel, So let it be!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And as the lady bade, did she.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her gentle limbs did she undress,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>And lay down in her loveliness;—</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">a perfect verse surely, both for feeling and music. +The very smoothness and gentleness of the limbs +is in the series of the letter <i>l’s</i>.</p> + +<p>I am aware of nothing of the kind surpassing +that most lovely inclusion of physical beauty in +moral, neither can I call to mind any instances of +the imagination that turns accompaniments into +accessories, superior to those I have alluded to. +Of the class of comparison, one of the most touching +(many a tear must it have drawn from parents and +lovers) is in a stanza which has been copied into<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[308]</a></span> +the <i>Friar of Orders Grey</i>, out of Beaumont and +Fletcher:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Weep no more, lady, weep no more,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Thy sorrow is in vain;<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>For violets pluck’d the sweetest showers</i><br /></span> +<span class="i1"><i>Will ne’er make grow again.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">And Shakespeare and Milton abound in the very +grandest; such as Antony’s likening his changing +fortunes to the cloud-rack; Lear’s appeal to the +old age of the heavens; Satan’s appearance in the +horizon, like a fleet ‘hanging in the clouds’; and +the comparisons of him with the comet and the +eclipse. Nor unworthy of this glorious company, +for its extraordinary combination of delicacy and +vastness, is that enchanting one of Shelley’s in +the <i>Adonais</i>:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stains the white radiance of eternity.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">I multiply these particulars in order to impress +upon the reader’s mind the great importance of +imagination in all its phases, as a constituent part +of the highest poetic faculty.</p> + +<p>The happiest instance I remember of imaginative +metaphor, is Shakespeare’s moonlight ‘sleeping’ +on a bank; but half his poetry may be said to be +made up of it, metaphor indeed being the common +coin of discourse. Of imaginary creatures, none +out of the pale of mythology and the East are +equal, perhaps, in point of invention, to Shakespeare’s +Ariel and Caliban; though poetry may +grudge to prose the discovery of a Winged Woman, +especially such as she has been described by her +inventor in the story of <i>Peter Wilkins</i>; and in +point of treatment, the Mammon and Jealousy of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[309]</a></span> +Spenser, some of the monsters in Dante, particularly +his Nimrod, his interchangements of +creatures into one another, and (if I am not presumptuous +in anticipating what I think will be the +verdict of posterity) the Witch in Coleridge’s +<i>Christabel</i>, may rank even with the creations of +Shakespeare. It may be doubted, indeed, whether +Shakespeare had bile and nightmare enough in him +to have thought of such detestable horrors as those +of the interchanging adversaries (now serpent, +now man), or even of the huge, half-blockish +enormity of Nimrod,—in Scripture, the ‘mighty +hunter’ and builder of the tower of Babel,—in +Dante, a tower of a man in his own person, standing +with some of his brother giants up to the middle +in a pit in hell, blowing a horn to which a thunderclap +is a whisper, and hallooing after Dante and +his guide in the jargon of a lost tongue! The +transformations are too odious to quote: but of +the towering giant we cannot refuse ourselves the +‘fearful joy’ of a specimen. It was twilight, +Dante tells us, and he and his guide Virgil were +silently pacing through one of the dreariest regions +of hell, when the sound of a tremendous horn made +him turn all his attention to the spot from which it +came. He there discovered through the dusk, +what seemed to be the towers of a city. Those are +no towers, said his guide; they are giants, standing +up to the middle in one of these circular pits.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I look’d again; and as the eye makes out,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By little and little, what the mist conceal’d<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In which, till clearing up, the sky was steep’d;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So, looming through the gross and darksome air,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As we drew nigh, those mighty bulks grew plain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And error quitted me, and terror join’d:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For in like manner as all round its height<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[310]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Montereggione crowns itself with towers,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So tower’d above the circuit of that pit,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though but half out of it, and half within,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The horrible giants that fought Jove, and still<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are threaten’d when he thunders. As we near’d<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The foremost, I discern’d his mighty face,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His shoulders, breast, and more than half his trunk,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With both the arms down hanging by the sides.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His face appear’d to me, in length and breadth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Huge as St. Peter’s pinnacle at Rome,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And of a like proportion all his bones.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He open’d, as we went, his dreadful mouth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fit for no sweeter psalmody; and shouted<br /></span> +<span class="i0">After us, in the words of some strange tongue,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ràfel ma-èe amech zabèe almee!—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">‘Dull wretch!’ my leader cried, ‘keep to thine horn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And so vent better whatsoever rage<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or other passion stuff thee. Feel thy throat<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And find the chain upon thee, thou confusion!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lo! what a hoop is clench’d about thy gorge.’<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then turning to myself, he said, ‘His howl<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is its own mockery. This is Nimrod, he<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through whose ill thought it was that humankind<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Were tongue-confounded. Pass him, and say nought:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For as he speaketh language known of none,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So none can speak save jargon to himself.’<br /></span> +<span class="i10"><i>Inferno</i>, Canto xxxi, ver. 34.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Assuredly it could not have been easy to find +a fiction so uncouthly terrible as this in the hypochondria +of Hamlet. Even his father had evidently +seen no such ghost in the other world. All his +phantoms were in the world he had left. Timon, +Lear, Richard, Brutus, Prospero, Macbeth himself, +none of Shakespeare’s men had, in fact, any thought +but of the earth they lived on, whatever supernatural +fancy crossed them. The thing fancied was +still a thing of this world, ‘in its habit as it lived,’ +or no remoter acquaintance than a witch or a fairy. +Its lowest depths (unless Dante suggested them) +were the cellars under the stage. Caliban himself<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[311]</a></span> +is a cross-breed between a witch and a clown. No +offence to Shakespeare; who was not bound to be +the greatest of healthy poets, and to have every +morbid inspiration besides. What he might have +done, had he set his wits to compete with Dante, +I know not: all I know is, that in the infernal line +he did nothing like him; and it is not to be wished +he had. It is far better that, as a higher, more +universal, and more beneficent variety of the genus +Poet, he should have been the happier man he was, +and left us the plump cheeks on his monument, +instead of the carking visage of the great, but over-serious, +and comparatively one-sided Florentine. +Even the imagination of Spenser, whom we take +to have been a ‘nervous gentleman’ compared with +Shakespeare, was visited with no such dreams as +Dante. Or, if it was, he did not choose to make +himself thinner (as Dante says <i>he</i> did) with dwelling +upon them. He had twenty visions of nymphs +and bowers, to one of the mud of Tartarus. +Chaucer, for all he was ‘a man of this world’ as +well as the poets’ world, and as great, perhaps +a greater enemy of oppression than Dante, besides +being one of the profoundest masters of pathos that +ever lived, had not the heart to conclude the story +of the famished father and his children, as finished +by the inexorable anti-Pisan. But enough of +Dante in this place. Hobbes, in order to daunt +the reader from objecting to his friend Davenant’s +want of invention, says of these fabulous creations +in general, in his letter prefixed to the poem of +<i>Gondibert</i>, that ‘impenetrable armours, enchanted +castles, invulnerable bodies, iron men, flying horses, +and a thousand other such things, are easily feigned +by them that dare’. These are girds at Spenser<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[312]</a></span> +and Ariosto. But, with leave of Hobbes (who +translated Homer as if on purpose to show what +execrable verses could be written by a philosopher), +enchanted castles and flying horses are not easily +feigned as Ariosto and Spenser feigned them; +and that just makes all the difference. For proof, +see the accounts of Spenser’s enchanted castle in +Book the Third, Canto Twelfth, of the <i>Faerie +Queene</i>; and let the reader of Italian open the +<i>Orlando Furioso</i> at its first introduction of the +Hippogriff (Canto iii, st. 4), where Bradamante, +coming to an inn, hears a great noise, and sees all +the people looking up at something in the air; +upon which, looking up herself, she sees a knight +in shining armour riding towards the sunset upon +a creature with variegated wings, and then dipping +and disappearing among the hills. Chaucer’s +steed of brass, that was</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So horsly and so quick of eye,<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">is copied from the life. You might pat him and +feel his brazen muscles. Hobbes, in objecting to +what he thought childish, made a childish mistake. +His criticism is just such as a boy might pique +himself upon, who was educated on mechanical +principles, and thought he had outgrown his Goody +Two-shoes. With a wonderful dimness of discernment +in poetic matters, considering his acuteness +in others, he fancies he has settled the question by +pronouncing such creations ‘impossible’! To the +brazier they are impossible, no doubt; but not to +the poet. Their possibility, if the poet wills it, +is to be conceded; the problem is, the creature +being given, how to square its actions with probability, +according to the nature assumed of it.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[313]</a></span> +Hobbes did not see, that the skill and beauty of +these fictions lay in bringing them within those +very regions of truth and likelihood in which he +thought they could not exist. Hence the serpent +Python of Chaucer,</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Sleeping against the sun upon a day,</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">when Apollo slew him. Hence the chariot-drawing +dolphins of Spenser, softly swimming along the +shore lest they should hurt themselves against +the stones and gravel. Hence Shakespeare’s Ariel, +living under blossoms, and riding at evening on the +bat; and his domestic namesake in the <i>Rape of the +Lock</i> (the imagination of the drawing-room) saving +a lady’s petticoat from the coffee with his plumes, +and directing atoms of snuff into a coxcomb’s nose. +In the <i>Orlando Furioso</i> (Canto xv, st. 65) is a wild +story of a cannibal necromancer, who laughs at +being cut to pieces, coming together again like +quicksilver, and picking up his head when it is cut +off, sometimes by the hair, sometimes by the nose! +This, which would be purely childish and ridiculous +in the hands of an inferior poet, becomes interesting, +nay grand, in Ariosto’s, from the beauties of his +style, and its conditional truth to nature. The +monster has a fated hair on his head,—a single hair,—which +must be taken from it before he can be +killed. Decapitation itself is of no consequence, +without that proviso. The Paladin Astolfo, who +has fought this phenomenon on horseback, and +succeeded in getting the head and galloping off +with it, is therefore still at a loss what to be at. +How is he to discover such a needle in such a bottle +of hay? The trunk is spurring after him to recover +it, and he seeks for some evidence of the hair<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[314]</a></span> +in vain. At length he bethinks him of scalping +the head. He does so; and the moment the +operation arrives at the place of the hair, <i>the face +of the head becomes pale, the eyes turn in their sockets</i>, +and the lifeless pursuer tumbles from his horse.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then grew the visage pale, and deadly wet;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The eyes turn’d in their sockets, drearily;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And all things show’d the villain’s sun was set.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His trunk that was in chase, fell from its horse,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And giving the last shudder, was a corse.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">It is thus, and thus only, by making Nature his +companion wherever he goes, even in the most +supernatural region, that the poet, in the words of +a very instructive phrase, takes the world along +with him. It is true, he must not (as the Platonists +would say) humanize weakly or mistakenly in that +region; otherwise he runs the chance of forgetting +to be true to the supernatural itself, and so betraying +a want of imagination from that quarter. His +nymphs will have no taste of their woods and +waters; his gods and goddesses be only so many +fair or frowning ladies and gentlemen, such as we +see in ordinary paintings; he will be in no danger +of having his angels likened to a sort of wild-fowl, +as Rembrandt has made them in his Jacob’s +Dream. His Bacchuses will never remind us, like +Titian’s, of the force and fury, as well as of the +graces, of wine. His Jupiter will reduce no +females to ashes; his fairies be nothing fantastical; +his gnomes not ‘of the earth, earthy’. And this +again will be wanting to Nature; for it will be +wanting to the supernatural, as Nature would have +made it, working in a supernatural direction. +Nevertheless, the poet, even for imagination’s sake, +must not become a bigot to imaginative truth,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[315]</a></span> +dragging it down into the region of the mechanical +and the limited, and losing sight of its paramount +privilege, which is to make beauty, in a human +sense, the lady and queen of the universe. He +would gain nothing by making his ocean-nymphs +mere fishy creatures, upon the plea that such only +could live in the water: his wood-nymphs with +faces of knotted oak; his angels without breath +and song, because no lungs could exist between the +earth’s atmosphere and the empyrean. The +Grecian tendency in this respect is safer than the +Gothic; nay, more imaginative; for it enables us +to imagine <i>beyond</i> imagination, and to bring all +things healthily round to their only present final +ground of sympathy,—the human. When we go +to heaven, we may idealize in a superhuman mode, +and have altogether different notions of the beautiful; +but till then we must be content with the +loveliest capabilities of earth. The sea-nymphs of +Greece were still beautiful women, though they +lived in the water. The gills and fins of the ocean’s +natural inhabitants were confined to their lowest +semi-human attendants; or if Triton himself was +not quite human, it was because be represented +the fiercer part of the vitality of the seas, as they +did the fairer.</p> + +<p>To conclude this part of my subject, I will quote +from the greatest of all narrative writers two +passages;—one exemplifying the imagination +which brings supernatural things to bear on earthly, +without confounding them; the other, that which +paints events and circumstances after real life. +The first is where Achilles, who has long absented +himself from the conflict between his countrymen +and the Trojans, has had a message from heaven<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[316]</a></span> +bidding him reappear in the enemy’s sight, standing +outside the camp-wall upon the trench, but doing +nothing more; that is to say, taking no part in the +fight. He is simply to be seen. The two armies +down by the sea-side are contending which shall +possess the body of Patroclus; and the mere sight +of the dreadful Grecian chief—supernaturally +indeed impressed upon them, in order that nothing +may be wanting to the full effect of his courage and +conduct upon courageous men—is to determine the +question. We are to imagine a slope of ground +towards the sea, in order to elevate the trench; the +camp is solitary; the battle (‘a dreadful roar of +men,’ as Homer calls it) is raging on the sea-shore; +and the goddess Iris has just delivered her message, +and disappeared.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But up Achilles rose, the lov’d of heaven;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Pallas on his mighty shoulders cast<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The shield of Jove; and round about his head<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She put the glory of a golden mist,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From which there burnt a fiery-flaming light.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And as, when smoke goes heavenward from a town,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In some far island which its foes besiege,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who all day long with dreadful martialness<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Have pour’d from their own town; soon as the sun<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Has set, thick lifted fires are visible,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which, rushing upward, make a light in the sky,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And let the neighbours know, who may perhaps<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bring help across the sea; so from the head<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of great Achilles went up an effulgence.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Upon the trench he stood, without the wall,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But mix’d not with the Greeks, for he rever’d<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His mother’s word; and so, thus standing there,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He shouted; and Minerva, to his shout,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Added a dreadful cry; and there arose<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Among the Trojans an unspeakable tumult.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And as the clear voice of a trumpet, blown<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Against a town by spirit-withering foes,<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[317]</a></span> +<span class="i0">So sprang the clear voice of Aeacides.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And when they heard the brazen cry, their hearts<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All leap’d within them; and the proud-maned horses<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ran with the chariots round, for they foresaw<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Calamity; and the charioteers were smitten,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When they beheld the ever-active fire<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Upon the dreadful head of the great-minded one<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Burning; for bright-eyed Pallas made it burn.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thrice o’er the trench divine Achilles shouted;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And thrice the Trojans and their great allies<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Roll’d back; and twelve of all their noblest men<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then perish’d, crush’d by their own arms and chariots.<br /></span> +<span class="i14"><i>Iliad</i>, xviii. 203.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">Of course there is no further question about the +body of Patroclus. It is drawn out of the press, +and received by the awful hero with tears.</p> + +<p>The other passage is where Priam, kneeling +before Achilles, and imploring him to give up the +dead body of Hector, reminds him of his own father; +who, whatever (says the poor old king) may be his +troubles with his enemies, has the blessing of +knowing that his son is still alive, and may daily +hope to see him return. Achilles, in accordance +with the strength and noble honesty of the passions +in those times, weeps aloud himself at this appeal, +feeling, says Homer, ‘desire’ for his father in his +very ‘limbs’. He joins in grief with the venerable +sufferer, and can no longer withstand the look of +‘his grey head and his grey <i>chin</i>’. Observe the +exquisite introduction of this last word. It paints +the touching fact of the chin’s being imploringly +thrown upward by the kneeling old man, and the +very motion of his beard as he speaks.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So saying, Mercury vanished up to heaven:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Priam then alighted from his chariot,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Leaving Idaeus with it, who remain’d<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Holding the mules and horses; and the old man<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[318]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Went straight indoors, where the belov’d of Jove<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Achilles sat, and found him. In the room<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Were others, but apart; and two alone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The hero Automedon, and Alcimus,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A branch of Mars, stood by him. They had been<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At meals, and had not yet remov’d the board.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Great Priam came, without their seeing him,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And kneeling down, he clasp’d Achilles’ knees,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And kiss’d those terrible, homicidal hands,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which had deprived him of so many sons.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And as a man who is press’d heavily<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For having slain another, flies away<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To foreign lands, and comes into the house<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of some great man, and is beheld with wonder,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So did Achilles wonder to see Priam;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the rest wonder’d, looking at each other.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But Priam, praying to him, spoke these words:—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">‘God-like Achilles, think of thine own father!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the same age have we both come, the same<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Weak pass; and though the neighbouring chiefs may vex<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Him also, and his borders find no help,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet when he hears that thou art still alive,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He gladdens inwardly, and daily hopes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To see his dear son coming back from Troy.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But I, bereav’d old Priam! I had once<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Brave sons in Troy, and now I cannot say<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That one is left me. Fifty children had I,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the Greeks came; nineteen were of one womb;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The rest my women bore me in my house.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The knees of many of these fierce Mars has loosen’d;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he who had no peer, Troy’s prop and theirs,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Him hast thou kill’d now, fighting for his country,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hector; and for his sake am I come here<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To ransom him, bringing a countless ransom.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But thou, Achilles, fear the gods, and think<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of thine own father, and have mercy on me:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For I am much more wretched, and have borne<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What never mortal bore, I think on earth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To lift unto my lips the hand of him<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who slew my boys.’<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">He ceased; and there arose<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sharp longing in Achilles for his father;<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[319]</a></span> +<span class="i0">And taking Priam by the hand, he gently<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Put him away; for both shed tears to think<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of other times; the one most bitter ones<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For Hector, and with wilful wretchedness<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lay right before Achilles: and the other,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For his own father now, and now his friend;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the whole house might hear them as they moan’d.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But when divine Achilles had refresh’d<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His soul with tears, and sharp desire had left<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His heart and limbs, he got up from his throne,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And rais’d the old man by the hand, and took<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pity on his grey head and his grey chin.<br /></span> +<span class="i14"><i>Iliad</i>, xxiv. 468.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>O lovely and immortal privilege of genius! +that can stretch its hand out of the wastes of time, +thousands of years back, and touch our eyelids +with tears. In these passages there is not a word +which a man of the most matter-of-fact understanding +might not have written, <i>if he had thought +of it</i>. But in poetry, feeling and imagination are +necessary to the perception and presentation even +of matters of fact. They, and they only, see what +is proper to be told, and what to be kept back; +what is pertinent, affecting, and essential. Without +feeling, there is a want of delicacy and distinction; +without imagination, there is no true +embodiment. In poets, even good of their kind, +but without a genius for narration, the action +would have been encumbered or diverted with +ingenious mistakes. The over-contemplative would +have given us too many remarks; the over-lyrical, +a style too much carried away; the over-fanciful, +conceits and too many similes; the unimaginative, +the facts without the feeling, and not even those. +We should have been told nothing of the ‘grey +chin’, of the house hearing them as they moaned, +or of Achilles gently putting the old man aside;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[320]</a></span> +much less of that yearning for his father, which +made the hero tremble in every limb. Writers +without the greatest passion and power do not feel +in this way, nor are capable of expressing the +feeling; though there is enough sensibility and +imagination all over the world to enable mankind +to be moved by it, when the poet strikes his truth +into their hearts.</p> + +<p>The reverse of imagination is exhibited in pure +absence of ideas, in commonplaces, and, above all, +in conventional metaphor, or such images and their +phraseology as have become the common property +of discourse and writing. Addison’s <i>Cato</i> is full of +them.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Passion unpitied and successless love<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Plant daggers in my breast.</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I’ve sounded my Numidians, man by man,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And find them <i>ripe for a revolt</i>.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The virtuous Marcia <i>towers above her sex</i>.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">Of the same kind is his ‘courting the +yoke’—‘distracting my very heart’—‘calling up all’ +one’s ‘father’ in one’s soul—‘working every +nerve’—‘copying a bright example’; in short, the +whole play, relieved now and then with a smart +sentence or turn of words. The following is +a pregnant example of plagiarism and weak writing. +It is from another tragedy of Addison’s time—the +<i>Mariamne</i> of Fenton:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">Mariamne, <i>with superior charms</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Triumphs o’er reason</i>: in her look she <i>bears</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">A paradise of ever-blooming sweets;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fair as the first idea beauty <i>prints</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the young lover’s soul; a winning grace<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Guides every gesture, and obsequious love<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Attends</i> on all her steps.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[321]</a></span></div></div> + +<p>‘Triumphing o’er reason’ is an old acquaintance +of everybody’s. ‘Paradise in her look’ is from +the Italian poets through Dryden. ‘Fair as the +first idea’, &c., is from Milton, spoilt;—‘winning +grace’ and ‘steps’ from Milton and Tibullus, both +spoilt. Whenever beauties are stolen by such +a writer, they are sure to be spoilt: just as when +a great writer borrows, he improves.</p> + +<p>To come now to Fancy,—she is a younger sister +of Imagination, without the other’s weight of +thought and feeling. Imagination indeed, purely +so called, is all feeling; the feeling of the subtlest +and most affecting analogies; the perception of +sympathies in the natures of things, or in their +popular attributes. Fancy is a sporting with their +resemblance, real or supposed, and with airy and +fantastical creations.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">—Rouse yourself; and the weak wanton Cupid<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shall from your neck unloose his amorous fold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>And, like a dew-drop from the lion’s mane,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Be shook to air.</i><br /></span> +<span class="i8"><i>Troilus and Cressida</i>, Act iii, sc. 3.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">That is imagination;—the strong mind sympathizing +with the strong beast, and the weak love +identified with the weak dew-drop.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i5">Oh!—and I forsooth<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In love! I that have been love’s whip I<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>A very beadle to a humorous sigh!—</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">A domineering pedant o’er the boy,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This whimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This senior-junior, giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Regent of love-rhymes, lord of folded arms,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>The anointed sovereign of sighs and groans</i>, &c.<br /></span> +<span class="i8"><i>Love’s Labour’s Lost</i>, Act iii, sc. 1.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">That is fancy;—a combination of images not in +their nature connected, or brought together by the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[322]</a></span> +feeling, but by the will and pleasure; and having +just enough hold of analogy to betray it into the +hands of its smiling subjector.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i8">Silent icicles<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Quietly shining to the quiet moon.</i><br /></span> +<span class="i6">Coleridge’s <i>Frost at Midnight</i>.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">That, again, is imagination;—analogical sympathy; +and exquisite of its kind it is.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p style="margin-bottom: 0em">‘You are now sailed <i>into the north of my lady’s opinion</i>; +where you will hang <i>like an icicle on a Dutchman’s beard</i>, +unless you do redeem it by some laudable attempt.’</p> + +<p class="sig"><i>Twelfth Night</i>, Act iii, sc. 2.</p> +</div> + +<p class="noin">And that is fancy;—one image capriciously suggested +by another, and but half connected with the +subject of discourse; nay, half opposed to it; for +in the gaiety of the speaker’s animal spirits, the +‘Dutchman’s beard’ is made to represent the +lady!</p> + +<p>Imagination belongs to Tragedy, or the serious +muse; Fancy to the comic. <i>Macbeth</i>, <i>Lear</i>, <i>Paradise +Lost</i>, the poem of Dante, are full of imagination: +the <i>Midsummer Night’s Dream</i> and the +<i>Rape of the Lock</i>, of fancy: <i>Romeo and Juliet</i>, the +<i>Tempest</i>, the <i>Faerie Queene</i>, and the <i>Orlando Furioso</i>, +of both. The terms were formerly identical, or +used as such; and neither is the best that might be +found. The term Imagination is too confined: +often too material. It presents too invariably +the idea of a solid body;—of ‘images’ in the sense +of the plaster-cast cry about the streets. Fancy, +on the other hand, while it means nothing but +a spiritual image or apparition (Φαντασμα, appearance, +<i>phantom</i>), has rarely that freedom from +visibility which is one of the highest privileges of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[323]</a></span> +imagination. Viola, in <i>Twelfth Night</i>, speaking +of some beautiful music, says:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It gives a very echo to the seat<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where Love is throned.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">In this charming thought, fancy and imagination +are combined; yet the fancy, the assumption of +Love’s sitting on a throne, is the image of a solid +body; while the imagination, the sense of sympathy +between the passion of love and impassioned +music, presents us no image at all. Some new +term is wanting to express the more spiritual sympathies +of what is called Imagination.</p> + +<p>One of the teachers of Imagination is Melancholy; +and like Melancholy, as Albert Durer has painted +her, she looks out among the stars, and is busied +with spiritual affinities and the mysteries of the +universe. Fancy turns her sister’s wizard instruments +into toys. She takes a telescope in her hand, +and puts a mimic star on her forehead, and sallies +forth as an emblem of astronomy. Her tendency +is to the child-like and sportive. She chases +butterflies, while her sister takes flight with angels. +She is the genius of fairies, of gallantries, of +fashions; of whatever is quaint and light, showy +and capricious; of the poetical part of wit. She +adds wings and feelings to the images of wit; and +delights as much to people nature with smiling +ideal sympathies, as wit does to bring antipathies +together, and make them strike light on absurdity. +Fancy, however, is not incapable of sympathy with +Imagination. She is often found in her company; +always, in the case of the greatest poets; +often in that of less, though with them she is the +greater favourite. Spenser has great imagination +and fancy too, but more of the latter; Milton both<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[324]</a></span> +also, the very greatest, but with imagination predominant; +Chaucer, the strongest imagination of +real life, beyond any writers but Homer, Dante, +and Shakespeare, and in comic painting inferior +to none; Pope has hardly any imagination, but +he has a great deal of fancy; Coleridge little fancy, +but imagination exquisite. Shakespeare alone, of +all poets that ever lived, enjoyed the regard of both +in equal perfection. A whole fairy poem of his +writing [the Oberon-Titania scenes from the +<i>Midsummer-Night’s Dream</i>] will be found in the +present volume.<a name="FNanchor_29_29" id="FNanchor_29_29"></a><a href="#Footnote_29_29" class="fnanchor">[29]</a> See also his famous description +of Queen Mab and her equipage, in <i>Romeo and +Juliet</i>:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners’ legs;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her traces of the smallest spider’s web;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her collars of the moonshine’s watery beams, &c.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">That is Fancy, in its playful creativeness. As +a small but pretty rival specimen, less known, take +the description of a fairy palace from Drayton’s +<i>Nymphidia</i>:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">This palace standeth in the air,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By necromancy placèd there,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That it no tempest needs to fear,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Which way soe’er it blow it:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And somewhat southward tow’rd the noon,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whence lies a way up to the moon,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And thence the fairy can as soon<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Pass to the earth below it.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The walls of spiders’ legs are made,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Well morticèd and finely laid:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He was the master of his trade<br /></span> +<span class="i1">It curiously that builded:<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>The windows of the eyes of cats:</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">(because they see best at night)<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[325]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And for the roof instead of slats<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is cover’d with the skins of bats,<br /></span> +<span class="i1"><i>With moonshine that are gilded.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">Here also is a fairy bed, very delicate, from the +same poet’s <i>Muse’s Elysium</i>:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Of leaves of roses, <i>white and red</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shall be the covering of the bed;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The curtains, vallens, tester all,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shall be the flower imperial;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And for the fringe it all along<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>With azure hare-bells shall be hung.</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Of lilies shall the pillows be,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>With down stuft of the butterfly</i>.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Of fancy, so full of gusto as to border on imagination, +Sir John Suckling, in his <i>Ballad on a Wedding</i>, +has given some of the most playful and charming +specimens in the language. They glance like +twinkles of the eye, or cherries bedewed:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Her feet beneath her petticoat,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Like little mice stole in and out,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i1"><i>As if they fear’d the light:</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">But oh! she dances such a way!<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>No sun upon an Easter day</i><br /></span> +<span class="i1">Is half so fine a sight.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">It is very daring, and has a sort of playful grandeur, +to compare a lady’s dancing with the sun. But as +the sun has it all to himself in the heavens, so she, +in the blaze of her beauty, on earth. This is +imagination fairly displacing fancy. The following +has enchanted everybody:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Her lips were red, <i>and one was thin</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Compared with that was next her chin,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i1"><i>Some bee had stung it newly</i>.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">Every reader has stolen a kiss at that lip, gay or +grave.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[326]</a></span></p> + +<p>With regard to the principle of Variety in +Uniformity by which verse ought to be modulated, +and oneness of impression diversely produced, it +has been contended by some, that Poetry need not +be written in verse at all; that prose is as good +a medium, provided poetry be conveyed through +it; and that to think otherwise is to confound +letter with spirit, or form with essence. But the +opinion is a prosaical mistake. Fitness and unfitness +for <i>song</i>, or metrical excitement, just make +all the difference between a poetical and prosaical +subject; and the reason why verse is necessary to +the form of poetry, is, that the perfection of poetical +spirit demands it;—that the circle of its enthusiasm, +beauty and power, is incomplete without it. +I do not mean to say that a poet can never show +himself a poet in prose; but that, being one, his +desire and necessity will be to write in verse; and +that, if he were unable to do so, he would not, and +could not, deserve his title. Verse to the true poet +is no clog. It is idly called a trammel and a difficulty. +It is a help. It springs from the same +enthusiasm as the rest of his impulses, and is +necessary to their satisfaction and effect. Verse +is no more a clog than the condition of rushing +upward is a clog to fire, or than the roundness and +order of the globe we live on is a clog to the freedom +and variety that abound within its sphere. Verse +is no dominator over the poet, except inasmuch as +the bond is reciprocal, and the poet dominates over +the verse. They are lovers, playfully challenging +each other’s rule, and delighted equally to rule and +to obey. Verse is the final proof to the poet that +his mastery over his art is complete. It is the +shutting up of his powers in ‘<i>measureful</i> content’;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[327]</a></span> +the answer of form to his spirit; of strength and +ease to his guidance. It is the willing action, the +proud and fiery happiness, of the winged steed on +whose back he has vaulted,</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">To witch the world with wondrous horsemanship.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">Verse, in short, is that finishing, and rounding, +and ‘tuneful planetting’ of the poet’s creations, +which is produced of necessity by the smooth +tendencies of their energy or inward working, and +the harmonious dance into which they are attracted +round the orb of the beautiful. Poetry, in its complete +sympathy with beauty, must, of necessity, +leave no sense of the beautiful, and no power over +its forms, unmanifested; and verse flows as inevitably +from this condition of its integrity, as +other laws of proportion do from any other kind +of embodiment of beauty (say that of the human +figure), however free and various the movements +may be that play within their limits. What great +poet ever wrote his poems in prose? or where is +a good prose poem, of any length, to be found? +The poetry of the Bible is understood to be in verse, +in the original. Mr. Hazlitt has said a good word +for those prose enlargements of some fine old song, +which are known by the name of Ossian; and in +passages they deserve what he said; but he +judiciously abstained from saying anything about +the form. Is Gesner’s <i>Death of Abel</i> a poem? or +Hervey’s <i>Meditations</i>? The <i>Pilgrim’s Progress</i> +has been called one; and, undoubtedly, Bunyan +had a genius which tended to make him a poet, and +one of no mean order: and yet it was of as ungenerous +and low a sort as was compatible with so +lofty an affinity; and this is the reason why it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[328]</a></span> +stopped where it did. He had a craving after the +beautiful, but not enough of it in himself to echo +to its music. On the other hand, the possession of +the beautiful will not be sufficient without force +to utter it. The author of <i>Telemachus</i> had a soul +full of beauty and tenderness. He was not a man +who, if he had had a wife and children, would have +run away from them, as Bunyan’s hero did, to get +a place by himself in heaven. He was ‘a little +lower than the angels’, like our own Bishop Jewells +and Berkeleys; and yet he was no poet. He was +too delicately, not to say feebly, absorbed in his +devotions, to join in the energies of the seraphic +choir.</p> + +<p>Every poet, then, is a versifier; every fine poet +an excellent one; and he is the best whose verse +exhibits the greatest amount of strength, sweetness, +straightforwardness, unsuperfluousness, <i>variety</i>, and +<i>oneness</i>;—oneness, that is to say, consistency, in +the general impression, metrical and moral; and +variety, or every pertinent diversity of tone and +rhythm, in the process. <i>Strength</i> is the muscle of +verse, and shows itself in the number and force +of the marked syllables; as,</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Sonòrous mètal blòwing màrtial sòunds.<br /></span> +<span class="i14"><i>Paradise Lost.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Behèmoth, bìggest born of eàrth, ùphèav’d<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His vàstness.<br /></span> +<span class="i16"><i>Id.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Blòw wìnds and cràck your chèeks! ràge! blòw!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You càtărăcts and hurricànoes, spòut,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till you have drènch’d our stèeples, dròwn’d the còcks!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You sùlphurous and thoùght-èxecuting fìres,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Vaùnt coùriers of òak-clèaving thùnderbòlts,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sìnge my whìte hèad! and thòu, àll-shàking thùnder,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Strìke flàt the thìck rotùndity o’ the wòrld!<br /></span> +<span class="i16"><i>Lear.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Unexpected locations of the accent double this<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[329]</a></span> +force, and render it characteristic of passion and +abruptness. And here comes into play the reader’s +corresponding fineness of ear, and his retardations +and accelerations in accordance with those of the +poet:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i5">Then in the keyhole turns<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The ìntrĭcăte wards, and every bolt and bar<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Unfastens.—On ă sŭddĕn òpen fly<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wĭth ĭmpètuous recoil and jarring sound<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The infernal doors, and on their hinges grate<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Harsh thunder.<br /></span> +<span class="i10"><i>Paradise Lost</i>, Book II.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Abòmĭnăblĕ—unùttĕrăblĕ—and worse<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Than fables yet have feigned.<br /></span> +<span class="i16"><i>Id.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Wàllŏwĭng ŭnwìĕldy—ĕnòrmous in their gait.<br /></span> +<span class="i16"><i>Id.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Of unusual passionate accent, there is an exquisite +specimen in the <i>Faerie Queene</i>, where Una +is lamenting her desertion by the Red-Cross +Knight:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">But he, my lion, and my noble lord,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">How does he find in cruel heart to hate<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Her that him lov’d, and ever most ador’d<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>As the gòd of my lìfe?</i><a name="FNanchor_30_30" id="FNanchor_30_30"></a><a href="#Footnote_30_30" class="fnanchor">[30]</a> Why hath he me abhorr’d?<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The abuse of strength is harshness and heaviness; +the reverse of it is weakness. There is a noble +sentiment—it appears both in Daniel’s and Sir +John Beaumont’s works, but is most probably the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[330]</a></span>latter’s,—which is a perfect outrage of strength in +the sound of the words:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Only the firmest and the <i>constant’st</i> hearts<br /></span> +<span class="i0">God sets to act the <i>stout’st</i> and hardest parts.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin"><i>Stout’st</i> and <i>constant’st</i> for ‘stoutest’ and ‘most +constant’! It is as bad as the intentional crabbedness +of the line in <i>Hudibras</i>:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He that hangs or <i>beats out’s</i> brains,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The devil’s in him if <i>he</i> feigns.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin"><i>Beats out’s brains</i>, for ‘beats out his brains’. Of +heaviness, Davenant’s <i>Gondibert</i> is a formidable +specimen, almost throughout:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">With sìlence (òrder’s help, and màrk of càre)<br /></span> +<span class="i1">They chìde thàt nòise which hèedless yòuth affèct;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stìll coùrse for ùse, for heàlth thèy clèanness wèar,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And sàve in wèll-fìx’d àrms, all nìceness chèck’d.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thèy thoùght, thòse that, unàrm’d, expòs’d fràil lìfe,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">But nàked nàture vàliantly betrày’d;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whò wàs, thoùgh nàked, sàfe, till prìde màde strìfe,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">But màde defènce must ùse, nòw dànger’s màde.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">And so he goes digging and lumbering on, like +a heavy preacher thumping the pulpit in italics, +and spoiling many ingenious reflections.</p> + +<p>Weakness in versification is want of accent and +emphasis. It generally accompanies prosaicalness, +and is the consequence of weak thoughts, and of +the affectation of a certain well-bred enthusiasm. +The writings of the late Mr. Hayley were remarkable +for it; and it abounds among the lyrical imitators +of Cowley, and the whole of what is called our +French school of poetry, when it aspired above +its wit and ‘sense’. It sometimes breaks down in +a horrible, hopeless manner, as if giving way at the +first step. The following ludicrous passage in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[331]</a></span> +Congreve, intended to be particularly fine, contains +an instance:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i1">And lo! Silence himself is here;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Methinks I see the midnight god appear.<br /></span> +<span class="i1">In all his downy pomp array’d,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Behold the reverend shade.<br /></span> +<span class="i1"><i>An ancient sigh he sits upon!!!</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose memory of sound is long since gone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>And purposely annihilated for his throne!!!</i><br /></span> +<span class="i4"><i>Ode on the singing of Mrs. Arabella Hunt.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>See also the would-be enthusiasm of Addison +about music:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">For ever consecrate the <i>day</i><br /></span> +<span class="i2">To music and <i>Cecilia</i>;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Music, the greatest good that mortals know,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And all of heaven we have below,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Music can noble <small>HINTS</small> <i>impart!!!</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>It is observable that the unpoetic masters of ridicule +are apt to make the most ridiculous mistakes, +when they come to affect a strain higher than the +one they are accustomed to. But no wonder. +Their habits neutralize the enthusiasm it requires.</p> + +<p><i>Sweetness</i>, though not identical with smoothness, +any more than feeling is with sound, always includes +it; and smoothness is a thing so little to be +regarded for its own sake, and indeed so worthless +in poetry but for some taste of sweetness, that I have +not thought necessary to mention it by itself; +though such an all-in-all in versification was it +regarded not a hundred years back, that Thomas +Warton himself, an idolater of Spenser, ventured +to wish the following line in the <i>Faerie Queene</i>,</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And was admirèd much of fools, <i>wòmen</i>, and boys—<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">altered to</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And was admirèd much of women, fools, and boys—<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">thus destroying the fine scornful emphasis on the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[332]</a></span> +first syllable of ‘women’! (an ungallant intimation, +by the way, against the fair sex, very startling +in this no less woman-loving than great poet). Any +poetaster can be smooth. Smoothness abounds +in all small poets, as sweetness does in the greater. +Sweetness is the smoothness of grace and delicacy,—of +the sympathy with the pleasing and lovely. +Spenser is full of it,—Shakespeare—Beaumont and +Fletcher—Coleridge. Of Spenser’s and Coleridge’s +versification it is the prevailing characteristic. Its +main secrets are a smooth progression between +variety and sameness, and a voluptuous sense of +the continuous,—‘linked sweetness long drawn out’. +Observe the first and last lines of the stanza in the +<i>Faerie Queene</i>, describing a shepherd brushing away +the gnats;—the open and the close <i>e’s</i> in the one,</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">As gèntle shèpherd in swēēt ēventide—<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">and the repetition of the word <i>oft</i>, and the fall from +the vowel <i>a</i>, into the two <i>u’s</i> in the other,—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She brusheth <i>oft</i>, and <i>oft</i> doth màr their mūrmŭrings.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">So in his description of two substances in the +handling, both equally smooth:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Each smoother seems than each, and each than each seems smoother.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>An abundance of examples from his poetry +will be found in the volume before us. His beauty +revolves on itself with conscious loveliness. And +Coleridge is worthy to be named with him, as the +reader will see also, and has seen already. Let him +take a sample meanwhile from the poem called the +<i>Day Dream</i>! Observe both the variety and sameness<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[333]</a></span> +of the vowels, and the repetition of the soft +consonants:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">My eyes make pictures when they’re shut:—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">I see a fountain, large and fair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A willow and a ruin’d hut,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And <i>thee</i> and <i>me</i> and Mary there.<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>O Mary! make thy gentle lap our pillow;</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Bend o’er us, like a bower, my beautiful green willow.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>By <i>Straightforwardness</i> is meant the flow of +words, in their natural order, free alike from +mere prose, and from those inversions to which bad +poets recur in order to escape the charge of prose, +but chiefly to accommodate their rhymes. In +Shadwell’s play of <i>Psyche</i>, Venus gives the sisters +of the heroine an answer, of which the following +is the <i>entire</i> substance, literally, in so many words. +The author had nothing better for her to say:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>I receive your prayers with kindness, and will give +success to your hopes. I have seen, with anger, mankind +adore your sister’s beauty and deplore her scorn: which +they shall do no more. For I’ll so resent their idolatry, +as shall content your wishes to the full.</p></div> + +<p>Now in default of all imagination, fancy, and +expression, how was the writer to turn these words +into poetry or rhyme? Simply by diverting them +from their natural order, and twisting the halves +of the sentences each before the other.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i1">With kindness I your prayers receive,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And to your hopes success will give.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I have, with anger, seen mankind adore<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Your sister’s beauty and her scorn deplore;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Which they shall do no more.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For their idolatry I’ll so resent,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As shall your wishes to the full content!!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>This is just as if a man were to allow that there +was no poetry in the words, ‘How do you find<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[334]</a></span> +yourself?’ ‘Very well, I thank you’; but to +hold them inspired, if altered into</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yourself how do you find?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Very well, you I thank.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>It is true, the best writers in Shadwell’s age were +addicted to these inversions, partly for their own +reasons, as far as rhyme was concerned, and partly +because they held it to be writing in the classical +and Virgilian manner. What has since been called +Artificial Poetry was then flourishing, in contradistinction +to Natural; or Poetry seen chiefly +through art and books, and not in its first sources. +But when the artificial poet partook of the natural, +or, in other words, was a true poet after his kind, +his best was always written in his most natural +and straightforward manner. Hear Shadwell’s +antagonist Dryden. Not a particle of inversion, +beyond what is used for the sake of emphasis in +common discourse, and this only in one line (the +last but three), is to be found in his immortal +character of the Duke of Buckingham:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A man so various, that he seemed to be<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not one, but all mankind’s epitome:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stiff in opinions, <i>always in the wrong</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Was everything by starts, and nothing long;</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">But in the course of one revolving moon<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then all for women, rhyming, dancing, drinking,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinking.</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Blest madman!</i> who could every hour employ<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>With something new to wish or to enjoy!</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Railing and praising were his usual themes;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And both, to show his judgement, in extremes:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So over violent, or over civil,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>That every man with him was god or devil.</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">In squandering wealth was his peculiar art;<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Nothing went unrewarded, but desert.</i><br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[335]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Beggar’d by fools, whom still he found too late,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>He had his jest, and they had his estate.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Inversion itself was often turned into a grace +in these poets, and may be in others, by the power +of being superior to it; using it only with a classical +air, and as a help lying next to them, instead of +a salvation which they are obliged to seek. In +jesting passages also it sometimes gave the rhyme +a turn agreeably wilful, or an appearance of choosing +what lay in its way; as if a man should pick +up a stone to throw at another’s head, where a less +confident foot would have stumbled over it. Such +is Dryden’s use of the word <i>might</i>—the mere sign +of a tense—in his pretended ridicule of the monkish +practice of rising to sing psalms in the night.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And much they griev’d to see so nigh their hall<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The bird that warn’d St. Peter of his fall;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That he should raise his mitred crest on high,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And clap his wings and call his family<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To sacred rites; and vex th’ ethereal powers<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With midnight matins at uncivil hours;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nay more, his quiet neighbours should molest<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Just in the sweetness of their morning rest.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">(What a line full of ‘another doze’ is that!)</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Beast of a bird!</i> supinely, when he <i>might</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lie snug and sleep, to rise before the light!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What if his dull forefathers used that cry?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Could he not let a bad example die?<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>I the more gladly quote instances like those of +Dryden, to illustrate the points in question, because +they are specimens of the very highest kind of +writing in the heroic couplet upon subjects not +heroical. As to prosaicalness in general, it is +sometimes indulged in by young writers on the +plea of its being natural; but this is a mere<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336">[336]</a></span> +confusion of triviality with propriety, and is usually +the result of indolence.</p> + +<p><i>Unsuperfluousness</i> is rather a matter of style +in general, than of the sound and order of words: +and yet versification is so much strengthened by +it, and so much weakened by its opposite, that +it could not but come within the category of its +requisites. When superfluousness of words is not +occasioned by overflowing animal spirits, as in +Beaumont and Fletcher, or by the very genius of +luxury, as in Spenser (in which cases it is enrichment +as well as overflow), there is no worse sign for +a poet altogether, except pure barrenness. Every +word that could be taken away from a poem, unreferable +to either of the above reasons for it, is +a damage; and many such are death; for there +is nothing that posterity seems so determined to +resent as this want of respect for its time and +trouble. The world is too rich in books to endure +it. Even true poets have died of this Writer’s +Evil. Trifling ones have survived, with scarcely +any pretensions but the terseness of their trifles. +What hope can remain for wordy mediocrity? +Let the discerning reader take up any poem, pen in +hand, for the purpose of discovering how many words +he can strike out of it that give him no requisite +ideas, no relevant ones that he cares for, and no +reasons for the rhyme beyond its necessity, and he +will see what blot and havoc he will make in many +an admired production of its day,—what marks of +its inevitable fate. Bulky authors in particular, +however safe they may think themselves, would +do well to consider what parts of their cargo they +might dispense with in their proposed voyage down +the gulfs of time; for many a gallant vessel, thought<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">[337]</a></span> +indestructible in its age, has perished;—many +a load of words, expected to be in eternal demand, +gone to join the wrecks of self-love, or rotted in +the warehouses of change and vicissitude. I have +said the more on this point, because in an age +when the true inspiration has undoubtedly been +reawakened by Coleridge and his fellows, and we +have so many new poets coming forward, it may be +as well to give a general warning against that +tendency to an accumulation and ostentation of +<i>thoughts</i>, which is meant to be a refutation in full +of the pretensions of all poetry less cogitabund, +whatever may be the requirements of its class. +Young writers should bear in mind, that even some +of the very best materials for poetry are not poetry +built; and that the smallest marble shrine, of +exquisite workmanship, outvalues all that architect +ever chipped away. Whatever can be so dispensed +with is rubbish.</p> + +<p><i>Variety</i> in versification consists in whatsoever +can be done for the prevention of monotony, by +diversity of stops and cadences, distribution of +emphasis, and retardation and acceleration of +time; for the whole real secret of versification is +a musical secret, and is not attainable to any vital +effect, save by the ear of genius. All the mere +knowledge of feet and numbers, of accent and +quantity, will no more impart it, than a knowledge +of the ‘Guide to Music’ will make a Beethoven +or a Paisiello. It is a matter of sensibility and +imagination; of the beautiful in poetical passion, +accompanied by musical; of the imperative +necessity for a pause here, and a cadence there, and +a quicker or slower utterance in this or that place, +created by analogies of sound with sense, by the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">[338]</a></span> +fluctuations of feeling, by the demands of the gods +and graces that visit the poet’s harp, as the winds +visit that of Aeolus. The same time and quantity +which are occasioned by the spiritual part of this +secret, thus become its formal ones,—not feet and +syllables, long and short, iambics or trochees; +which are the reduction of it to its <i>less</i> than dry +bones. You might get, for instance, not only ten +and eleven, but thirteen or fourteen syllables into +a rhyming, as well as blank, heroical verse, if time +and the feeling permitted; and in irregular measure +this is often done; just as musicians put twenty +notes in a bar instead of two, quavers instead of +minims, according as the feeling they are expressing +impels them to fill up the time with short and +hurried notes, or with long; or as the choristers +in a cathedral retard or precipitate the words of +the chant, according as the quantity of its notes, +and the colon which divides the verse of the psalm, +conspire to demand it. Had the moderns borne +this principle in mind when they settled the prevailing +systems of verse, instead of learning them, +as they appear to have done, from the first drawling +and one-syllabled notation of the church hymns, +we should have retained all the advantages of the +more numerous versification of the ancients, without +being compelled to fancy that there was no +alternative for us between our syllabical uniformity +and the hexameters or other special forms unsuited +to our tongues. But to leave this question alone, +we will present the reader with a few sufficing +specimens of the difference between monotony and +variety in versification, first from Pope, Dryden, +and Milton, and next from Gay and Coleridge. +The following is the boasted melody of the nevertheless<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339">[339]</a></span> +exquisite poet of the <i>Rape of the Lock</i>,—exquisite +in his wit and fancy, though not in his +numbers. The reader will observe that it is +literally <i>see-saw</i>, like the rising and falling of +a plank, with a light person at one end who is +jerked up in the briefer time, and a heavier one +who is set down more leisurely at the other. It +is in the otherwise charming description of the +heroine of that poem:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">On her white breast—a sparkling cross she wore,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which Jews might kiss—and infidels adore;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her lively looks—a sprightly mind disclose,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Quick as her eyes—and as unfix’d as those;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Favours to none—to all she smiles extends,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oft she rejects—but never once offends;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bright as the sun—her eyes the gazers strike,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And like the sun—they shine on all alike;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet graceful ease—and sweetness void of pride,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Might hide her faults—if belles had faults to hide;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If to her share—some female errors fall,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Look on her face—and you’ll forget them all.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Compare with this the description of Iphigenia +in one of Dryden’s stories from Boccaccio:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It happen’d—on a summer’s holiday,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That to the greenwood shade—he took his way,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For Cymon shunn’d the church—and used not much to pray.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His quarter-staff—which he could ne’er forsake,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hung half before—and half behind his back;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He trudg’d along—not knowing what he sought,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And whistled as he went—for want of thought.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">By chance conducted—or by thirst constrain’d,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The deep recesses of a grove he gain’d:—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where—in a plain defended by a wood,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Crept through the matted grass—a crystal flood,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By which—an alabaster fountain stood;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And on the margent of the fount was laid—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Attended by her slaves—a sleeping maid;<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_340" id="Page_340">[340]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Like Dian and her nymphs—when, tir’d with sport,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To rest by cool Eurotas they resort.—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The dame herself—the goddess well express’d,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not more distinguished by her purple vest—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Than by the charming features of the face—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And e’en in slumber—a superior grace:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her comely limbs—compos’d with decent care,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her body shaded—by a light cymar,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her bosom to the view—was only bare;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where two beginning paps were scarcely spied—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For yet their places were but signified.—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The fanning wind upon her bosom blows—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To meet the fanning wind—the bosom rose;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The fanning wind—and purling stream—continue her repose.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>For a further variety take, from the same +author’s <i>Theodore and Honoria</i>, a passage in which +the couplets are run one into the other, and all of +it modulated, like the former, according to the +feeling demanded by the occasion:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Whilst listening to the murmuring leaves he stood—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">More than a mile immers’d within the wood—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At once the wind was laid.|—The whispering sound<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was dumb.|—A rising earthquake rock’d the ground.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With deeper brown the grove was overspread—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A sudden horror seiz’d his giddy head—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And his ears tinkled—and his colour fled.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Nature was in alarm.—Some danger nigh<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Seem’d threaten’d—though unseen to mortal eye.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Unus’d to fear—he summon’d all his soul,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And stood collected in himself—and whole:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not long.—<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>But for a crowning specimen of variety of pause +and accent, apart from emotion, nothing can surpass +the account, in <i>Paradise Lost</i>, of the Devil’s +search for an accomplice:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i11">There was a plàce,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nòw nòt—though Sìn—not Tìme—fìrst wroùght the chànge,<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_341" id="Page_341">[341]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Where Tìgris—at the foot of Pàradise,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Into a gùlf—shòt under ground—till pàrt<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ròse up a foùntain by the Trèe of Lìfe.<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>In</i> with the river sunk—and <i>wìth</i> it <i>ròse</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sàtan—invòlv’d in rìsing mìst—then soùght<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whère to lie hìd.—Sèa he had search’d—and lànd<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From Eden over Pòntus—and the pòol<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Maeòtis—<i>ùp</i> beyond the river <i>Ob</i>;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dòwnward as fàr antàrctic;—and in lèngth<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wèst from Oròntes—to the òcean bàrr’d<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At Dàriën—thènce to the lànd whère flòws<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gànges and Indus.—Thùs the òrb he ròam’d<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With nàrrow sèarch;—and with inspèction dèep<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Consìder’d èvery crèature—whìch of àll<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mòst opportùne mìght sèrve his wìles—and foùnd<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sèrpent—sùbtlest bèast of all the fièld.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>If the reader cast his eye again over this passage, +he will not find a verse in it which is not varied and +harmonized in the most remarkable manner. Let +him notice in particular that curious balancing of +the lines in the sixth and tenth verses:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>In</i> with the river sunk, &c.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">and</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Up</i> beyond the river <i>Ob</i>.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>It might, indeed, be objected to the versification +of Milton, that it exhibits too constant a perfection +of this kind. It sometimes forces upon us too +great a sense of consciousness on the part of the +composer. We miss the first sprightly runnings of +verse,—the ease and sweetness of spontaneity. +Milton, I think, also too often condenses weight +into heaviness.</p> + +<p>Thus much concerning the chief of our two +most popular measures. The other, called octo-syllabic, +or the measure of eight syllables, offered +such facilities for <i>namby-pamby</i>, that it had become +a jest as early as the time of Shakespeare, who<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_342" id="Page_342">[342]</a></span> +makes Touchstone call it the ‘butterwoman’s rate +to market’, and the ‘very false gallop of verses’. +It has been advocated, in opposition to the heroic +measure, upon the ground that ten syllables lead +a man into epithets and other superfluities, while +eight syllables compress him into a sensible and +pithy gentleman. But the heroic measure laughs +at it. So far from compressing, it converts one line +into two, and sacrifices everything to the quick +and importunate return of the rhyme. With +Dryden, compare Gay, even in the strength of +Gay,—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The wind was high, the window shakes;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With sudden start the miser wakes;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Along the silent room he stalks,<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">(A miser never ‘stalks’; but a rhyme was desired +for ‘walks’)</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Looks back, and trembles as he walks:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Each lock and every bolt he tries,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In every creek and corner pries;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then opes the chest with treasure stor’d,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And stands in rapture o’er his hoard;<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">(‘Hoard’ and ‘treasure stor’d’ are just made for +one another)</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But now, with sudden qualms possess’d,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He wrings his hands, he beats his breast;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By conscience stung, he wildly stares,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And thus his guilty soul declares.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">And so he denounces his gold, as miser never +denounced it; and sighs, because</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Virtue resides on earth no more!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Coleridge saw the mistake which had been made +with regard to this measure, and restored it to the +beautiful freedom of which it was capable, by calling<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_343" id="Page_343">[343]</a></span> +to mind the liberties allowed its old musical professors +the minstrels, and dividing it by <i>time</i> instead +of <i>syllables</i>;—by the <i>beat of four</i> into which you +might get as many syllables as you could, instead of +allotting eight syllables to the poor time, whatever +it might have to say. He varied it further with +alternate rhymes and stanzas, with rests and +omissions precisely analogous to those in music, +and rendered it altogether worthy to utter the +manifold thoughts and feelings of himself and his +lady Christabel. He even ventures, with an +exquisite sense of solemn strangeness and licence +(for there is witchcraft going forward), to introduce +a couplet of blank verse, itself as mystically and +beautifully modulated as anything in the music of +Gluck or Weber.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">’Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the owls have awaken’d the crowing cock;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tu-whit!—Tu-whoo!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And hark, again! the crowing cock,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>How drowsily he crew.</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sir Leoline, the baron rich,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hath a toothless mastiff bitch;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From her kennel beneath the rock<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She maketh answer to the clock,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Fòur fŏr thĕ qùartĕrs ănd twèlve fŏr thĕ hoùr,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ever and aye, by shine and shower,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sixteen short howls, not over loud:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some say, she sees my lady’s shroud.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Is the nìght chìlly and dàrk?</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>The nìght is chìlly, but nòt dàrk.</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">The thin grey cloud is spread on high,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It covers, but not hides, the sky.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The moon is behind, and at the full,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And yet she looks both small and dull.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The night is chilly, the cloud is grey;<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">(These are not superfluities, but mysterious returns +of importunate feeling)<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_344" id="Page_344">[344]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>’Tis a month before the month of May,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>And the spring comes slowly up this way.</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">The lovely lady, Christabel,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whom her father loves so well,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What makes her in the wood so late,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A furlong from the castle-gate?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She had dreams all yesternight<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of her own betrothèd knight;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And shè ĭn thĕ midnight wood will pray<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For the wèal ŏf hĕr lover that’s far away.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She stole along, she nothing spoke,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sighs she heav’d were soft and low,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And nought was green upon the oak,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But moss and rarest mistletoe;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She kneels beneath the huge oak tree,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And in silence prayeth she.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The lady sprang up suddenly,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The lovely lady, Christabel!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It moan’d as near as near can be,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But what it is, she cannot tell.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On the other side it seems to be<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of thĕ hùge, broàd-breàsted, òld oàk trèe.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The night is chill, the forest bare;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is it the wind that moaneth bleak?<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">(This ‘bleak moaning’ is a witch’s)</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There is not wind enough in the air<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To move away the ringlet curl<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From the lovely lady’s cheek—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There is not wind enough to twirl<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>The òne rèd lèaf, the làst ŏf ĭts clan,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>That dàncĕs ăs òftĕn ăs dànce it càn,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Hàngĭng sŏ lìght and hàngĭng sŏ hìgh,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>On thĕ tòpmost twìg thăt loŏks ùp ăt thĕ sky.</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Hush, beating heart of Christabel!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Jesu Maria, shield her well!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She folded her arms beneath her cloak,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And stole to the other side of the oak.<br /></span> +<span class="i3">What sees she there?<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_345" id="Page_345">[345]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There she sees a damsel bright,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Drest in a robe of silken white,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That shadowy in the moonlight shone:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The neck that made that white robe wan,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her stately neck and arms were bare:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her blue-vein’d feet unsandall’d were;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And wildly glitter’d, here and there,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The gems entangled in her hair.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I guess ’twas <i>frightful</i> there to see<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>A lady so richly clad as she—</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Beautiful exceedingly.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The principle of Variety in Uniformity is here +worked out in a style ‘beyond the reach of art’. +Everything is diversified according to the demand +of the moment, of the sounds, the sights, the +emotions; the very uniformity of the outline is +gently varied; and yet we feel that <i>the whole is +one and of the same character</i>, the single and sweet +unconsciousness of the heroine making all the rest +seem more conscious, and ghastly, and expectant. +It is thus that <i>versification itself becomes part of the +sentiment of a poem</i>, and vindicates the pains that +have been taken to show its importance. I know +of no very fine versification unaccompanied with +fine poetry; no poetry of a mean order accompanied +with verse of the highest.</p> + +<p>As to Rhyme, which might be thought too +insignificant to mention, it is not at all so. The +universal consent of modern Europe, and of the +East in all ages, has made it one of the musical +beauties of verse for all poetry but epic and +dramatic, and even for the former with Southern +Europe,—a sustainment for the enthusiasm, and +a demand to enjoy. The mastery of it consists in +never writing it for its own sake, or at least never +appearing to do so; in knowing how to vary it,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_346" id="Page_346">[346]</a></span> +to give it novelty, to render it more or less strong, +to divide it (when not in couplets) at the proper +intervals, to repeat it many times where luxury +or animal spirits demand it (see an instance in +Titania’s speech to the Fairies), to impress an +affecting or startling remark with it, and to make +it, in comic poetry, a new and surprising addition +to the jest.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Large was his bounty and his soul sincere,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Heav’n did a recompense as largely send;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He gave to misery all he had, <i>a tear</i>;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">He gain’d from heav’n (’twas all he wish’d) <i>a friend</i>.<br /></span> +<span class="i16">Gray’s <i>Elegy</i>.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The fops are proud of scandal; for they cry<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At every lewd, low character, ‘That’s <i>I</i>’.<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Dryden’s <i>Prologue to the Pilgrim</i>.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What makes all doctrines plain and clear?<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>About two hundred pounds a-year.</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And that which was proved true before,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Prove false again? <i>Two hundred more.</i><br /></span> +<span class="i14"><i>Hudibras.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Compound for sins they are <i>inclin’d to</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By damning those they have <i>no mind to</i>.<br /></span> +<span class="i16"><i>Id.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">——Stor’d with deletery <i>med’cines</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which whosoever took is <i>dead since</i>.<br /></span> +<span class="i16"><i>Id.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Sometimes it is a grace in a master like Butler +to force his rhyme, thus showing a laughing wilful +power over the most stubborn materials:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i13">Win<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The women, and make them draw in<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The men, as Indians with a <i>fèmale</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tame elephant inveigle <i>the</i> male.<br /></span> +<span class="i14"><i>Hudibras.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He made an instrument to know<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If the moon shines at full or no;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That would, as soon as e’er she <i>shone, straight</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whether ’twere day or night <i>demonstrate</i>;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tell what her diameter to an <i>inch is</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And prove that she’s not made of <i>green cheese</i>.<br /></span> +<span class="i16"><i>Id.</i><br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_347" id="Page_347">[347]</a></span></div></div> + +<p class="noin">Pronounce it, by all means, <i>grinches</i>, to make the +joke more wilful. The happiest triple rhyme, +perhaps, that ever was written, is in <i>Don Juan</i>:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But oh! ye lords of ladies <i>intellectual</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Inform us truly,—haven’t they <i>hen-peck’d you all</i>?<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">The sweepingness of the assumption completes the +flowing breadth of effect.</p> + +<p>Dryden confessed that a rhyme often gave him +a thought. Probably the happy word ‘sprung’ +in the following passage from Ben Jonson was +suggested by it; but then the poet must have had +the feeling in him.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i1">—Let our trumpets sound,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And cleave both air and ground<br /></span> +<span class="i1">With beating of our drums.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Let every lyre be strung,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Harp, lute, theorbo, <i>sprung</i><br /></span> +<span class="i1"><i>With touch of dainty thumbs</i>.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Boileau’s trick for appearing to rhyme naturally +was to compose the second line of his couplet first! +which gives one the crowning idea of the ‘artificial +school of poetry’. Perhaps the most perfect +master of rhyme, the easiest and most abundant, +was the greatest writer of comedy that the world +has seen,—Molière.</p> + +<p>If a young reader should ask, after all, What is +the quickest way of knowing bad poets from good, +the best poets from the next best, and so on? the +answer is, the only and twofold way: first, the +perusal of the best poets with the greatest attention; +and, second, the cultivation of that love of +truth and beauty which made them what they are. +Every true reader of poetry partakes a more than +ordinary portion of the poetic nature; and no one +can be completely such, who does not love, or<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_348" id="Page_348">[348]</a></span> +take an interest in, everything that interests the +poet, from the firmament to the daisy,—from +the highest heart of man to the most pitiable of +the low. It is a good practice to read with pen in +hand, marking what is liked or doubted. It rivets +the attention, realizes the greatest amount of enjoyment, +and facilitates reference. It enables the +reader also, from time to time, to see what progress +he makes with his own mind, and how it grows up +towards the stature of its exalter.</p> + +<p>If the same person should ask, What class of +poetry is the highest? I should say, undoubtedly, +the Epic; for it includes the drama, with narration +besides; or the speaking and action of the characters, +with the speaking of the poet himself, whose +utmost address is taxed to relate all well for so long +a time, particularly in the passages least sustained +by enthusiasm. Whether this class has included +the greatest poet, is another question still under +trial; for Shakespeare perplexes all such verdicts, +even when the claimant is Homer; though, if +a judgement may be drawn from his early narratives +(<i>Venus and Adonis</i>, and the <i>Rape of Lucrece</i>), it is to +be doubted whether even Shakespeare could have +told a story like Homer, owing to that incessant +activity and superfoetation of thought, a little less +of which might be occasionally desired even in his +plays;—if it were possible, once possessing anything +of his, to wish it away. Next to Homer and +Shakespeare come such narrators as the less +universal, but still intenser Dante; Milton, with +his dignified imagination; the universal, profoundly +simple Chaucer; and luxuriant, remote Spenser—immortal +child in poetry’s most poetic solitudes: +then the great second-rate dramatists; unless<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_349" id="Page_349">[349]</a></span> +those who are better acquainted with Greek tragedy +than I am, demand a place for them before Chaucer: +then the airy yet robust universality of Ariosto; +the hearty, out-of-door nature of Theocritus, also +a universalist; the finest lyrical poets (who only +take short flights, compared with the narrators); +the purely contemplative poets who have more +thought than feeling; the descriptive, satirical, +didactic, epigrammatic. It is to be borne in mind, +however, that the first poet of an inferior class may +be superior to followers in the train of a higher one, +though the superiority is by no means to be taken +for granted; otherwise Pope would be superior to +Fletcher, and Butler to Pope. Imagination, teeming +with action and character, makes the greatest +poets; feeling and thought the next; fancy (by +itself) the next; wit the last. Thought by itself +makes no poet at all; for the mere conclusions of +the understanding can at best be only so many +intellectual matters of fact. Feeling, even destitute +of conscious thought, stands a far better poetical +chance; feeling being a sort of thought without +the process of thinking,—a grasper of the truth +without seeing it. And what is very remarkable, +feeling seldom makes the blunders that thought +does. An idle distinction has been made between +taste and judgement. Taste is the very maker of +judgement. Put an artificial fruit in your mouth, +or only handle it, and you will soon perceive the +difference between judging from taste or tact, and +judging from the abstract figment called judgement. +The latter does but throw you into guesses +and doubts. Hence the conceits that astonish +us in the gravest, and even subtlest, thinkers, +whose taste is not proportionate to their mental<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_350" id="Page_350">[350]</a></span> +perceptions; men like Donne, for instance; who, +apart from accidental personal impressions, seem to +look at nothing as it really is, but only as to what +may be thought of it. Hence, on the other hand, +the delightfulness of those poets who never violate +truth of feeling, whether in things real or imaginary; +who are always consistent with their object and +its requirements; and who run the great round of +nature, not to perplex and be perplexed, but to +make themselves and us happy. And luckily, +delightfulness is not incompatible with greatness, +willing soever as men may be in their present +imperfect state to set the power to subjugate above +the power to please. Truth, of any great kind +whatsoever, makes great writing. This is the +reason why such poets as Ariosto, though not writing +with a constant detail of thought and feeling +like Dante, are justly considered great as well as +delightful. Their greatness proves itself by the +same truth of nature, and sustained power, though +in a different way. Their action is not so crowded +and weighty; their sphere has more territories less +fertile; but it has enchantments of its own, which +excess of thought would spoil,—luxuries, laughing +graces, animal spirits; and not to recognize the +beauty and greatness of these, treated as they treat +them, is simply to be defective in sympathy. +Every planet is not Mars or Saturn. There is also +Venus and Mercury. There is one genius of the +south, and another of the north, and others uniting +both. The reader who is too thoughtless or too +sensitive to like intensity of any sort, and he who +is too thoughtful or too dull to like anything but +the greatest possible stimulus of reflection or passion, +are equally wanting in complexional fitness<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_351" id="Page_351">[351]</a></span> +for a thorough enjoyment of books. Ariosto occasionally +says as fine things as Dante, and Spenser as +Shakespeare; but the business of both is to enjoy; +and in order to partake their enjoyment to its full +extent, you must feel what poetry is in the general +as well as the particular, must be aware that there +are different songs of the spheres, some fuller of +notes, and others of a sustained delight; and as +the former keep you perpetually alive to thought or +passion, so from the latter you receive a constant +harmonious sense of truth and beauty, more agreeable +perhaps on the whole, though less exciting. +Ariosto, for instance, does not <i>tell a story</i> with the +brevity and concentrated passion of Dante; every +sentence is not so full of matter, nor the style so +removed from the indifference of prose; yet you +are charmed with a truth of another sort, equally +characteristic of the writer, equally drawn from +nature and substituting a healthy sense of enjoyment +for intenser emotion. Exclusiveness of liking +for this or that mode of truth, only shows, either +that a reader’s perceptions are limited, or that he +would sacrifice truth itself to his favourite form of +it. Sir Walter Raleigh, who was as trenchant +with his pen as his sword, hailed the <i>Faerie Queene</i> +of his friend Spenser in verses in which he said that +‘Petrarch’ was thenceforward to be no more +heard of; and that in all English poetry, there was +nothing he counted ‘of any price’ but the effusions +of the new author. Yet Petrarch is still living; +Chaucer was not abolished by Sir Walter; and +Shakespeare is thought somewhat valuable. A +botanist might as well have said, that myrtles and +oaks were to disappear, because acacias had come +up. It is with the poet’s creations, as with nature’s,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_352" id="Page_352">[352]</a></span> +great or small. Wherever truth and beauty, whatever +their amount, can be worthily shaped into +verse, and answer to some demand for it in our +hearts, there poetry is to be found; whether in +productions grand and beautiful as some great +event, or some mighty, leafy solitude, or no bigger +and more pretending than a sweet face or a bunch +of violets; whether in Homer’s epic or Gray’s +<i>Elegy</i>, in the enchanted gardens of Ariosto and +Spenser, or the very pot-herbs of the <i>Schoolmistress</i> +of Shenstone, the balms of the simplicity of a cottage. +Not to know and feel this, is to be deficient +in the universality of Nature herself, who is a +poetess on the smallest as well as the largest scale, +and who calls upon us to admire all her productions; +not indeed with the same degree of admiration, but +with no refusal of it, except to defect.</p> + +<p>I cannot draw this essay towards its conclusion +better than with three memorable words of Milton; +who has said, that poetry, in comparison with +science, is ‘simple, sensuous, and passionate’. By +simple, he means unperplexed and self-evident; +by sensuous, genial and full of imagery; by +passionate, excited and enthusiastic. I am aware +that different constructions have been put on some +of these words; but the context seems to me to +necessitate those before us. I quote, however, not +from the original, but from an extract in the +<i>Remarks on Paradise Lost</i> by Richardson.</p> + +<p>What the poet has to cultivate above all things +is love and truth;—what he has to avoid, like +poison, is the fleeting and the false. He will get no +good by proposing to be ‘in earnest at the moment’. +His earnestness must be innate and habitual; +born with him, and felt to be his most precious<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_353" id="Page_353">[353]</a></span> +inheritance. ‘I expect neither profit nor general +fame by my writings,’ says Coleridge, in the +Preface to his Poems; ‘and I consider myself as +having been amply repaid without either. Poetry +has been to me its “<i>own exceeding great reward</i>”; +it has soothed my afflictions; it has multiplied and +refined my enjoyments; it has endeared solitude; +and it has given me the habit of wishing to discover +the good and the beautiful in all that meets +and surrounds me.’</p> + +<p>‘Poetry’, says Shelley, ‘lifts the veil from the +hidden beauty of the world, <i>and makes familiar +objects be as if they were not familiar</i>. It reproduces +all that it represents; and the impersonations +clothed in its Elysian light stand thenceforward in +the minds of those who have once contemplated +them, as memorials of that gentle and exalted content +which extends itself over all thoughts and +actions with which it co-exists. The great secret +of morals is love, or a going out of our own nature, +and an identification of ourselves with the beautiful +which exists in thought, action, or person, not +our own. A man, to be greatly good, must imagine +intensely and comprehensively; he must put +himself in the place of another, and of many others: +the pains and pleasures of his species must become +his own. The great instrument of moral good is +imagination; and poetry administers to the effect +by acting upon the cause.’</p> + +<p>I would not willingly say anything after perorations +like these; but as treatises on poetry may +chance to have auditors who think themselves +called upon to vindicate the superiority of what is +termed useful knowledge, it may be as well to add, +that if the poet may be allowed to pique himself on<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_354" id="Page_354">[354]</a></span> +any one thing more than another, compared with +those who undervalue him, it is on that power of +undervaluing nobody, and no attainments different +from his own, which is given him by the very +faculty of imagination they despise. The greater +includes the less. They do not see that their inability +to comprehend him argues the smaller +capacity. No man recognizes the worth of utility +more than the poet: he only desires that the meaning +of the term may not come short of its greatness, +and exclude the noblest necessities of his fellow-creatures. +He is quite as much pleased, for instance, +with the facilities for rapid conveyance +afforded him by the railroad, as the dullest confiner +of its advantages to that single idea, or as the +greatest two-idea’d man who varies that single idea +with hugging himself on his ‘buttons’ or his good +dinner. But he sees also the beauty of the country +through which he passes, of the towns, of the heavens, +of the steam-engine itself, thundering and fuming +along like a magic horse, of the affections that are +carrying, perhaps, half the passengers on their +journey, nay, of those of the great two-idea’d man; +and, beyond all this, he discerns the incalculable +amount of good, and knowledge, and refinement, +and mutual consideration, which this wonderful +invention is fitted to circulate over the globe, +perhaps to the displacement of war itself, and +certainly to the diffusion of millions of enjoyments.</p> + +<p>‘And a button-maker, after all, invented it!’ +cries our friend.</p> + +<p>Pardon me—it was a nobleman. A button-maker +may be a very excellent, and a very poetical +man too, and yet not have been the first man +visited by a sense of the gigantic powers of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_355" id="Page_355">[355]</a></span> +combination of water and fire. It was a nobleman +who first thought of this most poetical bit of +science. It was a nobleman who first thought of +it—a captain who first tried it—and a button-maker +who perfected it. And he who put the +nobleman on such thoughts was the great philosopher, +Bacon, who said that poetry had ‘something +divine in it’, and was necessary to the +satisfaction of the human mind.</p> + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_25_25" id="Footnote_25_25"></a><a href="#FNanchor_25_25"><span class="label">[25]</span></a> <i>Passio</i>, suffering in a good sense,—ardent subjection of +one’s-self to emotion.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_26_26" id="Footnote_26_26"></a><a href="#FNanchor_26_26"><span class="label">[26]</span></a> throes?</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_27_27" id="Footnote_27_27"></a><a href="#FNanchor_27_27"><span class="label">[27]</span></a> welters,—throws himself about.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_28_28" id="Footnote_28_28"></a><a href="#FNanchor_28_28"><span class="label">[28]</span></a> dwelling.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_29_29" id="Footnote_29_29"></a><a href="#FNanchor_29_29"><span class="label">[29]</span></a> Leigh Hunt’s <i>Imagination and Fancy, or Selections +from the English Poets</i>, 1844.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_30_30" id="Footnote_30_30"></a><a href="#FNanchor_30_30"><span class="label">[30]</span></a> Pray let not the reader consent to read this first half of +the line in any manner less marked and peremptory. It is +a striking instance of the beauty of that ‘acceleration and +retardation of true verse’ which Coleridge speaks of. +There is to be a hurry on the words <i>as the</i>, and a passionate +emphasis and passing stop on the word <i>god</i>; and so of the +next three words.</p></div> +</div> + + +<h2><a name="MATTHEW_ARNOLD" id="MATTHEW_ARNOLD"></a>MATTHEW ARNOLD<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_356" id="Page_356">[356]</a></span></h2> + +<h3>1822-1888</h3> + +<h3>THE CHOICE OF SUBJECTS IN POETRY</h3> + +<h4>[Preface to ‘Poems’, 1853]</h4> + + +<p><span class="smcap">In</span> two small volumes of Poems, published +anonymously, one in 1849, the other in 1852, +many of the Poems which compose the present +volume have already appeared. The rest are now +published for the first time.</p> + +<p>I have, in the present collection, omitted the +Poem from which the volume published in 1852 +took its title. I have done so, not because the +subject of it was a Sicilian Greek born between +two and three thousand years ago, although +many persons would think this a sufficient reason. +Neither have I done so because I had, in my own +opinion, failed in the delineation which I intended +to effect. I intended to delineate the feelings of +one of the last of the Greek religious philosophers, +one of the family of Orpheus and Musaeus, having +survived his fellows, living on into a time when +the habits of Greek thought and feeling had begun +fast to change, character to dwindle, the influence +of the Sophists to prevail. Into the feelings of +a man so situated there entered much that we +are accustomed to consider as exclusively modern; +how much, the fragments of Empedocles himself +which remain to us are sufficient at least to indicate.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_357" id="Page_357">[357]</a></span> +What those who are familiar only with the great +monuments of early Greek genius suppose to be +its exclusive characteristics, have disappeared; the +calm, the cheerfulness, the disinterested objectivity +have disappeared: the dialogue of the mind with +itself has commenced; modern problems have +presented themselves; we hear already the doubts, +we witness the discouragement, of Hamlet and of +Faust.</p> + +<p>The representation of such a man’s feelings +must be interesting, if consistently drawn. We +all naturally take pleasure, says Aristotle, in any +imitation or representation whatever: this is the +basis of our love of Poetry: and we take pleasure +in them, he adds, because all knowledge is naturally +agreeable to us; not to the philosopher only, +but to mankind at large. Every representation +therefore which is consistently drawn may be +supposed to be interesting, inasmuch as it gratifies +this natural interest in knowledge of all kinds. +What is <i>not</i> interesting, is that which does not +add to our knowledge of any kind; that which is +vaguely conceived and loosely drawn; a representation +which is general, indeterminate, and +faint, instead of being particular, precise, and firm.</p> + +<p>Any accurate representation may therefore be +expected to be interesting; but, if the representation +be a poetical one, more than this is demanded. +It is demanded, not only that it shall interest, but +also that it shall inspirit and rejoice the reader: +that it shall convey a charm, and infuse delight. +For the Muses, as Hesiod says, were born that +they might be ‘a forgetfulness of evils, and a truce +from cares’; and it is not enough that the Poet +should add to the knowledge of men, it is required<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_358" id="Page_358">[358]</a></span> +of him also that he should add to their happiness. +‘All Art’, says Schiller, ‘is dedicated to Joy, and +there is no higher and no more serious problem, +than how to make men happy. The right Art is +that alone, which creates the highest enjoyment.’</p> + +<p>A poetical work, therefore, is not yet justified +when it has been shown to be an accurate, and therefore +interesting, representation; it has to be shown +also that it is a representation from which men +can derive enjoyment. In presence of the most +tragic circumstances, represented in a work of Art, +the feeling of enjoyment, as is well known, may +still subsist: the representation of the most utter +calamity, of the liveliest anguish, is not sufficient to +destroy it: the more tragic the situation, the deeper +becomes the enjoyment; and the situation is more +tragic in proportion as it becomes more terrible.</p> + +<p>What then are the situations, from the representation +of which, though accurate, no poetical +enjoyment can be derived? They are those in +which the suffering finds no vent in action; in +which a continuous state of mental distress is +prolonged, unrelieved by incident, hope, or resistance; +in which there is everything to be endured, +nothing to be done. In such situations there is +inevitably something morbid, in the description +of them something monotonous. When they +occur in actual life, they are painful, not tragic; +the representation of them in poetry is painful also.</p> + +<p>To this class of situations, poetically faulty as +it appears to me, that of Empedocles, as I have +endeavoured to represent him, belongs; and I +have therefore excluded the Poem from the +present collection.</p> + +<p>And why, it may be asked, have I entered into<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_359" id="Page_359">[359]</a></span> +this explanation respecting a matter so unimportant +as the admission or exclusion of the Poem in +question? I have done so, because I was anxious +to avow that the sole reason for its exclusion was +that which has been stated above; and that it +has not been excluded in deference to the opinion +which many critics of the present day appear to +entertain against subjects chosen from distant +times and countries: against the choice, in short, +of any subjects but modern ones.</p> + +<p>‘The Poet,’ it is said, and by an intelligent +critic, ‘the Poet who would really fix the public +attention must leave the exhausted past, and +draw his subjects from matters of present import, +and <i>therefore</i> both of interest and novelty.’</p> + +<p>Now this view I believe to be completely false. +It is worth examining, inasmuch as it is a fair +sample of a class of critical dicta everywhere +current at the present day, having a philosophical +form and air, but no real basis in fact; and which +are calculated to vitiate the judgement of readers +of poetry, while they exert, so far as they are +adopted, a misleading influence on the practice of +those who write it.</p> + +<p>What are the eternal objects of Poetry, among +all nations and at all times? They are actions; +human actions; possessing an inherent interest +in themselves, and which are to be communicated +in an interesting manner by the art of the Poet. +Vainly will the latter imagine that he has everything +in his own power; that he can make an intrinsically +inferior action equally delightful with a more +excellent one by his treatment of it: he may +indeed compel us to admire his skill, but his work +will possess, within itself, an incurable defect.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_360" id="Page_360">[360]</a></span></p> + +<p>The Poet, then, has in the first place to select +an excellent action; and what actions are the +most excellent? Those, certainly, which most +powerfully appeal to the great primary human +affections: to those elementary feelings which +subsist permanently in the race, and which are +independent of time. These feelings are permanent +and the same; that which interests them is +permanent and the same also. The modernness +or antiquity of an action, therefore, has nothing +to do with its fitness for poetical representation; +this depends upon its inherent qualities. To the +elementary part of our nature, to our passions, +that which is great and passionate is eternally +interesting; and interesting solely in proportion +to its greatness and to its passion. A great human +action of a thousand years ago is more interesting +to it than a smaller human action of to-day, even +though upon the representation of this last the +most consummate skill may have been expended, +and though it has the advantage of appealing by +its modern language, familiar manners, and contemporary +allusions, to all our transient feelings +and interests. These, however, have no right to +demand of a poetical work that it shall satisfy +them; their claims are to be directed elsewhere. +Poetical works belong to the domain of our +permanent passions: let them interest these, and +the voice of all subordinate claims upon them is +at once silenced.</p> + +<p>Achilles, Prometheus, Clytemnestra, Dido—what +modern poem presents personages as interesting, +even to us moderns, as these personages of an +‘exhausted past’? We have the domestic epic +dealing with the details of modern life which pass<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_361" id="Page_361">[361]</a></span> +daily under our eyes; we have poems representing +modern personages in contact with the problems +of modern life, moral, intellectual, and social; +these works have been produced by poets the +most distinguished of their nation and time; yet +I fearlessly assert that <i>Hermann and Dorothea</i>, +<i>Childe Harold</i>, <i>Jocelyn</i>, <i>The Excursion</i>, leave the +reader cold in comparison with the effect produced +upon him by the latter books of the Iliad, by the +<i>Orestea</i>, or by the episode of Dido. And why is +this? Simply because in the three latter cases +the action is greater, the personages nobler, the +situations more intense: and this is the true basis +of the interest in a poetical work, and this alone.</p> + +<p>It may be urged, however, that past actions +may be interesting in themselves, but that they +are not to be adopted by the modern Poet, because +it is impossible for him to have them clearly +present to his own mind, and he cannot therefore +feel them deeply, nor represent them forcibly. +But this is not necessarily the case. The externals +of a past action, indeed, he cannot know with the +precision of a contemporary; but his business is +with its essentials. The outward man of Oedipus +or of Macbeth, the houses in which they lived, the +ceremonies of their courts, he cannot accurately +figure to himself; but neither do they essentially +concern him. His business is with their inward +man; with their feelings and behaviour in certain +tragic situations, which engage their passions as +men; these have in them nothing local and +casual; they are as accessible to the modern +Poet as to a contemporary.</p> + +<p>The date of an action, then, signifies nothing: +the action itself, its selection and construction,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_362" id="Page_362">[362]</a></span> +this is what is all-important. This the Greeks +understood far more clearly than we do. The +radical difference between their poetical theory +and ours consists, as it appears to me, in this: +that, with them, the poetical character of the +action in itself, and the conduct of it, was the first +consideration; with us, attention is fixed mainly +on the value of the separate thoughts and images +which occur in the treatment of an action. They +regarded the whole; we regard the parts. With +them, the action predominated over the expression +of it; with us, the expression predominates over +the action. Not that they failed in expression, +or were inattentive to it; on the contrary, they +are the highest models of expression, the unapproached +masters of the <i>grand style</i>: but their +expression is so excellent because it is so admirably +kept in its right degree of prominence; because it +is so simple and so well subordinated; because it +draws its force directly from the pregnancy of the +matter which it conveys. For what reason was the +Greek tragic poet confined to so limited a range +of subjects? Because there are so few actions +which unite in themselves, in the highest degree, +the conditions of excellence: and it was not +thought that on any but an excellent subject +could an excellent Poem be constructed. A few +actions, therefore, eminently adapted for tragedy, +maintained almost exclusive possession of the +Greek tragic stage; their significance appeared +inexhaustible; they were as permanent problems, +perpetually offered to the genius of every fresh +poet. This too is the reason of what appears to +us moderns a certain baldness of expression in +Greek tragedy; of the triviality with which we<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_363" id="Page_363">[363]</a></span> +often reproach the remarks of the Chorus, where +it takes part in the dialogue: that the action +itself, the situation of Orestes, or Merope, or +Alcmaeon, was to stand the central point of +interest, unforgotten, absorbing, principal; that +no accessories were for a moment to distract the +spectator’s attention from this; that the tone of +the parts was to be perpetually kept down, in +order not to impair the grandiose effect of the whole. +The terrible old mythic story on which the drama +was founded stood, before he entered the theatre, +traced in its bare outlines upon the spectator’s +mind; it stood in his memory, as a group of +statuary, faintly seen, at the end of a long and +dark vista: then came the Poet, embodying outlines, +developing situations, not a word wasted, not +a sentiment capriciously thrown in; stroke upon +stroke, the drama proceeded: the light deepened +upon the group; more and more it revealed itself +to the riveted gaze of the spectator: until at last, +when the final words were spoken, it stood before +him in broad sunlight, a model of immortal beauty.</p> + +<p>This was what a Greek critic demanded; this +was what a Greek poet endeavoured to effect. +It signified nothing to what time an action belonged; +we do not find that the <i>Persae</i> occupied a particularly +high rank among the dramas of Aeschylus, because +it represented a matter of contemporary interest: +this was not what a cultivated Athenian required; +he required that the permanent elements of his +nature should be moved; and dramas of which +the action, though taken from a long-distant +mythic time, yet was calculated to accomplish this +in a higher degree than that of the <i>Persae</i>, stood +higher in his estimation accordingly. The Greeks<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_364" id="Page_364">[364]</a></span> +felt, no doubt, with their exquisite sagacity of taste, +that an action of present times was too near them, +too much mixed up with what was accidental +and passing, to form a sufficiently grand, detached, +and self-subsistent object for a tragic poem: such +objects belonged to the domain of the comic poet, +and of the lighter kinds of poetry. For the more +serious kinds, for <i>pragmatic</i> poetry, to use an excellent +expression of Polybius, they were more difficult and +severe in the range of subjects which they permitted. +Their theory and practice alike, the admirable +treatise of Aristotle, and the unrivalled works of +their poets, exclaim with a thousand tongues—‘All +depends upon the subject; choose a fitting +action, penetrate yourself with the feeling of its +situations; this done, everything else will follow.’</p> + +<p>But for all kinds of poetry alike there was one +point on which they were rigidly exacting; the +adaptability of the subject to the kind of poetry +selected, and the careful construction of the poem.</p> + +<p>How different a way of thinking from this is ours! +We can hardly at the present day understand what +Menander meant, when he told a man who inquired +as to the progress of his comedy that he had finished +it, not having yet written a single line, because +he had constructed the action of it in his mind. +A modern critic would have assured him that the +merit of his piece depended on the brilliant things +which arose under his pen as he went along. We +have poems which seem to exist merely for the +sake of single lines and passages; not for the sake +of producing any total impression. We have critics +who seem to direct their attention merely to +detached expressions, to the language about the +action, not to the action itself. I verily think that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_365" id="Page_365">[365]</a></span> +the majority of them do not in their hearts believe +that there is such a thing as a total-impression to +be derived from a poem at all, or to be demanded +from a poet; they think the term a commonplace +of metaphysical criticism. They will permit the +Poet to select any action he pleases, and to suffer +that action to go as it will, provided he gratifies +them with occasional bursts of fine writing, and +with a shower of isolated thoughts and images. +That is, they permit him to leave their poetical +sense ungratified, provided that he gratifies their +rhetorical sense and their curiosity. Of his neglecting +to gratify these, there is little danger; he needs +rather to be warned against the danger of attempting +to gratify these alone; he needs rather to be +perpetually reminded to prefer his action to everything +else; so to treat this, as to permit its inherent +excellences to develop themselves, without interruption +from the intrusion of his personal peculiarities: +most fortunate when he most entirely succeeds +in effacing himself, and in enabling a noble action +to subsist as it did in nature.</p> + +<p>But the modern critic not only permits a false +practice; he absolutely prescribes false aims.—‘A +true allegory of the state of one’s own mind in +a representative history,’ the Poet is told, ‘is +perhaps the highest thing that one can attempt in +the way of poetry.’—And accordingly he attempts it. +An allegory of the state of one’s own mind, the +highest problem of an art which imitates actions! +No assuredly, it is not, it never can be so: no great +poetical work has ever been produced with such +an aim. <i>Faust</i> itself, in which something of +the kind is attempted, wonderful passages as it +contains, and in spite of the unsurpassed beauty of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_366" id="Page_366">[366]</a></span> +the scenes which relate to Margaret, <i>Faust</i> itself, +judged as a whole, and judged strictly as a poetical +work, is defective: its illustrious author, the +greatest poet of modern times, the greatest critic of +all times, would have been the first to acknowledge +it; he only defended his work, indeed, by asserting +it to be ‘something incommensurable’.</p> + +<p>The confusion of the present times is great, the +multitude of voices counselling different things +bewildering, the number of existing works capable +of attracting a young writer’s attention and of +becoming his models, immense: what he wants is +a hand to guide him through the confusion, a voice +to prescribe to him the aim which he should keep in +view, and to explain to him that the value of the +literary works which offer themselves to his attention +is relative to their power of helping him forward on +his road towards this aim. Such a guide the English +writer at the present day will nowhere find. Failing +this, all that can be looked for, all indeed that can +be desired, is, that his attention should be fixed on +excellent models; that he may reproduce, at any +rate, something of their excellence, by penetrating +himself with their works and by catching their +spirit, if he cannot be taught to produce what is +excellent independently.</p> + +<p>Foremost among these models for the English +writer stands Shakespeare: a name the greatest +perhaps of all poetical names; a name never to +be mentioned without reverence. I will venture, +however, to express a doubt, whether the influence +of his works, excellent and fruitful for the readers +of poetry, for the great majority, has been of +unmixed advantage to the writers of it. Shakespeare +indeed chose excellent subjects; the world could<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_367" id="Page_367">[367]</a></span> +afford no better than Macbeth, or Romeo and Juliet, +or Othello: he had no theory respecting the +necessity of choosing subjects of present import, or +the paramount interest attaching to allegories of +the state of one’s own mind; like all great poets, +he knew well what constituted a poetical action; +like them, wherever he found such an action, he +took it; like them, too, he found his best in past +times. But to these general characteristics of all +great poets, he added a special one of his own; +a gift, namely, of happy, abundant, and ingenious +expression, eminent and unrivalled: so eminent +as irresistibly to strike the attention first in him, +and even to throw into comparative shade his other +excellences as a poet. Here has been the mischief. +These other excellences were his fundamental +excellences <i>as a poet</i>; what distinguishes the artist +from the mere amateur, says Goethe, is <i>Architectonicè</i> +in the highest sense; that power of execution, +which creates, forms, and constitutes: not the +profoundness of single thoughts, not the richness of +imagery, not the abundance of illustration. But +these attractive accessories of a poetical work being +more easily seized than the spirit of the whole, and +these accessories being possessed by Shakespeare in +an unequalled degree, a young writer having recourse +to Shakespeare as his model runs great risk of being +vanquished and absorbed by them, and, in consequence, +of reproducing, according to the measure +of his power, these, and these alone. Of this +preponderating quality of Shakespeare’s genius, +accordingly, almost the whole of modern English +poetry has, it appears to me, felt the influence. +To the exclusive attention on the part of his +imitators to this it is in a great degree owing,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_368" id="Page_368">[368]</a></span> +that of the majority of modern poetical works the details +alone are valuable, the composition worthless. +In reading them one is perpetually reminded of that +terrible sentence on a modern French poet—<i>il dit tout +ce qu’il veut, mais malheureusement il n’a rien à dire</i>.</p> + +<p>Let me give an instance of what I mean. I will +take it from the works of the very chief among +those who seem to have been formed in the school +of Shakespeare: of one whose exquisite genius and +pathetic death render him for ever interesting. +I will take the poem of <i>Isabella, or the Pot of Basil</i>, +by Keats. I choose this rather than the <i>Endymion</i>, +because the latter work (which a modern critic +has classed with the <i>Faerie Queene</i>!), although +undoubtedly there blows through it the breath of +genius, is yet as a whole so utterly incoherent, as +not strictly to merit the name of a poem at all. +The poem of <i>Isabella</i>, then, is a perfect treasure-house +of graceful and felicitous words and images: +almost in every stanza there occurs one of those +vivid and picturesque turns of expression, by which +the object is made to flash upon the eye of the +mind, and which thrill the reader with a sudden +delight. This one short poem contains, perhaps, +a greater number of happy single expressions which +one could quote than all the extant tragedies of +Sophocles. But the action, the story? The action +in itself is an excellent one; but so feebly is it +conceived by the Poet, so loosely constructed, that +the effect produced by it, in and for itself, is +absolutely null. Let the reader, after he has +finished the poem of Keats, turn to the same story +in the <i>Decameron</i>: he will then feel how pregnant +and interesting the same action has become in the +hands of a great artist, who above all things<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_369" id="Page_369">[369]</a></span> +delineates his object; who subordinates expression +to that which it is designed to express.</p> + +<p>I have said that the imitators of Shakespeare, +fixing their attention on his wonderful gift of +expression, have directed their imitation to this, +neglecting his other excellences. These excellences, +the fundamental excellences of poetical art, Shakespeare +no doubt possessed them—possessed many +of them in a splendid degree; but it may perhaps +be doubted whether even he himself did not sometimes +give scope to his faculty of expression to the +prejudice of a higher poetical duty. For we must +never forget that Shakespeare is the great poet he is +from his skill in discerning and firmly conceiving an +excellent action, from his power of intensely feeling +a situation, of intimately associating himself with +a character; not from his gift of expression, which +rather even leads him astray, degenerating sometimes +into a fondness for curiosity of expression, +into an irritability of fancy, which seems to make +it impossible for him to say a thing plainly, even +when the press of the action demands the very +directest language, or its level character the very +simplest. Mr. Hallam, than whom it is impossible +to find a saner and more judicious critic, has had +the courage (for at the present day it needs courage) +to remark, how extremely and faultily difficult +Shakespeare’s language often is. It is so: you +may find main scenes in some of his greatest +tragedies, <i>King Lear</i> for instance, where the language +is so artificial, so curiously tortured, and so difficult, +that every speech has to be read two or three +times before its meaning can be comprehended. +This overcuriousness of expression is indeed but +the excessive employment of a wonderful gift—of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_370" id="Page_370">[370]</a></span> +the power of saying a thing in a happier way than +any other man; nevertheless, it is carried so far +that one understands what M. Guizot meant, when +he said that Shakespeare appears in his language to +have tried all styles except that of simplicity. He +has not the severe and scrupulous self-restraint of +the ancients, partly, no doubt, because he had a far +less cultivated and exacting audience: he has +indeed a far wider range than they had, a far richer +fertility of thought; in this respect he rises above +them: in his strong conception of his subject, in +the genuine way in which he is penetrated with it, +he resembles them, and is unlike the moderns: but +in the accurate limitation of it, the conscientious +rejection of superfluities, the simple and rigorous +development of it from the first line of his work to +the last, he falls below them, and comes nearer to +the moderns. In his chief works, besides what he +has of his own, he has the elementary soundness of +the ancients; he has their important action and +their large and broad manner: but he has not +their purity of method. He is therefore a less safe +model; for what he has of his own is personal, and +inseparable from his own rich nature; it may be +imitated and exaggerated, it cannot be learned or +applied as an art; he is above all suggestive; more +valuable, therefore, to young writers as men than +as artists. But clearness of arrangement, rigour of +development, simplicity of style—these may to +a certain extent be learned: and these may, I am +convinced, be learned best from the ancients, who, +although infinitely less suggestive than Shakespeare, +are thus, to the artist, more instructive.</p> + +<p>What then, it will be asked, are the ancients to +be our sole models? the ancients with their comparatively<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_371" id="Page_371">[371]</a></span> +narrow range of experience, and their +widely different circumstances? Not, certainly, +that which is narrow in the ancients, nor that in +which we can no longer sympathize. An action +like the action of the <i>Antigone</i> of Sophocles, which +turns upon the conflict between the heroine’s duty +to her brother’s corpse and that to the laws of her +country, is no longer one in which it is possible that +we should feel a deep interest. I am speaking too, +it will be remembered, not of the best sources of +intellectual stimulus for the general reader, but of +the best models of instruction for the individual +writer. This last may certainly learn of the ancients, +better than anywhere else, three things which it +is vitally important for him to know:—the all-importance +of the choice of a subject; the necessity +of accurate construction; and the subordinate +character of expression. He will learn from them +how unspeakably superior is the effect of the one +moral impression left by a great action treated as +a whole, to the effect produced by the most striking +single thought or by the happiest image. As he +penetrates into the spirit of the great classical works, +as he becomes gradually aware of their intense significance, +their noble simplicity, and their calm pathos, +he will be convinced that it is this effect, unity +and profoundness of moral impression, at which the +ancient Poets aimed; that it is this which constitutes +the grandeur of their works, and which +makes them immortal. He will desire to direct his +own efforts towards producing the same effect. +Above all, he will deliver himself from the jargon +of modern criticism, and escape the danger of producing +poetical works conceived in the spirit of the +passing time, and which partake of its transitoriness.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_372" id="Page_372">[372]</a></span></p> + +<p>The present age makes great claims upon us: we +owe it service, it will not be satisfied without our +admiration. I know not how it is, but their +commerce with the ancients appears to me to +produce, in those who constantly practise it, +a steadying and composing effect upon their +judgement, not of literary works only, but of men +and events in general. They are like persons who +have had a very weighty and impressive experience; +they are more truly than others under the empire of +facts, and more independent of the language current +among those with whom they live. They wish +neither to applaud nor to revile their age: they +wish to know what it is, what it can give them, and +whether this is what they want. What they want, +they know very well; they want to educe and +cultivate what is best and noblest in themselves: +they know, too, that this is no easy task—χαλεπὸν, +as Pittacus said, χαλεπὸν ἔσθλὸν ἔμμεναι—and +they ask themselves sincerely whether their age +and its literature can assist them in the attempt. +If they are endeavouring to practise any art, they +remember the plain and simple proceedings of the +old artists, who attained their grand results by +penetrating themselves with some noble and +significant action, not by inflating themselves +with a belief in the pre-eminent importance and +greatness of their own times. They do not talk of +their mission, nor of interpreting their age, nor of +the coming Poet; all this, they know, is the mere +delirium of vanity; their business is not to praise +their age, but to afford to the men who live in it the +highest pleasure which they are capable of feeling. +If asked to afford this by means of subjects drawn +from the age itself, they ask what special fitness<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_373" id="Page_373">[373]</a></span> +the present age has for supplying them: they are +told that it is an era of progress, an age commissioned +to carry out the great ideas of industrial development +and social amelioration. They reply that with all +this they can do nothing; that the elements they +need for the exercise of their art are great actions, +calculated powerfully and delightfully to affect +what is permanent in the human soul; that so far +as the present age can supply such actions, they +will gladly make use of them; but that an age +wanting in moral grandeur can with difficulty +supply such, and an age of spiritual discomfort +with difficulty be powerfully and delightfully +affected by them.</p> + +<p>A host of voices will indignantly rejoin that the +present age is inferior to the past neither in moral +grandeur nor in spiritual health. He who possesses +the discipline I speak of will content himself with +remembering the judgements passed upon the +present age, in this respect, by the two men, the +one of strongest head, the other of widest culture, +whom it has produced; by Goethe and by Niebuhr. +It will be sufficient for him that he knows the +opinions held by these two great men respecting +the present age and its literature; and that he +feels assured in his own mind that their aims and +demands upon life were such as he would wish, at +any rate, his own to be; and their judgement as +to what is impeding and disabling such as he +may safely follow. He will not, however, maintain +a hostile attitude towards the false pretensions of +his age; he will content himself with not being +overwhelmed by them. He will esteem himself +fortunate if he can succeed in banishing from his +mind all feelings of contradiction, and irritation<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_374" id="Page_374">[374]</a></span>, +and impatience; in order to delight himself with +the contemplation of some noble action of a heroic +time, and to enable others, through his representation +of it, to delight in it also.</p> + +<p>I am far indeed from making any claim, for +myself, that I possess this discipline; or for the +following Poems, that they breathe its spirit. But +I say, that in the sincere endeavour to learn and +practise, amid the bewildering confusion of our +times, what is sound and true in poetical art, +I seemed to myself to find the only sure guidance, +the only solid footing, among the ancients. They, +at any rate, knew what they wanted in Art, and we +do not. It is this uncertainty which is disheartening, +and not hostile criticism. How often have I felt +this when reading words of disparagement or of +cavil: that it is the uncertainty as to what is really +to be aimed at which makes our difficulty, not the +dissatisfaction of the critic, who himself suffers +from the same uncertainty. <i>Non me tua fervida +terrent Dicta; Dii me terrent, et Jupiter hostis.</i></p> + +<p>Two kinds of <i>dilettanti</i>, says Goethe, there are in +poetry: he who neglects the indispensable mechanical +part, and thinks he has done enough if he shows +spirituality and feeling; and he who seeks to arrive +at poetry merely by mechanism, in which he can +acquire an artisan’s readiness, and is without soul +and matter. And he adds, that the first does most +harm to Art, and the last to himself. If we must +be <i>dilettanti</i>: if it is impossible for us, under the +circumstances amidst which we live, to think +clearly, to feel nobly, and to delineate firmly: if +we cannot attain to the mastery of the great artists—let +us, at least, have so much respect for our Art +as to prefer it to ourselves: let us not bewilder<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_375" id="Page_375">[375]</a></span> +our successors: let us transmit to them the practice +of Poetry, with its boundaries and wholesome +regulative laws, under which excellent works may +again, perhaps, at some future time, be produced, +not yet fallen into oblivion through our neglect, +not yet condemned and cancelled by the influence +of their eternal enemy, Caprice.</p> + + +<h3 style="padding-top: 1em">ADVERTISEMENT TO THE SECOND EDITION</h3> + +<h3>(1854)</h3> + +<p><span class="smcap">I have</span> allowed the Preface to the former edition +of these Poems to stand almost without change, +because I still believe it to be, in the main, true. +I must not, however, be supposed insensible to the +force of much that has been alleged against portions +of it, or unaware that it contains many things +incompletely stated, many things which need +limitation. It leaves, too, untouched the question, +how far, and in what manner, the opinions there +expressed respecting the choice of subjects apply to +lyric poetry; that region of the poetical field which +is chiefly cultivated at present. But neither have +I time now to supply these deficiencies, nor is this +the proper place for attempting it: on one or two +points alone I wish to offer, in the briefest possible +way, some explanation.</p> + +<p>An objection has been ably urged to the classing +together, as subjects equally belonging to a past +time, Oedipus and Macbeth. And it is no doubt +true that to Shakespeare, standing on the verge of +the Middle Ages, the epoch of Macbeth was more +familiar than that of Oedipus. But I was speaking +of actions as they presented themselves to us<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_376" id="Page_376">[376]</a></span> +moderns: and it will hardly be said that the +European mind, since Voltaire, has much more +affinity with the times of Macbeth than with those +of Oedipus. As moderns, it seems to me, we have +no longer any direct affinity with the circumstances +and feelings of either; as individuals, we are +attracted towards this or that personage, we have +a capacity for imagining him, irrespective of his +times, solely according to a law of personal sympathy; +and those subjects for which we feel this personal +attraction most strongly, we may hope to treat +successfully. Alcestis or Joan of Arc, Charlemagne +or Agamemnon—one of these is not really nearer +to us now than another; each can be made present +only by an act of poetic imagination: but this man’s +imagination has an affinity for one of them, and that +man’s for another.</p> + +<p>It has been said that I wish to limit the Poet, in +his choice of subjects to the period of Greek and +Roman antiquity: but it is not so: I only counsel +him to choose for his subjects great actions, without +regarding to what time they belong. Nor do I deny +that the poetic faculty can and does manifest itself +in treating the most trifling action, the most +hopeless subject. But it is a pity that power +should be wasted; and that the Poet should be +compelled to impart interest and force to his subject, +instead of receiving them from it, and thereby +doubling his impressiveness. There is, it has been +excellently said, an immortal strength in the stories +of great actions: the most gifted poet, then, may +well be glad to supplement with it that mortal +weakness, which, in presence of the vast spectacle +of life and the world, he must for ever feel to be his +individual portion.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_377" id="Page_377">[377]</a></span></p> + +<p>Again, with respect to the study of the classical +writers of antiquity: it has been said that we +should emulate rather than imitate them. I make +no objection: all I say is, let us study them. They +can help to cure us of what is, it seems to me, the +great vice of our intellect, manifesting itself in our +incredible vagaries in literature, in art, in religion, +in morals; namely, that it is <i>fantastic</i>, and wants +<i>sanity</i>. Sanity—that is the great virtue of the +ancient literature: the want of that is the great +defect of the modern, in spite of all its variety and +power. It is impossible to read carefully the great +ancients, without losing something of our caprice +and eccentricity; and to emulate them we must at +least read them.</p> + + + +<h2><a name="JOHN_RUSKIN" id="JOHN_RUSKIN"></a>JOHN RUSKIN<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_378" id="Page_378">[378]</a></span></h2> + +<h3>1819-1900</h3> + +<h3>OF THE PATHETIC FALLACY</h3> + +<h4>[<i>Modern Painters</i>, vol. iii, pt. 4, 1856]</h4> + + +<p>§ 1. <span class="smcap">German</span> dulness, and English affectation, +have of late much multiplied among us the use of +two of the most objectionable words that were ever +coined by the troublesomeness of metaphysicians—namely, +‘Objective’ and ‘Subjective’.</p> + +<p>No words can be more exquisitely, and in all +points, useless; and I merely speak of them that +I may, at once and for ever, get them out of my way, +and out of my reader’s. But to get that done, they +must be explained.</p> + +<p>The word ‘Blue’, say certain philosophers, means +the sensation of colour which the human eye receives +in looking at the open sky, or at a bell gentian.</p> + +<p>Now, say they farther, as this sensation can only +be felt when the eye is turned to the object, and as, +therefore, no such sensation is produced by the +object when nobody looks at it, therefore the thing, +when it is not looked at, is not blue; and thus +(say they) there are many qualities of things which +depend as much on something else as on themselves. +To be sweet, a thing must have a taster; it is only +sweet while it is being tasted, and if the tongue had +not the capacity of taste, then the sugar would not +have the quality of sweetness.</p> + +<p>And then they agree that the qualities of things +which thus depend upon our perception of them,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_379" id="Page_379">[379]</a></span> +and upon our human nature as affected by them, +shall be called Subjective; and the qualities of +things which they always have, irrespective of any +other nature, as roundness or squareness, shall be +called Objective.</p> + +<p>From these ingenious views the step is very easy +to a farther opinion, that it does not much matter +what things are in themselves, but only what they +are to us; and that the only real truth of them is +their appearance to, or effect upon, us. From which +position, with a hearty desire for mystification, and +much egotism, selfishness, shallowness, and impertinence, +a philosopher may easily go so far as to +believe, and say, that everything in the world +depends upon his seeing or thinking of it, and that +nothing, therefore, exists, but what he sees or +thinks of.</p> + +<p>§ 2. Now, to get rid of all these ambiguities and +troublesome words at once, be it observed that the +word ‘Blue’ does <i>not</i> mean the <i>sensation</i> caused by +a gentian on the human eye; but it means the +<i>power</i> of producing that sensation; and this power +is always there, in the thing, whether we are there +to experience it or not, and would remain there though +there were not left a man on the face of the earth. +Precisely in the same way gunpowder has a power +of exploding. It will not explode if you put no +match to it. But it has always the power of so +exploding, and is therefore called an explosive +compound, which it very positively and assuredly is, +whatever philosophy may say to the contrary.</p> + +<p>In like manner, a gentian does not produce the +sensation of blueness if you don’t look at it. But +it has always the power of doing so; its particles +being everlastingly so arranged by its Maker.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_380" id="Page_380">[380]</a></span> +And, therefore, the gentian and the sky are always +verily blue, whatever philosophy may say to the +contrary; and if you do not see them blue when +you look at them, it is not their fault but yours.</p> + +<p>§ 3. Hence I would say to these philosophers: +If, instead of using the sonorous phrase, ‘It is +objectively so,’ you will use the plain old phrase, +‘It <i>is</i> so;’ and if instead of the sonorous phrase, +‘It is subjectively so,’ you will say, in plain old +English, ‘It does so,’ or ‘It seems so to me;’ you +will, on the whole, be more intelligible to your +fellow-creatures: and besides, if you find that +a thing which generally ‘does so’ to other people +(as a gentian looks blue to most men), does <i>not</i> so +to you, on any particular occasion, you will not fall +into the impertinence of saying, that the thing is +not so, or did not so, but you will say simply (what +you will be all the better for speedily finding out), +that something is the matter with you. If you find +that you cannot explode the gunpowder, you will +not declare that all gunpowder is subjective, and +all explosion imaginary, but you will simply suspect +and declare yourself to be an ill-made match. +Which, on the whole, though there may be a distant +chance of a mistake about it, is, nevertheless, the +wisest conclusion you can come to until farther +experiment.</p> + +<p>§ 4. Now, therefore, putting these tiresome and +absurd words quite out of our way, we may go on +at our ease to examine the point in question—namely, +the difference between the ordinary, proper, +and true appearances of things to us; and the +extraordinary, or false appearances, when we are +under the influence of emotion, or contemplative +fancy; false appearances, I say, as being entirely<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_381" id="Page_381">[381]</a></span> +unconnected with any real power or character in +the object, and only imputed to it by us.</p> + +<p>For instance—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The spendthrift crocus, bursting through the mould<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Naked and shivering, with his cup of gold.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>This is very beautiful, and yet very untrue. The +crocus is not a spendthrift, but a hardy plant; its +yellow is not gold, but saffron. How is it that we +enjoy so much the having it put into our heads that +it is anything else than a plain crocus?</p> + +<p>It is an important question. For, throughout our +past reasonings about art, we have always found +that nothing could be good, or useful, or ultimately +pleasurable, which was untrue. But here is something +pleasurable in written poetry which is nevertheless +<i>un</i>true. And what is more, if we think +over our favourite poetry, we shall find it full of +this kind of fallacy, and that we like it all the more +for being so.</p> + +<p>§ 5. It will appear also, on consideration of the +matter, that this fallacy is of two principal kinds. +Either, as in this case of the crocus, it is the fallacy +of wilful fancy, which involves no real expectation +that it will be believed; or else it is a fallacy caused +by an excited state of the feelings, making us, for +the time, more or less irrational. Of the cheating of +the fancy we shall have to speak presently; but, +in this chapter, I want to examine the nature of +the other error, that which the mind admits when +affected strongly by emotion. Thus, for instance, +in Alton Locke—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They rowed her in across the rolling foam—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The cruel, crawling foam.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The foam is not cruel, neither does it crawl.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_382" id="Page_382">[382]</a></span> +The state of mind which attributes to it these +characters of a living creature is one in which the +reason is unhinged by grief. All violent feelings +have the same effect. They produce in us a falseness +in all our impressions of external things, which +I would generally characterize as the ‘Pathetic +Fallacy’.</p> + +<p>§ 6. Now we are in the habit of considering this +fallacy as eminently a character of poetical description, +and the temper of mind in which we allow it +as one eminently poetical, because passionate. +But, I believe, if we look well into the matter, that +we shall find the greatest poets do not often admit +this kind of falseness—that it is only the second +order of poets who much delight in it.<a name="FNanchor_31_31" id="FNanchor_31_31"></a><a href="#Footnote_31_31" class="fnanchor">[31]</a></p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_383" id="Page_383">[383]</a></span></p> +<p>Thus, when Dante describes the spirits falling +from the bank of Acheron ‘as dead leaves flutter +from a bough’, he gives the most perfect image possible +of their utter lightness, feebleness, passiveness, +and scattering agony of despair, without, however, +for an instant losing his own clear perception that +<i>these</i> are souls, and <i>those</i> are leaves; he makes no +confusion of one with the other. But when +Coleridge speaks of</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The one red leaf, the last of its clan,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That dances as often as dance it can,<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">he has a morbid, that is to say, a so far false, idea +about the leaf: he fancies a life in it, and will, +which there are not; confuses its powerlessness +with choice, its fading death with merriment, and +the wind that shakes it with music. Here, however, +there is some beauty, even in the morbid passage; +but take an instance in Homer and Pope. Without +the knowledge of Ulysses, Elpenor, his youngest +follower, has fallen from an upper chamber in the +Circean palace, and has been left dead, unmissed by +his leader, or companions, in the haste of their +departure. They cross the sea to the Cimmerian +land; and Ulysses summons the shades from +Tartarus. The first which appears is that of the +lost Elpenor. Ulysses, amazed, and in exactly the +spirit of bitter and terrified lightness which is seen +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_384" id="Page_384">[384]</a></span>in Hamlet,<a name="FNanchor_32_32" id="FNanchor_32_32"></a><a href="#Footnote_32_32" class="fnanchor">[32]</a> addresses the spirit with the simple, +startled words:—</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>Elpenor! How camest thou under the shadowy darkness? +Hast thou come faster on foot than I in my black ship?</p></div> + +<p class="noin">Which Pope renders thus:—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O, say, what angry power Elpenor led<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To glide in shades, and wander with the dead?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How could thy soul, by realms and seas disjoined,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Outfly the nimble sail, and leave the lagging wind?<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>I sincerely hope the reader finds no pleasure here, +either in the nimbleness of the sail, or the laziness +of the wind! And yet how is it that these conceits +are so painful now, when they have been pleasant +to us in the other instances?</p> + +<p>§ 7. For a very simple reason. They are not +a <i>pathetic</i> fallacy at all, for they are put into the +mouth of the wrong passion—a passion which never +could possibly have spoken them—agonized curiosity. +Ulysses wants to know the facts of the matter; and +the very last thing his mind could do at the moment +would be to pause, or suggest in anywise what was +<i>not</i> a fact. The delay in the first three lines, and +conceit in the last, jar upon us instantly, like the most +frightful discord in music. No poet of true imaginative +power could possibly have written the passage.<a name="FNanchor_33_33" id="FNanchor_33_33"></a><a href="#Footnote_33_33" class="fnanchor">[33]</a></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_385" id="Page_385">[385]</a></span></p><p>Therefore, we see that the spirit of truth must +guide us in some sort, even in our enjoyment of +fallacy. Coleridge’s fallacy has no discord in it, +but Pope’s has set our teeth on edge. Without +farther questioning, I will endeavour to state the +main bearings of this matter.</p> + +<p>§ 8. The temperament which admits the pathetic +fallacy, is, as I said above, that of a mind and body +in some sort too weak to deal fully with what is +before them or upon them; borne away, or overclouded, +or over-dazzled by emotion; and it is +a more or less noble state, according to the force of +the emotion which has induced it. For it is no +credit to a man that he is not morbid or inaccurate +in his perceptions, when he has no strength of +feeling to warp them; and it is in general a sign of +higher capacity and stand in the ranks of being, +that the emotions should be strong enough to +vanquish, partly, the intellect, and make it believe +what they choose. But it is still a grander condition +when the intellect also rises, till it is strong enough +to assert its rule against, or together with, the +utmost efforts of the passions; and the whole man +stands in an iron glow, white hot, perhaps, but still +strong, and in no wise evaporating; even if he melts, +losing none of his weight.</p> + +<p>So, then, we have the three ranks: the man who +perceives rightly, because he does not feel, and to +whom the primrose is very accurately the primrose, +because he does not love it. Then, secondly, the +man who perceives wrongly, because he feels, and +to whom the primrose is anything else than a primrose: +a star, or a sun, or a fairy’s shield, or a forsaken +maiden. And then, lastly, there is the man who +perceives rightly in spite of his feelings, and to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_386" id="Page_386">[386]</a></span> +whom the primrose is for ever nothing else than +itself—a little flower, apprehended in the very plain +and leafy fact of it, whatever and how many soever +the associations and passions may be, that crowd +around it. And, in general, these three classes +may be rated in comparative order, as the men who +are not poets at all, and the poets of the second +order, and the poets of the first; only however +great a man may be, there are always some subjects +which <i>ought</i> to throw him off his balance; some, +by which his poor human capacity of thought +should be conquered, and brought into the inaccurate +and vague state of perception, so that the language +of the highest inspiration becomes broken, obscure, +and wild in metaphor, resembling that of the +weaker man, overborne by weaker things.</p> + +<p>§ 9. And thus, in full, there are four classes: the +men who feel nothing, and therefore see truly; the +men who feel strongly, think weakly, and see +untruly (second order of poets); the men who feel +strongly, think strongly, and see truly (first order +of poets); and the men who, strong as human +creatures can be, are yet submitted to influences +stronger than they, and see in a sort untruly, +because what they see is inconceivably above +them. This last is the usual condition of prophetic +inspiration.</p> + +<p>§ 10. I separate these classes, in order that their +character may be clearly understood; but of course +they are united each to the other by imperceptible +transitions, and the same mind, according to the +influences to which it is subjected, passes at different +times into the various states. Still, the difference +between the great and less man is, on the whole, +chiefly in this point of <i>alterability</i>. That is to say,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_387" id="Page_387">[387]</a></span> +the one knows too much, and perceives and feels +too much of the past and future, and of all things +beside and around that which immediately affects +him, to be in anywise shaken by it. His mind is +made up; his thoughts have an accustomed +current; his ways are steadfast; it is not this or +that new sight which will at once unbalance him. +He is tender to impression at the surface, like a rock +with deep moss upon it; but there is too much +mass of him to be moved. The smaller man, with +the same degree of sensibility, is at once carried off +his feet; he wants to do something he did not +want to do before; he views all the universe in +a new light through his tears; he is gay or enthusiastic, +melancholy or passionate, as things come and +go to him. Therefore the high creative poet might +even be thought, to a great extent, impassive (as +shallow people think Dante stern), receiving indeed +all feelings to the full, but having a great centre of +reflection and knowledge in which he stands serene, +and watches the feeling, as it were, from far off.</p> + +<p>Dante, in his most intense moods, has entire +command of himself, and can look around calmly, +at all moments, for the image or the word that will +best tell what he sees to the upper or lower world. +But Keats and Tennyson, and the poets of the +second order, are generally themselves subdued by +the feelings under which they write, or, at least, write +as choosing to be so, and therefore admit certain +expressions and modes of thought which are in +some sort diseased or false.</p> + +<p>§ 11. Now so long as we see that the <i>feeling</i> is +true, we pardon, or are even pleased by, the confessed +fallacy of sight which it induces: we are pleased, +for instance, with those lines of Kingsley’s, above<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_388" id="Page_388">[388]</a></span> +quoted, not because they fallaciously describe foam, +but because they faithfully describe sorrow. But +the moment the mind of the speaker becomes cold, +that moment every such expression becomes untrue, +as being for ever untrue in the external facts. And +there is no greater baseness in literature than the +habit of using these metaphorical expressions in +cold blood. An inspired writer, in full impetuosity +of passion, may speak wisely and truly of ‘raging +waves of the sea, foaming out their own shame’; +but it is only the basest writer who cannot speak of +the sea without talking of ‘raging waves’, ‘remorseless +floods’, ‘ravenous billows’, &c.; and it is one of +the signs of the highest power in a writer to check +all such habits of thought, and to keep his eyes +fixed firmly on the <i>pure fact</i>, out of which if any +feeling comes to him or his reader, he knows it must +be a true one.</p> + +<p>To keep to the waves, I forget who it is who +represents a man in despair, desiring that his body +may be cast into the sea,</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Whose changing mound, and foam that passed away,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Might mock the eye that questioned where I lay.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Observe, there is not a single false, or even +overcharged, expression. ‘Mound’ of the sea wave +is perfectly simple and true; ‘changing’ is as +familiar as may be; ‘foam that passed away’, +strictly literal; and the whole line descriptive of +the reality with a degree of accuracy which I know +not any other verse, in the range of poetry, that +altogether equals. For most people have not +a distinct idea of the clumsiness and massiveness of +a large wave. The word ‘wave’ is used too generally +of ripples and breakers, and bendings in light<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_389" id="Page_389">[389]</a></span> +drapery or grass: it does not by itself convey +a perfect image. But the word ‘mound’ is heavy, +large, dark, definite; there is no mistaking the kind +of wave meant, nor missing the sight of it. Then +the term ‘changing’ has a peculiar force also. +Most people think of waves as rising and falling. +But if they look at the sea carefully, they will +perceive that the waves do not rise and fall. They +change. Change both place and form, but they do +not fall; one wave goes on, and on, and still on; +now lower, now higher, now tossing its mane like +a horse, now building itself together like a wall, now +shaking, now steady, but still the same wave, till +at last it seems struck by something, and changes, +one knows not how,—becomes another wave.</p> + +<p>The close of the line insists on this image, and +paints it still more perfectly,—‘foam that passed +away’. Not merely melting, disappearing, but +passing on, out of sight, on the career of the wave. +Then, having put the absolute ocean fact as far as +he may before our eyes, the poet leaves us to feel +about it as we may, and to trace for ourselves the +opposite fact,—the image of the green mounds that +do not change, and the white and written stones +that do not pass away; and thence to follow out +also the associated images of the calm life with the +quiet grave, and the despairing life with the fading +foam:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Let no man move his bones.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">As for Samaria, her king is out off like the foam upon the water.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>But nothing of this is actually told or pointed out, +and the expressions, as they stand, are perfectly +severe and accurate, utterly uninfluenced by the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_390" id="Page_390">[390]</a></span> +firmly governed emotion of the writer. Even the +word ‘mock’ is hardly an exception, as it may +stand merely for ‘deceive’ or ‘defeat’, without +implying any impersonation of the waves.</p> + +<p>§ 12. It may be well, perhaps, to give one or two +more instances to show the peculiar dignity possessed +by all passages which thus limit their expression +to the pure fact, and leave the hearer to gather +what he can from it. Here is a notable one from +the Iliad. Helen, looking from the Scaean gate of +Troy over the Grecian host, and telling Priam the +names of its captains, says at last:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>I see all the other dark-eyed Greeks; but two I cannot +see,—Castor and Pollux,—whom one mother bore with +me. Have they not followed from fair Lacedaemon, or +have they indeed come in their sea-wandering ships, but +now will not enter into the battle of men, fearing the shame +and the scorn that is in Me?</p></div> + +<p class="noin">Then Homer:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>So she spoke. But them, already, the life-giving earth +possessed, there in Lacedaemon, in the dear fatherland.</p></div> + +<p>Note, here, the high poetical truth carried to the +extreme. The poet has to speak of the earth in +sadness, but he will not let that sadness affect or +change his thoughts of it. No; though Castor and +Pollux be dead, yet the earth is our mother still, +fruitful, life-giving. These are the facts of the thing. +I see nothing else than these. Make what you will +of them.</p> + +<p>§ 13. Take another very notable instance from +Casimir de la Vigne’s terrible ballad, <i>La Toilette +de Constance</i>. I must quote a few lines out of it +here and there, to enable the reader who has not +the book by him, to understand its close.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_391" id="Page_391">[391]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">Vite, Anna, vite; au miroir<br /></span> +<span class="i5">Plus vite, Anna. L’heure s’avance,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Et je vais au bal ce soir<br /></span> +<span class="i5">Chez l’ambassadeur de France.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Y pensez-vous, ils sont fanés, ces nœuds,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Ils sont d’hier, mon Dieu, comme tout passe!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Que du réseau qui retient mes cheveux<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Les glands d’azur retombent avec grâce.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Plus haut! Plus bas! Vous ne comprenez rien!<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Que sur mon front ce saphir étincelle:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Vous me piquez, maladroite. Ah, c’est bien,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Bien,—chère Anna! Je t’aime, je suis belle.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Celui qu’en vain je voudrais oublier<br /></span> +<span class="i1">(Anna, ma robe) il y sera, j’espere.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Ah, fi! profane, est-ce là mon collier?<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Quoi! ces grains d’or bénits par le Saint-Père!)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Il y sera; Dieu, s’il pressait ma main,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">En y pensant, à peine je respire;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Père Anselmo doit m’entendre demain,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Comment ferai-je, Anna, pour tout lui dire?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">Vite un coup d’œil au miroir,<br /></span> +<span class="i5">Le dernier. ——J’ai l’assurance<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Qu’on va m’adorer ce soir<br /></span> +<span class="i5">Chez l’ambassadeur de France.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Près du foyer, Constance s’admirait.<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Dieu! sur sa robe il vole une étincelle!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Au feu! Courez! Quand l’espoir l’enivrait,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Tout perdre ainsi! Quoi! Mourir,—et si belle!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">L’horrible feu ronge avec volupté<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Ses bras, son sein, et l’entoure, et s’élève,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Et sans pitié dévore sa beauté,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Ses dix-huit ans, hélas, et son doux rêve!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">Adieu, bal, plaisir, amour!<br /></span> +<span class="i5">On disait, Pauvre Constance!<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Et on dansait, jusqu’au jour,<br /></span> +<span class="i5">Chez l’ambassadeur de France.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Yes, that is the fact of it. Right or wrong, the +poet does not say. What you may think about it, +he does not know. He has nothing to do with that.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_392" id="Page_392">[392]</a></span> +There lie the ashes of the dead girl in her chamber. +There they danced, till the morning, at the Ambassador’s +of France. Make what you will of it.</p> + +<p>If the reader will look through the ballad, of +which I have quoted only about the third part, he +will find that there is not, from beginning to end +of it, a single poetical (so called) expression, except +in one stanza. The girl speaks as simple prose as +may be; there is not a word she would not have +actually used as she was dressing. The poet stands +by, impassive as a statue, recording her words +just as they come. At last the doom seizes her, and +in the very presence of death, for an instant, his +own emotions conquer him. He records no longer +the facts only, but the facts as they seem to him. +The fire gnaws with <i>voluptuousness—without pity</i>. +It is soon past. The fate is fixed for ever; and he +retires into his pale and crystalline atmosphere of +truth. He closes all with the calm veracity,</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They said, ‘Poor Constance!’<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>§ 14. Now in this there is the exact type of the +consummate poetical temperament. For, be it +clearly and constantly remembered, that the +greatness of a poet depends upon the two faculties, +acuteness of feeling, and command of it. A poet is +great, first in proportion to the strength of his passion, +and then, that strength being granted, in proportion +to his government of it; there being, however, +always a point beyond which it would be inhuman +and monstrous if he pushed this government, and, +therefore, a point at which all feverish and wild +fancy becomes just and true. Thus the destruction +of the kingdom of Assyria cannot be contemplated +firmly by a prophet of Israel. The fact is too great,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_393" id="Page_393">[393]</a></span> +too wonderful. It overthrows him, dashes him into +a confused element of dreams. All the world is, +to his stunned thought, full of strange voices. +‘Yea, the fir-trees rejoice at thee, and the cedars +of Lebanon, saying, “Since thou art gone down to +the grave, no feller is come up against us.”’ So, +still more, the thought of the presence of Deity +cannot be borne without this great astonishment. +‘The mountains and the hills shall break forth +before you into singing, and all the trees of the field +shall clap their hands.’</p> + +<p>§ 15. But by how much this feeling is noble when +it is justified by the strength of its cause, by so +much it is ignoble when there is not cause enough +for it; and beyond all other ignobleness is the mere +affectation of it, in hardness of heart. Simply bad +writing may almost always, as above noticed, be +known by its adoption of these fanciful metaphorical +expressions, as a sort of current coin; yet there is +even a worse, at least a more harmful, condition of +writing than this, in which such expressions are not +ignorantly and feelinglessly caught up, but, by +some master, skilful in handling, yet insincere, +deliberately wrought out with chill and studied +fancy; as if we should try to make an old lava +stream look red-hot again, by covering it with dead +leaves, or white-hot, with hoar-frost.</p> + +<p>When Young is lost in veneration, as he dwells on +the character of a truly good and holy man, he +permits himself for a moment to be overborne by +the feeling so far as to exclaim:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Where shall I find him? angels, tell me where.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You know him; he is near you; point him out.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shall I see glories beaming from his brow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or trace his footsteps by the rising flowers?<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_394" id="Page_394">[394]</a></span></div></div> + +<p>This emotion has a worthy cause, and is thus true +and right. But now hear the cold-hearted Pope say +to a shepherd girl:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Where’er you walk, cool gales shall fan the glade;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Trees, where you sit, shall crowd into a shade;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Your praise the birds shall chant in every grove,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And winds shall waft it to the powers above.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But would you sing, and rival Orpheus’ strain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The wondering forests soon should dance again;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The moving mountains hear the powerful call,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And headlong streams hang, listening, in their fall.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>This is not, nor could it for a moment be mistaken +for, the language of passion. It is simple falsehood, +uttered by hypocrisy; definite absurdity, rooted +in affectation, and coldly asserted in the teeth of +nature and fact. Passion will indeed go far in +deceiving itself; but it must be a strong passion, +not the simple wish of a lover to tempt his mistress +to sing. Compare a very closely parallel passage +in Wordsworth, in which the lover has lost his +mistress:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Three years had Barbara in her grave been laid,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When thus his moan he made:—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘Oh move, thou cottage, from behind yon oak,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Or let the ancient tree uprooted lie,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That in some other way yon smoke<br /></span> +<span class="i1">May mount into the sky.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If still behind yon pine-tree’s ragged bough,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Headlong, the waterfall must come,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Oh, let it, then, be dumb—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Be anything, sweet stream, but that which thou art now.’<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Here is a cottage to be moved, if not a mountain, +and a waterfall to be silent, if it is not to hang +listening: but with what different relation to the +mind that contemplates them! Here, in the +extremity of its agony, the soul cries out wildly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_395" id="Page_395">[395]</a></span> +for relief, which at the same moment it partly +knows to be impossible, but partly believes possible, +in a vague impression that a miracle <i>might</i> be wrought +to give relief even to a less sore distress,—that nature +is kind, and God is kind, and that grief is strong: +it knows not well what <i>is</i> possible to such grief. +To silence a stream, to move a cottage wall,—one +might think it could do as much as that!</p> + +<p>§ 16. I believe these instances are enough to +illustrate the main point I insist upon respecting +the pathetic fallacy,—that so far as it <i>is</i> a fallacy, +it is always the sign of a morbid state of mind, and +comparatively of a weak one. Even in the most +inspired prophet it is a sign of the incapacity of his +human sight or thought to bear what has been +revealed to it. In ordinary poetry, if it is found in +the thoughts of the poet himself, it is at once a sign +of his belonging to the inferior school; if in the +thoughts of the characters imagined by him, it is +right or wrong according to the genuineness of the +emotion from which it springs; always, however, +implying necessarily <i>some</i> degree of weakness in the +character.</p> + +<p>Take two most exquisite instances from master +hands. The Jessy of Shenstone, and the Ellen of +Wordsworth, have both been betrayed and deserted. +Jessy, in the course of her most touching complaint, +says:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">If through the garden’s flowery tribes I stray,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Where bloom the jasmines that could once allure,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">‘Hope not to find delight in us,’ they say,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">‘For we are spotless, Jessy; we are pure.’<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">Compare with this some of the words of Ellen:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘Ah, why,’ said Ellen, sighing to herself,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">‘Why do not words, and kiss, and solemn pledge,<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_396" id="Page_396">[396]</a></span> +<span class="i0">And nature, that is kind in woman’s breast,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And reason, that in man is wise and good,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And fear of Him who is a righteous Judge,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Why do not these prevail for human life,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To keep two hearts together, that began<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their springtime with one love, and that have need<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of mutual pity and forgiveness, sweet<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To grant, or be received; while that poor bird—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O, come and hear him! Thou who hast to me<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Been faithless, hear him;—though a lowly creature,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One of God’s simple children, that yet know not<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Universal Parent, <i>how</i> he sings!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As if he wished the firmament of heaven<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Should listen, and give back to him the voice<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of his triumphant constancy and love.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The proclamation that he makes, how far<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His darkness doth transcend our fickle light.’<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">The perfection of both these passages, as far as +regards truth and tenderness of imagination in the +two poets, is quite insuperable. But, of the two +characters imagined, Jessy is weaker than Ellen, +exactly in so far as something appears to her to be +in nature which is not. The flowers do not really reproach +her. God meant them to comfort her, not to +taunt her; they would do so if she saw them rightly.</p> + +<p>Ellen, on the other hand, is quite above the +slightest erring emotion. There is not the barest +film of fallacy in all her thoughts. She reasons as +calmly as if she did not feel. And, although the +singing of the bird suggests to her the idea of its +desiring to be heard in heaven, she does not for an +instant admit any veracity in the thought. ‘As if,’ +she says,—‘I know he means nothing of the kind; +but it does verily seem as if.’ The reader will find, +by examining the rest of the poem, that Ellen’s +character is throughout consistent in this clear +though passionate strength.<a name="FNanchor_34_34" id="FNanchor_34_34"></a><a href="#Footnote_34_34" class="fnanchor">[34]</a></p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_397" id="Page_397">[397]</a></span></p> +<p>It is, I hope, now made clear to the reader in all +respects that the pathetic fallacy is powerful only +so far as it is pathetic, feeble so far as it is fallacious, +and, therefore, that the dominion of Truth is entire, +over this, as over every other natural and just state +of the human mind.</p> + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_31_31" id="Footnote_31_31"></a><a href="#FNanchor_31_31"><span class="label">[31]</span></a> I admit two orders of poets, but no third; and by these +two orders I mean the Creative (Shakespeare, Homer, +Dante), and Reflective or Perceptive (Wordsworth, Keats, +Tennyson). But both of these must be <i>first</i>-rate in their +range, though their range is different; and with poetry +second-rate in <i>quality</i> no one ought to be allowed to trouble +mankind. There is quite enough of the best,—much more +than we can ever read or enjoy in the length of a life; and +it is a literal wrong or sin in any person to encumber us with +inferior work. I have no patience with apologies made by +young pseudo-poets, ‘that they believe there is <i>some</i> good +in what they have written: that they hope to do better in +time,’ &c. <i>Some</i> good! If there is not <i>all</i> good, there is +no good. If they ever hope to do better, why do they +trouble us now? Let them rather courageously burn all +they have done, and wait for the better days. There are +few men, ordinarily educated, who in moments of strong +feeling could not strike out a poetical thought, and afterwards +polish it so as to be presentable. But men of sense +know better than so to waste their time; and those who +sincerely love poetry, know the touch of the master’s hand +on the chords too well to fumble among them after him. +Nay, more than this; all inferior poetry is an injury to the +good, inasmuch as it takes away the freshness of rhymes, +blunders upon and gives a wretched commonalty to good +thoughts; and, in general, adds to the weight of human +weariness in a most woful and culpable manner. There +are few thoughts likely to come across ordinary men, which +have not already been expressed by greater men in the best +possible way; and it is a wiser, more generous, more noble +thing to remember and point out the perfect words, than +to invent poorer ones, wherewith to encumber temporarily +the world.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_32_32" id="Footnote_32_32"></a><a href="#FNanchor_32_32"><span class="label">[32]</span></a> ‘Well said, old mole! can’st work i’ the ground so fast?’</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_33_33" id="Footnote_33_33"></a><a href="#FNanchor_33_33"><span class="label">[33]</span></a> It is worth while comparing the way a similar question +is put by the exquisite sincerity of Keats:— +</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i3">He wept, and his bright tears<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Went trickling down the golden bow he held.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thus, with half-shut, suffused eyes, he stood;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While from beneath some cumb’rous boughs hard by,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With solemn step, an awful goddess came.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And there was purport in her looks for him,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which he with eager guess began to read:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Perplexed the while, melodiously he said,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">‘<i>How cam’st thou over the unfooted sea?</i>’<br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_34_34" id="Footnote_34_34"></a><a href="#FNanchor_34_34"><span class="label">[34]</span></a> I cannot quit this subject without giving two more +instances, both exquisite, of the pathetic fallacy, which +I have just come upon, in <i>Maud</i>: +</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i5">For a great speculation had fail’d;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And ever he mutter’d and madden’d, and ever wann’d with despair;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And out he walk’d, when the wind like a broken worldling wail’d,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the <i>flying gold of the ruin’d woodlands drove, thro’ the air</i>.<br /></span> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There has fallen a splendid tear<br /></span> +<span class="i1">From the passion-flower at the gate.<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>The red rose cries, ‘She is near, she is near!’</i><br /></span> +<span class="i1"><i>And the white rose weeps, ‘She is late.’</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>The larkspur listens, ‘I hear, I hear!’</i><br /></span> +<span class="i1"><i>And the lily whispers, ‘I wait.’</i><br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> +</div> + + +<h2><a name="JOHN_STUART_MILL" id="JOHN_STUART_MILL"></a>JOHN STUART MILL<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_398" id="Page_398">[398]</a></span></h2> + +<h3>1806-1873</h3> + +<h3>THOUGHTS ON POETRY AND ITS +VARIETIES (1859)</h3> + + +<h4 style="padding-top: 1em">I</h4> + +<p><span class="smcap">It</span> has often been asked, What is Poetry? And +many and various are the answers which have been +returned. The vulgarest of all—one with which +no person possessed of the faculties to which Poetry +addresses itself can ever have been satisfied—is +that which confounds poetry with metrical composition: +yet to this wretched mockery of a definition, +many have been led back, by the failure of all +their attempts to find any other that would distinguish +what they have been accustomed to call +poetry, from much which they have known only +under other names.</p> + +<p>That, however, the word ‘poetry’ imports something +quite peculiar in its nature, something which +may exist in what is called prose as well as in verse, +something which does not even require the instrument +of words, but can speak through the other +audible symbols called musical sounds, and even +through the visible ones which are the language +of sculpture, painting, and architecture; all this, +we believe, is and must be felt, though perhaps +indistinctly, by all upon whom poetry in any of +its shapes produces any impression beyond that of +tickling the ear. The distinction between poetry<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_399" id="Page_399">[399]</a></span> +and what is not poetry, whether explained or not, +is felt to be fundamental: and where every one +feels a difference, a difference there must be. All +other appearances may be fallacious, but the +appearance of a difference is a real difference. +Appearances too, like other things, must have +a cause, and that which can cause anything, even +an illusion, must be a reality. And hence, while +a half-philosophy disdains the classifications and +distinctions indicated by popular language, philosophy +carried to its highest point frames new ones, +but rarely sets aside the old, content with correcting +and regularizing them. It cuts fresh channels for +thought, but does not fill up such as it finds ready-made; +it traces, on the contrary, more deeply, +broadly, and distinctly, those into which the +current has spontaneously flowed.</p> + +<p>Let us then attempt, in the way of modest +inquiry, not to coerce and confine nature within +the bounds of an arbitrary definition, but rather to +find the boundaries which she herself has set, and +erect a barrier round them; not calling mankind +to account for having misapplied the word ‘poetry’, +but attempting to clear up the conception which they +already attach to it, and to bring forward as a distinct +principle that which, as a vague feeling, has +really guided them in their employment of the term.</p> + +<p>The object of poetry is confessedly to act upon +the emotions; and therein is poetry sufficiently +distinguished from what Wordsworth affirms to be +its logical opposite, namely, not prose, but matter +of fact or science. The one addresses itself to the +belief, the other to the feelings. The one does its +work by convincing or persuading, the other by +moving. The one acts by presenting a proposition<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_400" id="Page_400">[400]</a></span> +to the understanding, the other by offering interesting +objects of contemplation to the sensibilities.</p> + +<p>This, however, leaves us very far from a definition +of poetry. This distinguishes it from one thing, +but we are bound to distinguish it from everything. +To bring thoughts or images before the mind for the +purpose of acting upon the emotions, does not +belong to poetry alone. It is equally the province +(for example) of the novelist: and yet the faculty +of the poet and that of the novelist are as distinct +as any other two faculties; as the faculties of the +novelist and of the orator, or of the poet and the +metaphysician. The two characters may be +united, as characters the most disparate may; but +they have no natural connexion.</p> + +<p>Many of the greatest poems are in the form of +fictitious narratives, and in almost all good serious +fictions there is true poetry. But there is a radical +distinction between the interest felt in a story as +such, and the interest excited by poetry; for the +one is derived from incident, the other from the +representation of feeling. In one, the source of +the emotion excited is the exhibition of a state or +states of human sensibility; in the other, of a series +of states of mere outward circumstances. Now, all +minds are capable of being affected more or less by +representations of the latter kind, and all, or almost +all, by those of the former; yet the two sources of +interest correspond to two distinct, and (as respects +their greatest development) mutually exclusive, +characters of mind.</p> + +<p>At what age is the passion for a story, for almost +any kind of story, merely as a story, the most +intense? In childhood. But that also is the age +at which poetry, even of the simplest description, is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_401" id="Page_401">[401]</a></span> +least relished and least understood; because the +feelings with which it is especially conversant are +yet undeveloped, and not having been even in the +slightest degree experienced, cannot be sympathized +with. In what stage of the progress of society, +again, is story-telling most valued, and the story-teller +in greatest request and honour?—In a rude +state like that of the Tartars and Arabs at this day, +and of almost all nations in the earliest ages. But +in this state of society there is little poetry except +ballads, which are mostly narrative, that is, essentially +stories, and derive their principal interest +from the incidents. Considered as poetry, they are +of the lowest and most elementary kind: the +feelings depicted, or rather indicated, are the +simplest our nature has; such joys and griefs as +the immediate pressure of some outward event excites +in rude minds, which live wholly immersed +in outward things, and have never, either from +choice or a force they could not resist, turned themselves +to the contemplation of the world within. +Passing now from childhood, and from the childhood +of society, to the grown-up men and women +of this most grown-up and unchildlike age—the +minds and hearts of greatest depth and elevation +are commonly those which take greatest delight +in poetry; the shallowest and emptiest, on the +contrary, are, at all events, not those least addicted +to novel-reading. This accords, too, with all +analogous experience of human nature. The sort +of persons whom not merely in books but in their +lives, we find perpetually engaged in hunting for +excitement from without, are invariably those who +do not possess, either in the vigour of their intellectual +powers or in the depth of their sensibilities,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_402" id="Page_402">[402]</a></span> +that which would enable them to find ample excitement +nearer home. The most idle and frivolous +persons take a natural delight in fictitious narrative; +the excitement it affords is of the kind which comes +from without. Such persons are rarely lovers of +poetry, though they may fancy themselves so, +because they relish novels in verse. But poetry, +which is the delineation of the deeper and more +secret workings of human emotion, is interesting +only to those to whom it recalls what they have felt, +or whose imagination it stirs up to conceive what +they could feel, or what they might have been able +to feel, had their outward circumstances been +different.</p> + +<p>Poetry, when it is really such, is truth; and +fiction also, if it is good for anything, is truth: but +they are different truths. The truth of poetry is +to paint the human soul truly: the truth of fiction +is to give a true picture of life. The two kinds of +knowledge are different, and come by different ways, +come mostly to different persons. Great poets are +often proverbially ignorant of life. What they +know has come by observation of themselves; they +have found within them one highly delicate and +sensitive specimen of human nature, on which the +laws of emotion are written in large characters, +such as can be read off without much study. +Other knowledge of mankind, such as comes to +men of the world by outward experience, is not +indispensable to them as poets: but to the novelist +such knowledge is all in all; he has to describe +outward things, not the inward man; actions and +events, not feelings; and it will not do for him to be +numbered among those who, as Madame Roland +said of Brissot, know man but not <i>men</i>.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_403" id="Page_403">[403]</a></span></p> + +<p>All this is no bar to the possibility of combining +both elements, poetry and narrative or incident, in +the same work, and calling it either a novel or +a poem; but so may red and white combine on the +same human features, or on the same canvas. +There is one order of composition which requires +the union of poetry and incident, each in its highest +kind—the dramatic. Even there the two elements +are perfectly distinguishable, and may exist of +unequal quality, and in the most various proportion. +The incidents of a dramatic poem may be +scanty and ineffective, though the delineation of +passion and character may be of the highest order; +as in Goethe’s admirable <i>Torquato Tasso</i>; or again, +the story as a mere story may be well got up for +effect, as is the case with some of the most trashy +productions of the Minerva press: it may even +be, what those are not, a coherent and probable +series of events, though there be scarcely a feeling +exhibited which is not represented falsely, or in +a manner absolutely commonplace. The combination +of the two excellences is what renders +Shakespeare so generally acceptable, each sort of +readers finding in him what is suitable to their +faculties. To the many he is great as a story-teller, +to the few as a poet.</p> + +<p>In limiting poetry to the delineation of states of +feeling, and denying the name where nothing is +delineated but outward objects, we may be thought +to have done what we promised to avoid—to have +not found, but made a definition, in opposition to +the usage of language, since it is established by +common consent that there is a poetry called +descriptive. We deny the charge. Description +is not poetry because there is descriptive poetry,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_404" id="Page_404">[404]</a></span> +no more than science is poetry because there is +such a thing as a didactic poem. But an object +which admits of being described, or a truth which +may fill a place in a scientific treatise, may also +furnish an occasion for the generation of poetry, +which we thereupon choose to call descriptive or +didactic. The poetry is not in the object itself, nor +in the scientific truth itself, but in the state of mind +in which the one and the other may be contemplated. +The mere delineation of the dimensions +and colours of external objects is not poetry, no +more than a geometrical ground-plan of St. Peter’s +or Westminster Abbey is painting. Descriptive +poetry consists, no doubt, in description, but in +description of things as they appear, not as they +are; and it paints them not in their bare and natural +lineaments, but seen through the medium and +arrayed in the colours of the imagination set in +action by the feelings. If a poet describes a lion, +he does not describe him as a naturalist would, nor +even as a traveller would, who was intent upon +stating the truth, the whole truth, and nothing +but the truth. He describes him by imagery, that +is, by suggesting the most striking likenesses and +contrasts which might occur to a mind contemplating +the lion, in the state of awe, wonder, or +terror, which the spectacle naturally excites, or is, +on the occasion, supposed to excite. Now this is +describing the lion professedly, but the state of +excitement of the spectator really. The lion may +be described falsely or with exaggeration, and the +poetry be all the better; but if the human emotion +be not painted with scrupulous truth, the poetry +is bad poetry, i. e. is not poetry at all, but a failure.</p> + +<p>Thus far our progress towards a clear view of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_405" id="Page_405">[405]</a></span> +essentials of poetry has brought us very close to the +last two attempts at a definition of poetry which we +happen to have seen in print, both of them by poets +and men of genius. The one is by Ebenezer +Elliott, the author of <i>Corn-Law Rhymes</i>, and other +poems of still greater merit. ‘Poetry’, says he, +‘is impassioned truth.’ The other is by a writer +in <i>Blackwood’s Magazine</i>, and comes, we think, +still nearer the mark. He defines poetry, ‘man’s +thoughts tinged by his feelings’. There is in +either definition a near approximation to what +we are in search of. Every truth which a human +being can enunciate, every thought, even every +outward impression, which can enter into his consciousness, +may become poetry when shown +through any impassioned medium, when invested +with the colouring of joy, or grief, or pity, or +affection, or admiration, or reverence, or awe, or +even hatred or terror: and, unless so coloured, +nothing, be it as interesting as it may, is poetry. +But both these definitions fail to discriminate +between poetry and eloquence. Eloquence, as well +as poetry, is impassioned truth; eloquence, as well +as poetry, is thoughts coloured by the feelings. +Yet common apprehension and philosophic criticism +alike recognize a distinction between the two: +there is much that every one would call eloquence, +which no one would think of classing as poetry. +A question will sometimes arise, whether some +particular author is a poet; and those who maintain +the negative commonly allow that, though not +a poet, he is a highly eloquent writer. The distinction +between poetry and eloquence appears to +us to be equally fundamental with the distinction +between poetry and narrative, or between poetry<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_406" id="Page_406">[406]</a></span> +and description, while it is still farther from having +been satisfactorily cleared up than either of the +others.</p> + +<p>Poetry and eloquence are both alike the expression +or utterance of feeling. But if we may be +excused the antithesis, we should say that eloquence +is <i>heard</i>, poetry is <i>over</i>heard. Eloquence +supposes an audience; the peculiarity of poetry +appears to us to lie in the poet’s utter unconsciousness +of a listener. Poetry is feeling confessing +itself to itself, in moments of solitude, and embodying +itself in symbols which are the nearest possible +representations of the feeling in the exact shape in +which it exists in the poet’s mind. Eloquence is +feeling pouring itself out to other minds, courting +their sympathy, or endeavouring to influence their +belief or move them to passion or to action.</p> + +<p>All poetry is of the nature of soliloquy. It may +be said that poetry which is printed on hot-pressed +paper and sold at a bookseller’s shop, is a soliloquy +in full dress, and on the stage. It is so; but there +is nothing absurd in the idea of such a mode of +soliloquizing. What we have said to ourselves, we +may tell to others afterwards; what we have said +or done in solitude, we may voluntarily reproduce +when we know that other eyes are upon us. But +no trace of consciousness that any eyes are upon us +must be visible in the work itself. The actor +knows that there is an audience present; but if he +act as though he knew it, he acts ill. A poet may +write poetry not only with the intention of printing +it, but for the express purpose of being paid for it; +that it should <i>be</i> poetry, being written under such +influences, is less probable; not, however, impossible; +but no otherwise possible than if he can<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_407" id="Page_407">[407]</a></span> +succeed in excluding from his work every vestige +of such lookings-forth into the outward and every-day +world, and can express his emotions exactly +as he has felt them in solitude, or as he is conscious +that he should feel them though they were to +remain for ever unuttered, or (at the lowest) as +he knows that others feel them in similar circumstances +of solitude. But when he turns round and +addresses himself to another person; when the act +of utterance is not itself the end, but a means to an +end,—viz. by the feelings he himself expresses, to +work upon the feelings, or upon the belief, or the +will, of another,—when the expression of his +emotions, or of his thoughts tinged by his emotions, +is tinged also by that purpose, by that desire of +making an impression upon another mind, then it +ceases to be poetry, and becomes eloquence.</p> + +<p>Poetry, accordingly, is the natural fruit of solitude +and meditation; eloquence, of intercourse +with the world. The persons who have most +feeling of their own, if intellectual culture has given +them a language in which to express it, have the +highest faculty of poetry; those who best understand +the feelings of others, are the most eloquent. +The persons, and the nations, who commonly excel +in poetry, are those whose character and tastes +render them least dependent upon the applause, or +sympathy, or concurrence of the world in general. +Those to whom that applause, that sympathy, that +concurrence are most necessary, generally excel +most in eloquence. And hence, perhaps, the +French, who are the least poetical of all great and +intellectual nations, are among the most eloquent: +the French, also, being the most sociable, the +vainest, and the least self-dependent.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_408" id="Page_408">[408]</a></span></p> + +<p>If the above be, as we believe, the true theory +of the distinction commonly admitted between +eloquence and poetry; or even though it be not so, +yet if, as we cannot doubt, the distinction above +stated be a real bona fide distinction, it will be +found to hold, not merely in the language of words, +but in all other language, and to intersect the whole +domain of art.</p> + +<p>Take, for example, music: we shall find in that +art, so peculiarly the expression of passion, two perfectly +distinct styles; one of which may be called +the poetry, the other the oratory of music. This +difference, being seized, would put an end to much +musical sectarianism. There has been much contention +whether the music of the modern Italian +school, that of Rossini and his successors, be impassioned +or not. Without doubt, the passion it +expresses is not the musing, meditative tenderness, +or pathos, or grief of Mozart or Beethoven. Yet +it is passion, but garrulous passion—the passion +which pours itself into other ears; and therein the +better calculated for dramatic effect, having +a natural adaptation for dialogue. Mozart also is +great in musical oratory; but his most touching +compositions are in the opposite style—that of +soliloquy. Who can imagine ‘Dove sono’ <i>heard</i>? +We imagine it <i>over</i>heard.</p> + +<p>Purely pathetic music commonly partakes of +soliloquy. The soul is absorbed in its distress, and +though there may be bystanders, it is not thinking +of them. When the mind is looking within, and +not without, its state does not often or rapidly vary; +and hence the even, uninterrupted flow, approaching +almost to monotony, which a good reader, or +a good singer, will give to words or music of a pensive<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_409" id="Page_409">[409]</a></span> +or melancholy cast. But grief taking the form of +a prayer, or of a complaint, becomes oratorical; no +longer low, and even, and subdued, it assumes +a more emphatic rhythm, a more rapidly returning +accent; instead of a few slow equal notes, following +one after another at regular intervals, it crowds note +upon note, and often assumes a hurry and bustle like +joy. Those who are familiar with some of the best +of Rossini’s serious compositions, such as the air +‘Tu che i miseri conforti’, in the opera of <i>Tancredi</i>, +or the duet ‘Ebben per mia memoria’, in <i>La Gazza +Ladra</i>, will at once understand and feel our meaning. +Both are highly tragic and passionate; the passion +of both is that of oratory, not poetry. The like +may be said of that most moving invocation in +Beethoven’s <i>Fidelio</i>—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Komm, Hoffnung, lass das letzte Stern<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Der Müde nicht erbleichen;<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">in which Madame Schröder Devrient exhibited such +consummate powers of pathetic expression. How +different from Winter’s beautiful ‘Paga fui’, the +very soul of melancholy exhaling itself in solitude; +fuller of meaning, and, therefore, more profoundly +poetical than the words for which it was composed—for +it seems to express not simple melancholy, but +the melancholy of remorse.</p> + +<p>If, from vocal music, we now pass to instrumental, +we may have a specimen of musical oratory +in any fine military symphony or march: while +the poetry of music seems to have attained its consummation +in Beethoven’s Overture to Egmont, so +wonderful in its mixed expression of grandeur and +melancholy.</p> + +<p>In the arts which speak to the eye, the same<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_410" id="Page_410">[410]</a></span> +distinctions will be found to hold, not only between +poetry and oratory, but between poetry, oratory, +narrative, and simple imitation or description.</p> + +<p>Pure description is exemplified in a mere portrait +or a mere landscape—productions of art, it is true, +but of the mechanical rather than of the fine arts, +being works of simple imitation, not creation. We +say, a mere portrait, or a mere landscape, because +it is possible for a portrait or a landscape, without +ceasing to be such, to be also a picture; like +Turner’s landscapes, and the great portraits by +Titian or Vandyke.</p> + +<p>Whatever in painting or sculpture expresses +human feeling—or character, which is only a certain +state of feeling grown habitual—may be called, +according to circumstances, the poetry, or the +eloquence, of the painter’s or the sculptor’s art: +the poetry, if the feeling declares itself by such signs +as escape from us when we are unconscious of being +seen; the oratory, if the signs are those we use for +the purpose of voluntary communication.</p> + +<p>The narrative style answers to what is called historical +painting, which it is the fashion among connoisseurs +to treat as the climax of the pictorial art. +That it is the most difficult branch of the art we do +not doubt, because, in its perfection, it includes the +perfection of all the other branches: as in like +manner an epic poem, though in so far as it is epic +(i. e. narrative) it is not poetry at all, is yet esteemed +the greatest effort of poetic genius, because there is +no kind whatever of poetry which may not appropriately +find a place in it. But an historical picture +as such, that is, as the representation of an incident, +must necessarily, as it seems to us, be poor and +ineffective. The narrative powers of painting are<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_411" id="Page_411">[411]</a></span> +extremely limited. Scarcely any picture, scarcely +even any series of pictures, tells its own story without +the aid of an interpreter. But it is the single +figures which, to us, are the great charm even of an +historical picture. It is in these that the power of +the art is really seen. In the attempt to narrate, +visible and permanent signs are too far behind the +fugitive audible ones, which follow so fast one after +another, while the faces and figures in a narrative +picture, even though they be Titian’s, stand still. +Who would not prefer one Virgin and Child of +Raphael, to all the pictures which Rubens, with his +fat, frouzy Dutch Venuses, ever painted? Though +Rubens, besides excelling almost every one in his +mastery over the mechanical parts of his art, often +shows real genius in <i>grouping</i> his figures, the +peculiar problem of historical painting. But then, +who, except a mere student of drawing and colouring, +ever cared to look twice at any of the figures +themselves? The power of painting lies in poetry, +of which Rubens had not the slightest tincture—not +in narrative, wherein he might have excelled.</p> + +<p>The single figures, however, in an historical +picture, are rather the eloquence of painting than +the poetry: they mostly (unless they are quite out +of place in the picture) express the feelings of one +person as modified by the presence of others. +Accordingly the minds whose bent leads them rather +to eloquence than to poetry, rush to historical +painting. The French painters, for instance, seldom +attempt, because they could make nothing of, +single heads, like those glorious ones of the Italian +masters, with which they might feed themselves +day after day in their own Louvre. They must +all be historical; and they are, almost to a man,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_412" id="Page_412">[412]</a></span> +attitudinizers. If we wished to give any young +artist the most impressive warning our imagination +could devise against that kind of vice in the pictorial, +which corresponds to rant in the histrionic +art, we would advise him to walk once up and once +down the gallery of the Luxembourg. Every figure +in French painting or statuary seems to be showing +itself off before spectators; they are not poetical, +but in the worst style of corrupted eloquence.</p> + + +<h4 style="padding-top: 1em">II</h4> + +<p><i>Nascitur Poeta</i> is a maxim of classical antiquity, +which has passed to these latter days with less +questioning than most of the doctrines of that early +age. When it originated, the human faculties were +occupied, fortunately for posterity, less in examining +how the works of genius are created, than in +creating them: and the adage, probably, had no +higher source than the tendency common among +mankind to consider all power which is not visibly +the effect of practice, all skill which is not capable +of being reduced to mechanical rules, as the result +of a peculiar gift. Yet this aphorism, born in the +infancy of psychology, will perhaps be found, now +when that science is in its adolescence, to be as true +as an epigram ever is, that is, to contain some truth: +truth, however, which has been so compressed and +bent out of shape, in order to tie it up into so small +a knot of only two words that it requires an almost +infinite amount of unrolling and laying straight, +before it will resume its just proportions.</p> + +<p>We are not now intending to remark upon the +grosser misapplications of this ancient maxim, +which have engendered so many races of poetasters.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_413" id="Page_413">[413]</a></span> +The days are gone by when every raw youth whose +borrowed phantasies have set themselves to a borrowed +tune, mistaking, as Coleridge says, an ardent +desire of poetic reputation for poetic genius, while +unable to disguise from himself that he had taken +no means whereby he might <i>become</i> a poet, could +fancy himself a born one. Those who would reap +without sowing, and gain the victory without +fighting the battle, are ambitious now of another +sort of distinction, and are born novelists, or public +speakers, not poets. And the wiser thinkers understand +and acknowledge that poetic excellence is +subject to the same necessary conditions with any +other mental endowment; and that to no one of +the spiritual benefactors of mankind is a higher +or a more assiduous intellectual culture needful +than to the poet. It is true, he possesses this advantage +over others who use the ‘instrument of words’, +that, of the truths which he utters, a larger proportion +are derived from personal consciousness, and +a smaller from philosophic investigation. But the +power itself of discriminating between what really +is consciousness, and what is only a process of +inference completed in a single instant—and the +capacity of distinguishing whether that of which +the mind is conscious be an eternal truth, or but +a dream—are among the last results of the most +matured and perfect intellect. Not to mention, +that the poet, no more than any other person who +writes, confines himself altogether to intuitive +truths, nor has any means of communicating even +these but by words, every one of which derives all +its power of conveying a meaning, from a whole +host of acquired notions, and facts learnt by study +and experience.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_414" id="Page_414">[414]</a></span></p> + +<p>Nevertheless, it seems undeniable in point of +fact, and consistent with the principles of a sound +metaphysics, that there are poetic <i>natures</i>. There +is a mental and physical constitution or temperament, +peculiarly fitted for poetry. This temperament +will not of itself make a poet, no more than the +soil will the fruit; and as good fruit may be raised +by culture from indifferent soils, so may good poetry +from naturally unpoetical minds. But the poetry +of one who is a poet by nature, will be clearly and +broadly distinguishable from the poetry of mere +culture. It may not be truer; it may not be more +useful; but it will be different: fewer will appreciate +it, even though many should affect to do so; +but in those few it will find a keener sympathy, and +will yield them a deeper enjoyment.</p> + +<p>One may write genuine poetry, and not be a +poet; for whosoever writes out truly any human +feeling, writes poetry. All persons, even the most +unimaginative, in moments of strong emotion, +speak poetry; and hence the drama is poetry, which +else were always prose, except when a poet is one of +the characters. What <i>is</i> poetry, but the thoughts and +words in which emotion spontaneously embodies +itself? As there are few who are not, at least for +some moments and in some situations, capable of +some strong feeling, poetry is natural to most +persons at some period of their lives. And any one +whose feelings are genuine, though but of the +average strength,—if he be not diverted by uncongenial +thoughts or occupations from the indulgence +of them, and if he acquire by culture, as all persons +may, the faculty of delineating them correctly,—has +it in his power to be a poet, so far as a life +passed in writing unquestionable poetry may be<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_415" id="Page_415">[415]</a></span> +considered to confer that title. But <i>ought</i> it to do +so? Yes, perhaps, in a collection of ‘British +Poets’. But ‘poet’ is the name also of a variety +of man, not solely of the author of a particular +variety of book: now, to have written whole +volumes of real poetry is possible to almost all +kinds of characters, and implies no greater peculiarity +of mental construction, than to be the author +of a history, or a novel.</p> + +<p>Whom, then, shall we call poets? Those who +are so constituted, that emotions are the links of +association by which their ideas, both sensuous and +spiritual, are connected together. This constitution +belongs (within certain limits) to all in whom +poetry is a pervading principle. In all others, +poetry is something extraneous and superinduced: +something out of themselves, foreign to the habitual +course of their every-day lives and characters; +a world to which they may make occasional visits, +but where they are sojourners, not dwellers, and +which, when out of it, or even when in it, they +think of, peradventure, but as a phantom-world, +a place of <i>ignes fatui</i> and spectral illusions. Those +only who have the peculiarity of association which +we have mentioned, and which is a natural though +not a universal consequence of intense sensibility, +instead of seeming not themselves when they are +uttering poetry, scarcely seem themselves when +uttering anything to which poetry is foreign. Whatever +be the thing which they are contemplating, if +it be capable of connecting itself with their emotions, +the aspect under which it first and most naturally +paints itself to them, is its poetic aspect. The poet +of culture sees his object in prose, and describes it in +poetry; the poet of nature actually sees it in poetry.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_416" id="Page_416">[416]</a></span></p> + +<p>This point is perhaps worth some little illustration; +the rather, as metaphysicians (the ultimate +arbiters of all philosophical criticism), while they +have busied themselves for two thousand years, +more or less, about the few <i>universal</i> laws of human +nature, have strangely neglected the analysis of its +<i>diversities</i>. Of these, none lie deeper or reach +further than the varieties which difference of nature +and of education makes in what may be termed the +habitual bond of association. In a mind entirely +uncultivated, which is also without any strong +feelings, objects whether of sense or of intellect +arrange themselves in the mere casual order in +which they have been seen, heard, or otherwise +perceived. Persons of this sort may be said to +think chronologically. If they remember a fact, +it is by reason of a fortuitous coincidence with some +trifling incident or circumstance which took place +at the very time. If they have a story to tell, or +testimony to deliver in a witness-box, their narrative +must follow the exact order in which the events +took place: <i>dodge</i> them, and the thread of association +is broken; they cannot go on. Their associations, +to use the language of philosophers, are +chiefly of the successive, not the synchronous kind, +and whether successive or synchronous, are mostly +casual.</p> + +<p>To the man of science, again, or of business, +objects group themselves according to the artificial +classifications which the understanding has voluntarily +made for the convenience of thought or of +practice. But where any of the impressions are +vivid and intense, the associations into which +these enter are the ruling ones: it being a well-known +law of association, that the stronger a feeling<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_417" id="Page_417">[417]</a></span> +is, the more quickly and strongly it associates itself +with any other object or feeling. Where, therefore, +nature has given strong feelings, and education +has not created factitious tendencies stronger than +the natural ones, the prevailing associations will be +those which connect objects and ideas with emotions, +and with each other through the intervention +of emotions. Thoughts and images will be linked +together, according to the similarity of the feelings +which cling to them. A thought will introduce +a thought by first introducing a feeling which is +allied with it. At the centre of each group of +thoughts or images will be found a feeling; and +the thoughts or images will be there only because +the feeling was there. The combinations which the +mind puts together, the pictures which it paints, +the wholes which Imagination constructs out of the +materials supplied by Fancy, will be indebted to +some dominant <i>feeling</i>, not as in other natures to +a dominant <i>thought</i>, for their unity and consistency +of character, for what distinguishes them from +incoherencies.</p> + +<p>The difference, then, between the poetry of +a poet, and the poetry of a cultivated but not +naturally poetic mind, is, that in the latter, with +however bright a halo of feeling the thought may +be surrounded and glorified, the thought itself is +always the conspicuous object; while the poetry +of a poet is Feeling itself, employing Thought only +as the medium of its expression. In the one, feeling +waits upon thought; in the other, thought upon +feeling. The one writer has a distinct aim, common +to him with any other didactic author; he +desires to convey the thought, and he conveys it +clothed in the feelings which it excites in himself,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_418" id="Page_418">[418]</a></span> +or which he deems most appropriate to it. The +other merely pours forth the overflowing of his +feelings; and all the thoughts which those feelings +suggest are floated promiscuously along the stream.</p> + +<p>It may assist in rendering our meaning intelligible, +if we illustrate it by a parallel between the +two English authors of our own day who have +produced the greatest quantity of true and enduring +poetry, Wordsworth and Shelley. Apter instances +could not be wished for; the one might be +cited as the type, the <i>exemplar</i>, of what the poetry +of culture may accomplish: the other as perhaps +the most striking example ever known of the poetic +temperament. How different, accordingly, is the +poetry of these two great writers! In Wordsworth, +the poetry is almost always the mere +setting of a thought. The thought may be more +valuable than the setting, or it may be less valuable, +but there can be no question as to which was first +in his mind: what he is impressed with, and what +he is anxious to impress, is some proposition, more +or less distinctly conceived; some truth, or something +which he deems such. He lets the thought +dwell in his mind, till it excites, as is the nature of +thought, other thoughts, and also such feelings as +the measure of his sensibility is adequate to supply. +Among these thoughts and feelings, had he chosen +a different walk of authorship (and there are many +in which he might equally have excelled), he would +probably have made a different selection of media +for enforcing the parent thought: his habits, however, +being those of poetic composition, he selects in +preference the strongest feelings, and the thoughts +with which most of feeling is naturally or habitually +connected. His poetry, therefore, may be defined<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_419" id="Page_419">[419]</a></span> +to be, his thoughts, coloured by, and impressing +themselves by means of, emotions. Such poetry, +Wordsworth has occupied a long life in producing. +And well and wisely has he so done. Criticisms, +no doubt, may be made occasionally both upon the +thoughts themselves, and upon the skill he has +demonstrated in the choice of his media: for an +affair of skill and study, in the most rigorous sense, +it evidently was. But he has not laboured in +vain; he has exercised, and continues to exercise, +a powerful, and mostly a highly beneficial influence +over the formation and growth of not a few of the +most cultivated and vigorous of the youthful minds +of our time, over whose heads poetry of the opposite +description would have flown, for want of an +original organization, physical or mental, in sympathy +with it.</p> + +<p>On the other hand, Wordsworth’s poetry is +never bounding, never ebullient; has little even of +the appearance of spontaneousness: the well is +never so full that it overflows. There is an air of +calm deliberateness about all he writes, which is +not characteristic of the poetic temperament: his +poetry seems one thing, himself another; he seems +to be poetical because he wills to be so, not because +he cannot help it: did he will to dismiss poetry, +he need never again, it might almost seem, have +a poetical thought. He never seems <i>possessed</i> by +any feeling; no emotion seems ever so strong as to +have entire sway, for the time being, over the +current of his thoughts. He never, even for the +space of a few stanzas, appears entirely given up +to exultation, or grief, or pity, or love, or admiration, +or devotion, or even animal spirits. He now +and then, though seldom, attempts to write as if<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_420" id="Page_420">[420]</a></span> +he were: and never, we think, without leaving an +impression of poverty: as the brook which on +nearly level ground quite fills its banks, appears but +a thread when running rapidly down a precipitous +declivity. He has feeling enough to form a decent, +graceful, even beautiful decoration to a thought +which is in itself interesting and moving; but not +so much as suffices to stir up the soul by mere +sympathy with itself in its simplest manifestation, +nor enough to summon up that array of ‘thoughts +of power’ which in a richly stored mind always +attends the call of really intense feeling. It is for +this reason, doubtless, that the genius of Wordsworth +is essentially unlyrical. Lyric poetry, as it +was the earliest kind, is also, if the view we are now +taking of poetry be correct, more eminently and +peculiarly poetry than any other: it is the poetry +most natural to a really poetic temperament, and +least capable of being successfully imitated by one +not so endowed by nature.</p> + +<p>Shelley is the very reverse of all this. Where +Wordsworth is strong, he is weak; where Wordsworth +is weak, he is strong. Culture, that culture +by which Wordsworth has reared from his own +inward nature the richest harvest ever brought +forth by a soil of so little depth, is precisely what +was wanting to Shelley: or let us rather say, he had +not, at the period of his deplorably early death, +reached sufficiently far in that intellectual progression +of which he was capable, and which, if it +has done so much for greatly inferior natures, might +have made of him the most perfect, as he was +already the most gifted of our poets. For him, +voluntary mental discipline had done little: the +vividness of his emotions and of his sensations had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_421" id="Page_421">[421]</a></span> +done all. He seldom follows up an idea; it starts +into life, summons from the fairy-land of his inexhaustible +fancy some three or four bold images, +then vanishes, and straight he is off on the wings of +some casual association into quite another sphere. +He had scarcely yet acquired the consecutiveness +of thought necessary for a long poem; his more +ambitious compositions too often resemble the +scattered fragments of a mirror; colours brilliant +as life, single images without end, but no picture. +It is only when under the overruling influence of +some one state of feeling, either actually experienced, +or summoned up in the vividness of reality +by a fervid imagination, that he writes as a great +poet; unity of feeling being to him the harmonizing +principle which a central idea is to minds of another +class, and supplying the coherency and consistency +which would else have been wanting. Thus it is in +many of his smaller, and especially his lyrical +poems. They are obviously written to exhale, +perhaps to relieve, a state of feeling, or of conception +of feeling, almost oppressive from its vividness. +The thoughts and imagery are suggested by the +feeling, and are such as it finds unsought. The +state of feeling may be either of soul or of sense, or +oftener (might we not say invariably?) of both: +for the poetic temperament is usually, perhaps +always, accompanied by exquisite senses. The +exciting cause may be either an object or an idea. +But whatever of sensation enters into the feeling, +must not be local, or consciously organic; it is +a condition of the whole frame, not of a part only. +Like the state of sensation produced by a fine +climate, or indeed like all strongly pleasurable or +painful sensations in an impassioned nature, it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_422" id="Page_422">[422]</a></span> +pervades the entire nervous system. States of +feeling, whether sensuous or spiritual, which thus +possess the whole being, are the fountains of that +which we have called the poetry of poets; and +which is little else than a pouring forth of the +thoughts and images that pass across the mind while +some permanent state of feeling is occupying it.</p> + +<p>To the same original fineness of organization, +Shelley was doubtless indebted for another of his +rarest gifts, that exuberance of imagery, which when +unrepressed, as in many of his poems it is, amounts +to a fault. The susceptibility of his nervous system, +which made his emotions intense, made also +the impressions of his external senses deep and +clear; and agreeably to the law of association by +which, as already remarked, the strongest impressions +are those which associate themselves the most +easily and strongly, these vivid sensations were +readily recalled to mind by all objects or thoughts +which had co-existed with them, and by all feelings +which in any degree resembled them. Never did +a fancy so teem with sensuous imagery as Shelley’s. +Wordsworth economizes an image, and detains it +until he has distilled all the poetry out of it, and it +will not yield a drop more: Shelley lavishes his +with a profusion which is unconscious because it is +inexhaustible.</p> + +<p>If, then, the maxim <i>Nascitur poeta</i> mean, either +that the power of producing poetical compositions +is a peculiar faculty which the poet brings into the +world with him, which grows with his growth like +any of his bodily powers, and is as independent of +culture as his height, and his complexion; or that +any natural peculiarity whatever is implied in +producing poetry, real poetry, and in any quantity—such<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_423" id="Page_423">[423]</a></span> +poetry too, as, to the majority of educated +and intelligent readers, shall appear quite as good +as, or even better than, any other; in either sense +the doctrine is false. And nevertheless, there <i>is</i> +poetry which could not emanate but from a mental +and physical constitution peculiar, not in the kind, +but in the degree of its susceptibility: a constitution +which makes its possessor capable of +greater happiness than mankind in general, and +also of greater unhappiness; and because greater, +so also more various. And such poetry, to all who +know enough of nature to own it as being in nature, +is much more poetry, is poetry in a far higher sense, +than any other; since the common element of all +poetry, that which constitutes poetry, human feeling, +enters far more largely into this than into the +poetry of culture. Not only because the natures +which we have called poetical, really feel more, and +consequently have more feeling to express; but +because, the capacity of feeling being so great, +feeling, when excited and not voluntarily resisted, +seizes the helm of their thoughts, and the succession +of ideas and images becomes the mere utterance of +an emotion; not, as in other natures, the emotion +a mere ornamental colouring of the thought.</p> + +<p>Ordinary education and the ordinary course of +life are constantly at work counteracting this +quality of mind, and substituting habits more suitable +to their own ends: if instead of substituting +they were content to superadd, there would be +nothing to complain of. But when will education +consist, not in repressing any mental faculty or +power, from the uncontrolled action of which danger +is apprehended, but in training up to its proper +strength the corrective and antagonist power?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_424" id="Page_424">[424]</a></span></p> + +<p>In whomsoever the quality which we have described +exists, and is not stifled, that person is +a poet. Doubtless he is a greater poet in proportion +as the fineness of his perceptions, whether of sense +or of internal consciousness, furnishes him with an +ampler supply of lovely images—the vigour and +richness of his intellect, with a greater abundance +of moving thoughts. For it is through these +thoughts and images that the feeling speaks, and +through their impressiveness that it impresses +itself, and finds response in other hearts; and from +these media of transmitting it (contrary to the laws +of physical nature) increase of intensity is reflected +back upon the feeling itself. But all these it is +possible to have, and not be a poet; they are mere +materials, which the poet shares in common with +other people. What constitutes the poet is not +the imagery nor the thoughts, nor even the feelings, +but the law according to which they are called up. +He is a poet, not because he has ideas of any +particular kind, but because the succession of big +ideas is subordinate to the course of his emotions.</p> + +<p>Many who have never acknowledged this in +theory, bear testimony to it in their particular +judgements. In listening to an oration, or reading +a written discourse not professedly poetical, when +do we begin to feel that the speaker or author is +putting off the character of the orator or the prose +writer, and is passing into the poet? Not when +he begins to show strong feeling; <i>then</i> we merely +say, he is in earnest, he feels what he says; still +less when he expresses himself in imagery; then, +unless illustration be manifestly his sole object, we +are apt to say, this is affectation. It is when the +feeling (instead of passing away, or, if it continue,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_425" id="Page_425">[425]</a></span> +letting the train of thoughts run on exactly as they +would have done if there were no influence at work +but the mere intellect) becomes itself the originator +of another train of association, which expels or +blends with the former; when (for example) either +his words, or the mode of their arrangement, are +such as we spontaneously use only when in a state +of excitement, proving that the mind is at least as +much occupied by a passive state of its own feelings, +as by the desire of attaining the premeditated end +which the discourse has in view.<a name="FNanchor_35_35" id="FNanchor_35_35"></a><a href="#Footnote_35_35" class="fnanchor">[35]</a></p> + +<p>Our judgements of authors who lay actual claim +to the title of poets, follow the same principle. +Whenever, after a writer’s meaning is fully understood, +it is still matter of reasoning and discussion +whether he is a poet or not, he will be found to be +wanting in the characteristic peculiarity of association +so often adverted to. When, on the contrary, +after reading or hearing one or two passages, we +instinctively and without hesitation cry out, ‘This +is a poet’, the probability is, that the passages are +strongly marked with this peculiar quality. And +we may add that in such case, a critic who, not +having sufficient feeling to respond to the poetry, is +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_426" id="Page_426">[426]</a></span>also without sufficient philosophy to understand it +though he feel it not, will be apt to pronounce, not +‘this is prose’, but ‘this is exaggeration’, ‘this is +mysticism’, or, ‘this is nonsense’.</p> + +<p>Although a philosopher cannot, by culture, make +himself, in the peculiar sense in which we now use +the term, a poet, unless at least he have that peculiarity +of nature which would probably have made +poetry his earliest pursuit; a poet may always, by +culture, make himself a philosopher. The poetic +laws of association are by no means incompatible +with the more ordinary laws; are by no means such +as <i>must</i> have their course, even though a deliberate +purpose require their suspension. If the peculiarities +of the poetic temperament were uncontrollable +in any poet, they might be supposed so in +Shelley; yet how powerfully, in the <i>Cenci</i>, does he +coerce and restrain all the characteristic qualities +of his genius; what severe simplicity, in place of +his usual barbaric splendour; how rigidly does he +keep the feelings and the imagery in subordination +to the thought.</p> + +<p>The investigation of nature requires no habits or +qualities of mind, but such as may always be +acquired by industry and mental activity. Because +at one time the mind may be so given up to a state +of feeling, that the succession of its ideas is determined +by the present enjoyment or suffering which +pervades it, this is no reason but that in the calm +retirement of study, when under no peculiar excitement +either of the outward or of the inward +sense, it may form any combinations, or pursue any +trains of ideas, which are most conducive to the +purposes of philosophic inquiry; and may, while +in that state, form deliberate convictions, from<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_427" id="Page_427">[427]</a></span> +which no excitement will afterwards make it +swerve. Might we not go even further than this? +We shall not pause to ask whether it be not a misunderstanding +of the nature of passionate feeling to +imagine that it is inconsistent with calmness; +whether they who so deem of it, do not mistake +passion in the militant or antagonistic state, for +the type of passion universally; do not confound +passion struggling towards an outward object, with +passion brooding over itself. But without entering +into this deeper investigation; that capacity of +strong feeling, which is supposed necessarily to disturb +the judgement, is also the material out of +which all <i>motives</i> are made; the motives, consequently, +which lead human beings to the pursuit of +truth. The greater the individual’s capability of +happiness and of misery, the stronger interest has +that individual in arriving at truth; and when once +that interest is felt, an impassioned nature is sure +to pursue this, as to pursue any other object, with +greater ardour; for energy of character is commonly +the offspring of strong feeling. If, therefore, +the most impassioned natures do not ripen into the +most powerful intellects, it is always from defect of +culture, or something wrong in the circumstances by +which the being has originally or successively been +surrounded. Undoubtedly strong feelings require +a strong intellect to carry them, as more sail requires +more ballast: and when, from neglect, or +bad education, that strength is wanting, no wonder +if the grandest and swiftest vessels make the most +utter wreck.</p> + +<p>Where, as in some of our older poets, a poetic +nature has been united with logical and scientific +culture, the peculiarity of association arising from<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_428" id="Page_428">[428]</a></span> +the finer nature so perpetually alternates with +the associations attainable by commoner natures +trained to high perfection, that its own particular +law is not so conspicuously characteristic of the +result produced, as in a poet like Shelley, to whom +systematic intellectual culture, in a measure proportioned +to the intensity of his own nature, +has been wanting. Whether the superiority will +naturally be on the side of the philosopher-poet or +of the mere poet—whether the writings of the one +ought, as a whole, to be truer, and their influence +more beneficent, than those of the other—is +too obvious in principle to need statement: it +would be absurd to doubt whether two endowments +are better than one; whether truth is more certainly +arrived at by two processes, verifying and +correcting each other, than by one alone. Unfortunately, +in practice the matter is not quite so +simple; there the question often is, which is least +prejudicial to the intellect, uncultivation or malcultivation. +For, as long as education consists +chiefly of the mere inculcation of traditional +opinions, many of which, from the mere fact that +the human intellect has not yet reached perfection, +must necessarily be false; so long as even those +who are best taught, are rather taught to know the +thoughts of others than to think, it is not always +clear that the poet of acquired ideas has the advantage +over him whose feeling has been his sole +teacher. For the depth and durability of wrong +as well as of right impressions is proportional to +the fineness of the material; and they who have +the greatest capacity of natural feeling are generally +those whose artificial feelings are the strongest. +Hence, doubtless, among other reasons, it is, that in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_429" id="Page_429">[429]</a></span> +an age of revolutions in opinion, the co-temporary +poets, those at least who deserve the name, those +who have any individuality of character, if they are +not before their age, are almost sure to be behind it. +An observation curiously verified all over Europe +in the present century. Nor let it be thought disparaging. +However urgent may be the necessity +for a breaking up of old modes of belief, the most +strong-minded and discerning, next to those who +head the movement, are generally those who bring +up the rear of it.</p> + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_35_35" id="Footnote_35_35"></a><a href="#FNanchor_35_35"><span class="label">[35]</span></a> And this, we may remark by the way, seems to point to +the true theory of poetic diction; and to suggest the true +answer to as much as is erroneous of Wordsworth’s celebrated +doctrine on that subject. For on the one hand, <i>all</i> +language which is the natural expression of feeling, is really +poetical, and will be felt as such, apart from conventional +associations; but on the other, whenever intellectual +culture has afforded a choice between several modes of +expressing the same emotion, the stronger the feeling is, +the more naturally and certainly will it prefer the language +which is most peculiarly appropriated to itself, and kept +sacred from the contact of more vulgar objects of contemplation.</p></div> +</div> + + +<h2><a name="WALTER_BAGEHOT" id="WALTER_BAGEHOT"></a>WALTER BAGEHOT<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_430" id="Page_430">[430]</a></span></h2> + +<h3>1826-1877</h3> + +<h3>WORDSWORTH, TENNYSON, AND BROWNING<br /> + +<small>OR</small><br /> + +PURE, ORNATE, AND GROTESQUE ART IN<br /> +ENGLISH POETRY (1864)</h3> + +<h4><i>Enoch Arden, &c.</i> By Alfred Tennyson, D.C.L.,<br /> +Poet Laureate.<br /> + +<i>Dramatis Personae.</i> By Robert Browning.</h4> + + +<p><span class="smcap">We</span> couple these two books together, not because +of their likeness, for they are as dissimilar as books +can be, nor on account of the eminence of their +authors, for in general two great authors are too +much for one essay, but because they are the best +possible illustration of something we have to say +upon poetical art—because they may give to it life +and freshness. The accident of contemporaneous +publication has here brought together two books, +very characteristic of modern art, and we want to +show how they are characteristic.</p> + +<p>Neither English poetry nor English criticism +have ever recovered the <i>eruption</i> which they both +made at the beginning of this century into the +fashionable world. The poems of Lord Byron +were received with an avidity that resembles our +present avidity for sensation novels, and were +read by a class which at present reads little but +such novels. Old men who remember those days +may be heard to say, ‘We hear nothing of poetry<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_431" id="Page_431">[431]</a></span> +nowadays; it seems quite down.’ And ‘down’ +it certainly is, if for poetry it be a descent to be +no longer the favourite excitement of the more +frivolous part of the ‘upper’ world. That +stimulating poetry is now little read. A stray +schoolboy may still be detected in a wild admiration +for the <i>Giaour</i> or the <i>Corsair</i> (and it is suitable +to his age, and he should not be reproached for it), +but the <i>real</i> posterity—the quiet students of a past +literature—never read them or think of them. +A line or two linger in the memory; a few telling +strokes of occasional and felicitous energy are +quoted, but this is all. As wholes, these exaggerated +stories were worthless; they taught nothing, +and, therefore, they are forgotten. If nowadays +a dismal poet were, like Byron, to lament the +fact of his birth, and to hint that he was too good +for the world, the <i>Saturday Review</i> would say that +‘they doubted if he <i>was</i> too good; that a sulky +poet was a questionable addition to a tolerable +world; that he need not have been born, as far +as they were concerned.’ Doubtless, there is +much in Byron besides his dismal exaggeration, +but it was that exaggeration which made ‘the +sensation’, which gave him a wild moment of +dangerous fame. As so often happens, the cause +of his momentary fashion is the cause also of his +lasting oblivion. Moore’s former reputation was +less excessive, yet it has not been more permanent. +The prettiness of a few songs preserves the memory +of his name, but as a poet to <i>read</i> he is forgotten. +There is nothing to read in him; no exquisite +thought, no sublime feeling, no consummate +description of true character. Almost the sole +result of the poetry of that time is the harm which<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_432" id="Page_432">[432]</a></span> +it has done. It degraded for a time the whole +character of the art. It said by practice, by +a most efficient and successful practice, that it +was the aim, the <i>duty</i> of poets, to catch the +attention of the passing, the fashionable, the busy +world. If a poem ‘fell dead’, it was nothing; it +was composed to please the ‘London’ of the year, +and if that London did not like it, why, it had +failed. It fixed upon the minds of a whole +generation, it engraved in popular memory and +tradition, a vague conviction that poetry is but +one of the many <i>amusements</i> for the light classes, +for the lighter hours of all classes. The mere +notion, the bare idea, that poetry is a deep thing, +a teaching thing, the most surely and wisely +elevating of human things, is even now to the +coarse public mind nearly unknown.</p> + +<p>As was the fate of poetry, so inevitably was that +of criticism. The science that expounds which +poetry is good and which is bad is dependent for +its popular reputation on the popular estimate of +poetry itself. The critics of that day had <i>a</i> day, +which is more than can be said for some since; +they professed to tell the fashionable world in +what books it would find new pleasure, and +therefore they were read by the fashionable world. +Byron counted the critic and poet equal. The +<i>Edinburgh Review</i> penetrated among the young, +and into places of female resort where it does not +go now. As people ask, ‘Have you read <i>Henry +Dunbar</i>? and what do you think of it?’ so they +then asked, ‘Have you read the <i>Giaour</i>? and +what do you think of it?’ Lord Jeffrey, a shrewd +judge of the world, employed himself in telling it +what to think; not so much what it ought to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_433" id="Page_433">[433]</a></span> +think, as what at bottom it did think, and so by +dexterous sympathy with current society he gained +contemporary fame and power. Such fame no +critic must hope for now. His articles will not +penetrate where the poems themselves do not +penetrate. When poetry was noisy, criticism was +loud; now poetry is a still small voice, and +criticism must be smaller and stiller. As the +function of such criticism was limited so was its +subject. For the great and (as time now proves) +the <i>permanent</i> part of the poetry of his time—for +Shelley and for Wordsworth—Lord Jeffrey had +but one word. He said<a name="FNanchor_36_36" id="FNanchor_36_36"></a><a href="#Footnote_36_36" class="fnanchor">[36]</a> ‘It won’t do’. And it +will not do to amuse a drawing-room.</p> + +<p>The doctrine that poetry is a light amusement +for idle hours, a metrical species of sensational +novel, has not indeed been without gainsayers +wildly popular. Thirty years ago, Mr. Carlyle +most rudely contradicted it. But perhaps this is +about all that he has done. He has denied, but +he has not disproved. He has contradicted the +floating paganism, but he has not founded the +deep religion. All about and around us a <i>faith</i> in +poetry struggles to be extricated, but it is not +extricated. Some day, at the touch of the true +word, the whole confusion will by magic cease; +the broken and shapeless notions cohere and +crystallize into a bright and true theory. But +this cannot be yet.</p> + +<p>But though no complete theory of the poetic +art as yet be possible for us, though perhaps only +our children’s children will be able to speak on +this subject with the assured confidence which +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_434" id="Page_434">[434]</a></span>belongs to accepted truth, yet something of some +certainty may be stated on the easier elements, +and something that will throw light on these two +new books. But it will be necessary to assign +reasons, and the assigning of reasons is a dry task. +Years ago, when criticism only tried to show how +poetry could be made a good amusement, it was +not impossible that criticism itself should be +amusing. But now it must at least be serious, for +we believe that poetry is a serious and a deep +thing.</p> + +<p>There should be a word in the language of literary +art to express what the word ‘picturesque’ expresses +for the fine arts. <i>Picturesque</i> means fit to +be put into a picture; we want a word <i>literatesque</i>, +‘fit to be put into a book.’ An artist goes through +a hundred different country scenes, rich with +beauties, charms, and merits, but he does not +paint any of them. He leaves them alone; he +idles on till he finds the hundred-and-first—a scene +which many observers would not think much of, +but which <i>he</i> knows by virtue of his art will look +well on canvas, and this he paints and preserves. +Susceptible observers, though not artists, feel this +quality too; they say of a scene, ‘How picturesque!’ +meaning by this a quality distinct from +that of beauty, or sublimity, or grandeur—meaning +to speak not only of the scene as it is in itself, but +also of its fitness for imitation by art; meaning +not only that it is good, but that its goodness is +such as ought to be transferred to paper; meaning +not simply that it fascinates, but also that its +fascination is such as ought to be copied by man. +A fine and insensible instinct has put language to +this subtle use; it expresses an idea without which<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_435" id="Page_435">[435]</a></span> +fine art criticism could not go on, and it is very +natural that the language of pictorial should be +better supplied with words than that of literary +criticism, for the eye was used before the mind, +and language embodies primitive sensuous ideas, +long ere it expresses, or need express, abstract and +literary ones.</p> + +<p>The reason why a landscape is ‘picturesque’ is +often said to be that such landscape represents an +‘idea’. But this explanation, though in the minds +of some who use it it is near akin to the truth, fails +to explain that truth to those who did not know it +before; the Word ‘idea,’ is so often used in these +subjects when people do not know anything else +to say; it represents so often a kind of intellectual +insolvency, when philosophers are at their wits’ +end, that shrewd people will never readily on any +occasion give it credit for meaning anything. +A wise explainer must, therefore, look out for +other words to convey what he has to say. +<i>Landscapes</i>, like everything else in nature, divide +themselves as we look at them into a sort of rude +classification. We go down a river, for example, +and we see a hundred landscapes on both sides of +it, resembling one another in much, yet differing +in something; with trees here, and a farmhouse +there, and shadows on one side, and a deep pool +far on; a collection of circumstances most familiar +in themselves, but making a perpetual novelty by +the magic of their various combinations. We travel +so for miles and hours, and then we come to a +scene which also has these various circumstances +and adjuncts, but which combines them best, +which makes the best whole of them, which shows +them in their best proportion at a single glance<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_436" id="Page_436">[436]</a></span> +before the eye. Then we say, ‘This is the place +to paint the river; this is the picturesque point!’ +Or, if not artists or critics of art, we feel without +analysis or examination that somehow this bend or +sweep of the river, shall, in future, <i>be the river to us</i>: +that it is the image of it which we will retain in +our mind’s eye, by which we will remember it, +which we will call up when we want to describe or +think of it. Some fine countries, some beautiful +rivers, have not this picturesque quality: they +give us elements of beauty, but they do not combine +them together; we go on for a time delighted, +but <i>after</i> a time somehow we get wearied; we feel +that we are taking in nothing and learning nothing; +we get no collected image before our mind; we see +the accidents and circumstances of that sort of +scenery, but the summary scene we do not see; +we find <i>disjecta membra</i>, but no form; various and +many and faulty approximations are displayed +in succession; but the absolute perfection in that +country or river’s scenery—its <i>type</i>—is withheld: +We go away from such places in part delighted, +but in part baffled; we have been puzzled by +pretty things; we have beheld a hundred different +inconsistent specimens of the same sort of beauty; +but the rememberable idea, the full development, +the characteristic individuality of it, we have not +seen.</p> + +<p>We find the same sort of quality in all parts of +painting. We see a portrait of a person we know, +and we say, ‘It is like—yes, like, of course, but +it is not <i>the man</i>;’ we feel it could not be any one +else, but still, somehow it fails to bring home to +us the individual as we know him to be. <i>He</i> is not +there. An accumulation of features like his are<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_437" id="Page_437">[437]</a></span> +painted, but his essence is not painted; an +approximation more or less excellent is given, but +the characteristic expression, the <i>typical</i> form, of +the man is withheld.</p> + +<p>Literature—the painting of words—has the same +quality but wants the analogous word. The word +‘<i>literatesque</i>,’ would mean, if we possessed it, that +perfect combination in the <i>subject-matter</i> of literature, +which suits the <i>art</i> of literature. We often +meet people, and say of them, sometimes meaning +well and sometimes ill, ‘How well so-and-so +would do in a book!’ Such people are by no +means the best people; but they are the most +effective people—the most rememberable people. +Frequently when we first know them, we like +them because they explain to us so much of our +experience; we have known many people ‘like +that,’ in one way or another, but we did not seem +to understand them; they were nothing to us, +for their traits were indistinct; we forgot them, +for they <i>hitched</i> on to nothing, and we could not +classify them; but when we see the <i>type</i> of the +genus, at once we seem to comprehend its character; +the inferior specimens are explained by the perfect +embodiment; the approximations are definable +when we know the ideal to which they draw near. +There are an infinite number of classes of human +beings, but in each of these classes there is a distinctive +type which, if we could expand it out in words, +would define the class. We cannot expand it in +formal terms any more than a landscape or +a species of landscapes; but we have an art, an +art of words, which can draw it. Travellers and +others often bring home, in addition to their long +journals—which though so living to them, are so<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_438" id="Page_438">[438]</a></span> +dead, so inanimate, so undescriptive to all else—a +pen-and-ink sketch, rudely done very likely, but +which, perhaps, even the more for the blots and +strokes, gives a distinct notion, an emphatic +image, to all who see it. They say at once, ‘<i>Now</i> +we know the sort of thing’. The sketch has <i>hit</i> the +mind. True literature does the same. It describes +sorts, varieties, and permutations, by delineating +the type of each sort, the ideal of each variety, the +central, the marking trait of each permutation.</p> + +<p>On this account, the greatest artists of the +world have ever shown an enthusiasm for reality. +To care for notions and abstractions; to philosophize; +to reason out conclusions; to care for +schemes of thought, are signs in the artistic mind +of secondary excellence. A Schiller, a Euripides, +a Ben Jonson, cares for <i>ideas</i>—for the parings of +the intellect, and the distillation of the mind; +a Shakespeare, a Homer, a Goethe, finds his +mental occupation, the true home of his natural +thoughts, in the real world—‘which is the world +of all of us’—where the face of nature, the moving +masses of men and women, are ever changing, ever +multiplying, ever mixing one with the other. The +reason is plain—the business of the poet, of the +artist, is with <i>types</i>; and those types are mirrored +in reality. As a painter must not only have a +hand to execute, but an eye to distinguish—as he +must go here and then there through the real world +to catch the picturesque man, the picturesque +scene, which is to live on his canvas—so the poet +must find in that reality, the <i>literatesque</i> man, the +<i>literatesque</i> scene which nature intends for him, +and which will live in his page. Even in reality he +will not find this type complete, or the characteristics<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_439" id="Page_439">[439]</a></span> +perfect; but there, at least, he will find +<i>something</i>, some hint, some intimation, some +suggestion; whereas, in the stagnant home of his +own thoughts he will find nothing pure, nothing <i>as it +is</i>, nothing which does not bear his own mark, which +is not somehow altered by a mixture with himself.</p> + +<p>The first conversation of Goethe and Schiller +illustrates this conception of the poet’s art. +Goethe was at that time prejudiced against +Schiller, we must remember, partly from what +he considered the <i>outrages</i> of the <i>Robbers</i>, partly +because of the philosophy of Kant. Schiller’s +‘Essay on <i>Grace and Dignity</i>’, he tells us, ‘was +yet less of a kind to reconcile me. The philosophy +of Kant, which exalts the dignity of mind so +highly, while appearing to restrict it, Schiller had +joyfully embraced: it unfolded the extraordinary +qualities which Nature had implanted in him; +and in the lively feeling of freedom and self-direction, +he showed himself unthankful to the +Great Mother, who surely had not acted like +a step-dame towards him. Instead of viewing her +as self-subsisting, as producing with a living force, +and according to appointed laws, alike the highest +and the lowest of her works, he took her up under +the aspect of some empirical native qualities of +the human mind. Certain harsh passages I could +even directly apply to myself: they exhibited +my confession of faith in a false light; and I felt +that if written without particular attention to me +they were still worse; for in that case, the vast +chasm which lay between us, gaped but so much +the more distinctly.’ After a casual meeting at +a Society for Natural History, they walked home +and Goethe proceeds:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_440" id="Page_440">[440]</a></span></p> + +<p>‘We reached his house; the talk induced me +to go in. I then expounded to him, with as much +vivacity as possible, the <i>Metamorphosis of Plants</i>, +drawing out on paper, with many characteristic +strokes, a symbolic Plant for him, as I proceeded. +He heard and saw all this, with much interest and +distinct comprehension; but when I had done, +he shook his head and said: ‘This is no experiment, +this is an idea.’ I stopped with some degree of +irritation; for the point which separated us was +most luminously marked by this expression. The +opinions in <i>Dignity and Grace</i>, again occurred to +me; the old grudge was just awakening; but +I smothered it, and merely said: “I was happy to +find that I had got ideas without knowing it, nay +that I saw them before my eyes.”</p> + +<p>‘Schiller had much more prudence and dexterity +of management than I; he was also thinking of +his periodical the <i>Horen</i>, about this time, and of +course rather wished to attract than repel me. +Accordingly he answered me like an accomplished +Kantite; and as my stiff-necked Realism gave +occasion to many contradictions, much battling +took place between us, and at last a truce, in +which neither party would consent to yield the +victory, but each held himself invincible. Positions +like the following grieved me to the very soul: +<i>How can there ever be an experiment, that shall +correspond with an idea? The specific quality of +an idea is, that no experiment can reach it or agree +with it.</i> Yet if he held as an idea, the same thing +which I looked upon as an experiment; there must +certainly, I thought, be some community between +us, some ground whereon both of us might meet!’</p> + +<p>With Goethe’s natural history, or with Kant’s<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_441" id="Page_441">[441]</a></span> +philosophy, we have here no concern, but we can +combine the expressions of the two great poets +into a nearly complete description of poetry. +The ‘symbolic plant’ is the <i>type</i> of which we +speak, the ideal at which inferior specimens aim, +the class-characteristic in which they all share, +but which none shows forth fully: Goethe was +right in searching for this in reality and nature; +Schiller was right in saying that it was an ‘idea’, +a transcending notion to which approximations +could be found in experience, but only approximations—which +could not be found there itself. +Goethe, as a poet, rightly felt the primary necessity +of outward suggestion and experience; Schiller as +a philosopher, rightly felt its imperfection.</p> + +<p>But in these delicate matters, it is easy to +misapprehend. There is, undoubtedly, a sort of +poetry which is produced as it were out of the +author’s mind. The description of the poet’s own +moods and feelings is a common sort of poetry—perhaps +the commonest sort. But the peculiarity +of such cases is, that the poet does not describe +himself <i>as</i> himself: autobiography is not his object; +he takes himself as a specimen of human nature; he +describes, not himself, but a distillation of himself: +he takes such of his moods as are most characteristic, +as most typify certain moods of certain men, or +certain moods of all men; he chooses preponderant +feelings of special sorts of men, or occasional +feelings of men of all sorts; but with whatever +other difference and diversity, the essence is that +such self-describing poets describe what is <i>in</i> +them, but not <i>peculiar</i> to them,—what is generic, +not what is special and individual. Gray’s <i>Elegy</i> +describes a mood which Gray felt more than<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_442" id="Page_442">[442]</a></span> +other men, but which most others, perhaps all +others, feel too. It is more popular, perhaps, than +any English poem, because that sort of feeling is +the most diffused of high feelings, and because +Gray added to a singular nicety of fancy an +habitual proneness to a <i>contemplative</i>—a discerning +but unbiassed—meditation on death and on life. +Other poets cannot hope for such success: a subject, +so popular, so grave, so wise, and yet so suitable +to the writer’s nature is hardly to be found. +But the same ideal, the same unautobiographical +character is to be found in the writings of meaner +men. Take sonnets of Hartley Coleridge, for +example:</p> + + +<h5 class="poemtitle"><span style="font-size: 120%; padding-left: 2.5em">I</span><br /> + +TO A FRIEND</h5> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When we were idlers with the loitering rills,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The need of human love we little noted:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Our love was nature; and the peace that floated<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On the white mist, and dwelt upon the hills,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To sweet accord subdued our wayward wills:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One soul was ours, one mind, one heart devoted,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That, wisely doating, ask’d not why it doated,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And ours the unknown joy, which knowing kills.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But now I find, how dear thou wert to me;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That man is more than half of nature’s treasure,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of that fair Beauty which no eye can see,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of that sweet music which no ear can measure;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And now the streams may sing for others’ pleasure,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The hills sleep on in their eternity.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<h5 class="poemtitle"><span style="font-size: 120%; padding-left: 2.5em">II</span><br /> + +TO THE SAME</h5> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In the great city we are met again,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where many souls there are, that breathe and die,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Scarce knowing more of nature’s potency,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Than what they learn from heat, or cold, or rain;<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_443" id="Page_443">[443]</a></span> +<span class="i0">The sad vicissitude of weary pain;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For busy man is lord of ear and eye,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And what hath nature, but the vast, void sky,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the thronged river toiling to the main?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh! say not so, for she shall have her part<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In every smile, in every tear that falls,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And she shall hide her in the secret heart,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where love persuades, and sterner duty calls:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But worse it were than death, or sorrow’s smart,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To live without a friend within these walls.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<h5 class="poemtitle"><span style="font-size: 120%; padding-left: 2.5em">III</span><br /> +TO THE SAME</h5> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">We parted on the mountains, as two streams<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From one clear spring pursue their several ways;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And thy fleet course hath been through many a maze,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In foreign lands, where silvery Padus gleams<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To that delicious sky, whose glowing beams<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Brightened the tresses that old Poets praise;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where Petrarch’s patient love, and artful lays,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Ariosto’s song of many themes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Moved the soft air. But I, a lazy brook,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As close pent up within my native dell,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Have crept along from nook to shady nook,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where flowrets blow, and whispering Naiads dwell.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet now we meet, that parted were so wide,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O’er rough and smooth to travel side by side.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The contrast of instructive and enviable locomotion +with refining but instructive meditation +is not special and peculiar to these two, but general +and universal. It was set down by Hartley +Coleridge because he was the most meditative and +refining of men.</p> + +<p>What sort of literatesque types are fit to be +described in the sort of literature called poetry, is +a matter on which much might be written. +Mr. Arnold, some years since, put forth a theory +that the art of poetry could only delineate <i>great<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_444" id="Page_444">[444]</a></span> +actions</i>. But though, rightly interpreted and +understood—using the word action so as to include +high and sound activity in contemplation—this +definition may suit the highest poetry, it certainly +cannot be stretched to include many inferior sorts +and even many good sorts. Nobody in their +senses would describe Gray’s <i>Elegy</i> as the +delineation of a ‘great action’; some kinds of +mental contemplation may be energetic enough +to deserve this name, but Gray would have been +frightened at the very word. He loved scholar-like +calm and quiet inaction; his very greatness +depended on his <i>not</i> acting, on his ‘wise passiveness,’ +on his indulging the grave idleness which so well +appreciates so much of human life. But the best +answer—the <i>reductio ad absurdum</i>—of Mr. Arnold’s +doctrine, is the mutilation which it has caused +him to make of his own writings. It has forbidden +him, he tells us, to reprint <i>Empedocles</i>—a poem +undoubtedly containing defects and even excesses, +but containing also these lines:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And yet what days were those, Parmenides!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When we were young, when we could number friends<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In all the Italian cities like ourselves,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When with elated hearts we join’d your train,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ye Sun-born virgins! on the road of Truth.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then we could still enjoy, then neither thought<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor outward things were clos’d and dead to us,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But we receiv’d the shock of mighty thoughts<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On simple minds with a pure natural joy;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And if the sacred load oppress’d our brain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We had the power to feel the pressure eas’d.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The brow unbound, the thoughts flow free again,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the delightful commerce of the world.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We had not lost our balance then, nor grown<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thought’s slaves and dead to every natural joy.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The smallest thing could give us pleasure then—<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_445" id="Page_445">[445]</a></span> +<span class="i0">The sports of the country people;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A flute note from the woods;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sunset over the sea:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Seed-time and harvest;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The reapers in the corn;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The vinedresser in his vineyard;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The village-girl at her wheel.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fullness of life and power of feeling, ye<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are for the happy, for the souls at ease,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who dwell on a firm basis of content.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But he who has outliv’d his prosperous days,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But he, whose youth fell on a different world<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From that on which his exil’d age is thrown;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose mind was fed on other food, was train’d<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By other rules than are in vogue to-day;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose habit of thought is fix’d, who will not change,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But in a world he loves not must subsist<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In ceaseless opposition, be the guard<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of his own breast, fetter’d to what he guards,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That the world win no mastery over him;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who has no friend, no fellow left, not one;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who has no minute’s breathing space allow’d<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To nurse his dwindling faculty of joy:—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Joy and the outward world must die to him<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As they are dead to me.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>What freak of criticism can induce a man who +has written such poetry as this, to discard it, and +say it is not poetry? Mr. Arnold is privileged to +speak of his own poems, but no other critic could +speak so and not be laughed at.</p> + +<p>We are disposed to believe that no very sharp +definition can be given—at least in the present +state of the critical art—of the boundary line +between poetry and other sorts of imaginative +delineation. Between the undoubted dominions +of the two kinds there is a debateable land; +everybody is agreed that the <i>Oedipus at Colonus</i> +<i>is</i> poetry: every one is agreed that the wonderful +appearance of Mrs. Veal is <i>not</i> poetry. But the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_446" id="Page_446">[446]</a></span> +exact line which separates grave novels in verse +like <i>Aylmer’s Field</i> or <i>Enoch Arden</i>, from grave +novels not in verse like <i>Silas Marner</i> or <i>Adam +Bede</i>, we own we cannot draw with any confidence. +Nor, perhaps, is it very important; whether a +narrative is thrown into verse or not certainly +depends in part on the taste of the age, and in part +on its mechanical helps. Verse is the only +mechanical help to the memory in rude times, and +there is little writing till a cheap something is +found to write upon, and a cheap something to +write with. Poetry—verse at least—is the +literature of <i>all work</i> in early ages; it is only +later ages which write in what <i>they</i> think a natural +and simple prose. There are other casual influences +in the matter too; but they are not material now. +We need only say here that poetry, because it has +a more marked rhythm than prose, must be more +intense in meaning and more concise in style than +prose. People expect a ‘marked rhythm’ to +imply something worth marking; if it fails to do +so they are disappointed. They are displeased at +the visible waste of a powerful instrument; they +call it ‘doggerel,’ and rightly call it, for the +metrical expression of full thought and eager +feeling—the burst of metre—incident to high +imagination, should not be wasted on petty +matters which prose does as well,—which it does +better—which it suits by its very limpness and +weakness, whose small changes it follows more +easily, and to whose lowest details it can fully +and without effort degrade itself. Verse, too, +should be <i>more concise</i>, for long-continued rhythm +tends to jade the mind, just as brief rhythm +tends to attract the attention. Poetry should<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_447" id="Page_447">[447]</a></span> +be memorable and emphatic, intense, and <i>soon +over</i>.</p> + +<p>The great divisions of poetry, and of all other +literary art, arise from the different modes in +which these <i>types</i>—these characteristic men, these +characteristic feelings—may be variously described. +There are three principal modes which we shall +attempt to describe—the <i>pure</i>, which is sometimes, +but not very wisely, called the classical; the <i>ornate</i>, +which is also unwisely called romantic; and the +<i>grotesque</i>, which might be called the mediaeval. +We will describe the nature of these a little. +Criticism we know must be brief—not, like poetry, +because its charm is too intense to be sustained—but +on the contrary, because its interest is too weak +to be prolonged; but elementary criticism, if an +evil, is a necessary evil; a little while spent among +the simple principles of art is the first condition, +the absolute pre-requisite, for surely apprehending +and wisely judging the complete embodiments and +miscellaneous forms of actual literature.</p> + +<p>The definition of <i>pure</i> literature is that it +describes the type in its simplicity, we mean, with +the exact amount of accessory circumstance which +is necessary to bring it before the mind in finished +perfection, and <i>no more</i> than that amount. The +<i>type</i> needs some accessories from its nature—a +picturesque landscape does not consist wholly +of picturesque features. There is a setting of +surroundings—as the Americans would say, of +<i>fixings</i>—without which the reality is not itself. +By a traditional mode of speech, as soon as we +see a picture in which a complete effect is produced +by detail so rare and so harmonized as to escape +us, we say ‘how classical’. The whole which is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_448" id="Page_448">[448]</a></span> +to be seen appears at once and through the detail, +but the detail itself is not seen: we do not think +of that which gives us the idea; we are absorbed +in the idea itself. Just so in literature the pure +art is that which works with the fewest strokes; +the fewest, that is, for its purpose, for its aim +is to call up and bring home to men an idea, a +form, a character, and if that idea be twisted, that +form be involved, that character perplexed, many +strokes of literary art will be needful. Pure art +does not mutilate its object: it represents it as +fully as is possible with the slightest effort which +is possible: it shrinks from no needful circumstances, +as little as it inserts any which are +needless. The precise peculiarity is not merely +that no incidental circumstance is inserted which +does not tell on the main design: no art is fit to +be called <i>art</i> which permits a stroke to be put in +without an object; but that only the minimum +of such circumstance is inserted at all. The form +is sometimes said to be bare, the accessories are +sometimes said to be invisible, because the +appendages are so choice that the shape only is +perceived.</p> + +<p>The English literature undoubtedly contains +much impure literature; impure in its style if +not in its meaning: but it also contains one +great, one nearly perfect, model of the pure style +in the literary expression of typical <i>sentiment</i>; +and one not perfect, but gigantic and close +approximation to perfection in the pure delineation +of objective character. Wordsworth, perhaps, +comes as near to choice purity of style in sentiment +as is possible; Milton, with exceptions and +conditions to be explained, approaches perfection<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_449" id="Page_449">[449]</a></span> +by the strenuous purity with which he depicts +character.</p> + +<p>A wit once said, that ‘<i>pretty</i> women had more +features than <i>beautiful</i> women’, and though the +expression may be criticized, the meaning is correct. +Pretty women seem to have a great number of +attractive points, each of which attracts your +attention, and each one of which you remember +afterwards; yet these points have not <i>grown +together</i>, their features have not linked themselves +into a single inseparable whole. But a beautiful +woman is a whole as she is; you no more take +her to pieces than a Greek statue; she is not an +aggregate of divisible charms, she is a charm in +herself. Such ever is the dividing test of pure art; +if you catch yourself admiring its details, it is +defective; you ought to think of it as a single +whole which you must remember, which you +must admire, which somehow subdues you while +you admire it, which is a ‘possession’ to you ‘for +ever’.</p> + +<p>Of course no individual poem embodies this +ideal perfectly; of course every human word +and phrase has its imperfections, and if we choose +an instance to illustrate that ideal, the instance +has scarcely a fair chance. By contrasting it +with the ideal we suggest its imperfections; by +protruding it as an example, we turn on its +defectiveness the microscope of criticism. Yet +these two sonnets of Wordsworth may be fitly +read in this place, not because they are quite +without faults, or because they are the very best +examples of their kind of style; but because they +are <i>luminous</i> examples; the compactness of the +sonnet and the gravity of the sentiment, hedging in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_450" id="Page_450">[450]</a></span> +the thoughts, restraining the fancy, and helping to +maintain a singleness of expression:</p> + + +<h5 class="poemtitle">THE TROSACHS.</h5> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There’s not a nook within this solemn Pass,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But were an apt Confessional for one<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Taught by his summer spent; his autumn gone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That Life is but a tale of morning grass<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Withered at eve. From scenes of art which chase<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Feed it ’mid Nature’s old felicities,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy guest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If from a golden perch of aspen spray<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(October’s workmanship to rival May)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That moral teaches by a heaven-taught lay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<h5 class="poemtitle" style="padding-left: 10%; padding-top: 1em">COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, 1802</h5> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Earth has not anything to show more fair:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dull would he be of soul who could pass by<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A sight so touching in its majesty:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This city now doth, like a garment, wear<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The beauty of the morning; silent, bare.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Open unto the fields and to the sky;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All bright and open in the smokeless air.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Never did sun more beautifully steep<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The river glideth at his own sweet will:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dear God! The very houses seem asleep;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And all that mighty heart is lying still!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Instances of barer style than this may easily +be found, instances of colder style—few better +instances of purer style. Not a single expression +(the invocation in the concluding couplet of the +second sonnet perhaps excepted) can be spared,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_451" id="Page_451">[451]</a></span> +yet not a single expression rivets the attention. +If, indeed, we take out the phrase—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The city now doth like a garment wear<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The beauty of the morning,<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">and the description of the brilliant yellow of +autumn—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">October’s workmanship to rival May,<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">they have independent value, but they are not +noticed in the sonnet when we read it through; +they fall into place there, and being in their place +are not seen. The great subjects of the two +sonnets, the religious aspect of beautiful but +grave nature—the religious aspect of a city about +to awaken and be alive, are the only ideas left in +our mind. To Wordsworth has been vouchsafed +the last grace of the self-denying artist; you +think neither of him nor his style, but you cannot +help thinking of—you <i>must</i> recall—the exact +phrase, the <i>very</i> sentiment he wished.</p> + +<p>Milton’s purity is more eager. In the most +exciting parts of Wordsworth—and these sonnets +are not very exciting—you always feel, you never +forget, that what you have before you is the +excitement of a recluse. There is nothing of the +stir of life; nothing of the <i>brawl</i> of the world. +But Milton though always a scholar by trade, +though solitary in old age, was through life intent +on great affairs, lived close to great scenes, watched +a revolution, and if not an actor in it, was at least +secretary to the actors. He was familiar—by +daily experience and habitual sympathy—with +the earnest debate of arduous questions, on which +the life and death of the speakers certainly +depended, on which the weal or woe of the country<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_452" id="Page_452">[452]</a></span> +perhaps depended. He knew how profoundly the +individual character of the speakers—their inner +and real nature—modifies their opinion on such +questions; he knew how surely that nature will +appear in the expression of them. This great +experience, fashioned by a fine imagination, gives +to the debate of Satanic Council in Pandaemonium +its reality and its life. It is a debate in the Long +Parliament, and though the <i>theme</i> of <i>Paradise +Lost</i> obliged Milton to side with the monarchical +element in the universe, his old habits are often +too much for him; and his real sympathy—the +impetus and energy of his nature—side with the +rebellious element. For the purposes of art this +is much better—of a court, a poet can make but +little; of a heaven he can make very little, but +of a courtly heaven, such as Milton conceived, he +can make nothing at all. The idea of a court and +the idea of a heaven are so radically different, +that a distinct combination of them is always +grotesque and often ludicrous. <i>Paradise Lost</i>, as +a whole, is radically tainted by a vicious principle. +It professes to justify the ways of God to man, to +account for sin and death, and it tells you that the +whole originated in a political event; in a court +squabble as to a particular act of patronage and +the due or undue promotion of an eldest son. Satan +may have been wrong, but on Milton’s theory he +had an <i>arguable</i> case at least. There was something +arbitrary in the promotion; there were little +symptoms of a job; in <i>Paradise Lost</i> it is always +clear that the devils are the weaker, but it is never +clear that the angels are the better. Milton’s +sympathy and his imagination slip back to the +Puritan rebels whom he loved, and desert the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_453" id="Page_453">[453]</a></span> +courtly angels whom he could not love although he +praised. There is no wonder that Milton’s hell is +better than his heaven, for he hated officials and +he loved rebels, for he employs his genius below, +and accumulates his pedantry above. On the +great debate in Pandaemonium all his genius is +concentrated. The question is very practical; it +is, ‘What are we devils to do, now we have lost +heaven?’ Satan who presides over and manipulates +the assembly; Moloch</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i11">the fiercest spirit<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That fought in Heaven, now fiercer by despair,<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">who wants to fight again; Belial, ‘the man of +the world’, who does not want to fight any more; +Mammon, who is for commencing an industrial +career; Beelzebub, the official statesman,</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i6">deep on his front engraven<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Deliberation sat and Public care,<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">who, at Satan’s instance, proposes the invasion of +earth—are as distinct as so many statues. Even +Belial, ‘the man of the world’, the sort of man with +whom Milton had least sympathy, is perfectly +painted. An inferior artist would have made the +actor who ‘counselled ignoble ease and peaceful +sloth’, a degraded and ugly creature; but Milton +knew better. He knew that low notions require +a better garb than high notions. Human nature is +not a high thing, but at least it has a high idea of +itself; it will not accept mean maxims, unless they +are gilded and made beautiful. A prophet in +goatskin may cry, ‘Repent, repent’, but it takes +‘purple and fine linen’ to be able to say, ‘Continue +in your sins’. The world vanquishes with its<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_454" id="Page_454">[454]</a></span> +speciousness and its show, and the orator who is +to persuade men to worldliness must have a share +in them. Milton well knew this; after the warlike +speech of the fierce Moloch he introduces a brighter +and a more graceful spirit:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He ended frowning, and his look denounced<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Desp’rate revenge, and battle dangerous<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To less than Gods. On th’ other side up rose<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Belial, in act more graceful and humane:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A fairer person lost not Heaven; he seem’d<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For dignity composed and high exploit:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But all was false and hollow, though his tongue<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dropt manna, and could make the worse appear<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The better reason, to perplex and dash<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Maturest counsels: for his thoughts were low;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To vice industrious, but to nobler deeds<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tim’rous and slothful: yet he pleased the ear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And with persuasive accent thus began:<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>He does not begin like a man with a strong case, +but like a man with a weak case; he knows that +the pride of human nature is irritated by mean +advice, and though he may probably persuade men +to <i>take</i> it, he must carefully apologise for <i>giving</i> it. +Here, as elsewhere, though the formal address is +to devils, the real address is to men: to the human +nature which we know, not to the fictitious demonic +nature we do not know:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I should be much for open war, O Peers!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As not behind in hate, if what was urged<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Main reason to persuade immediate war,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Did not dissuade me most, and seem to cast<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ominous conjecture on the whole success:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When he who most excels in fact of arms,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In what he counsels and in what excels<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mistrustful, grounds his courage on despair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And utter dissolution, as the scope<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of all his aim, after some dire revenge.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">First, what revenge? The tow’rs of Heav’n are fill’d<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_455" id="Page_455">[455]</a></span> +<span class="i0">With armed watch, that render all access<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Impregnable; oft on the bord’ring deep<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Encamp their legions, or with obscure wing<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Scout far and wide into the realm of night,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Scorning surprise. Or could we break our way<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By force, and at our heels all hell should rise<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With blackest insurrection, to confound<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Heav’n’s purest light, yet our great Enemy,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All incorruptible, would on his throne<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sit unpolluted, and th’ ethereal mould<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Incapable of stain would soon expel<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her mischief, and purge oft the baser fire<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Victorious. Thus repulsed, our final hope<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is flat despair. We must exasperate<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Th’ Almighty Victor to spend all his rage,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And that must end us: that must be our cure,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To be no more? Sad cure; for who would lose,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though full of pain, this intellectual being,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Those thoughts that wander through eternity,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To perish rather, swallow’d up and lost<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the wide womb of uncreated night,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Devoid of sense and motion? And who knows,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Let this be good, whether our angry Foe<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Can give it, or will ever? How he can<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is doubtful; that he never will is sure.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Will he, so wise, let loose at once his ire<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Belike through impotence, or unaware,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To give his enemies their wish, and end<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Them in his anger, whom his anger saves<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To punish endless? Wherefore cease we then?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Say they who counsel war, we are decreed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Reserved, and destined, to eternal woe;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whatever doing, what can we suffer more,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What can we suffer worse? Is this then worst,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thus sitting, thus consulting, thus in arms?<br /></span> + +<p class="dotted2"> </p> +</div> +</div> + +<p class="noin">And so on.</p> + +<p>Mr. Pitt knew this speech by heart, and Lord +Macaulay has called it incomparable; and these +judges of the oratorical art have well decided. +A mean foreign policy cannot be better defended.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_456" id="Page_456">[456]</a></span> +Its sensibleness is effectually explained, and its +tameness as much as possible disguised.</p> + +<p>But we have not here to do with the excellence +of Belial’s policy, but with the excellence of his +speech; and with that speech in a peculiar manner. +This speech, taken with the few lines of description +with which Milton introduces them, embody, in +as short a space as possible, with as much perfection +as possible, the delineation of the type of character +common at all times, dangerous in many times, +sure to come to the surface in moments of difficulty, +and never more dangerous than then. As Milton +describes, it is one among several <i>typical</i> characters +which will ever have their place in great councils, +which will ever be heard at important decisions, +which are part of the characteristic and inalienable +whole of this statesmanlike world. The debate in +Pandaemonium is a debate among these typical +characters at the greatest conceivable crisis, and +with adjuncts of solemnity which no other situation +could rival. It is the greatest <i>classical</i> triumph, +the highest achievement of the pure <i>style</i> in +English literature; it is the greatest description +of the highest and most typical characters with +the most choice circumstances and in the fewest +words.</p> + +<p>It is not unremarkable that we should find in +Milton and in <i>Paradise Lost</i> the best specimen of +pure style. He was schoolmaster in a pedantic age, +and there is nothing so unclassical—nothing so +impure in style—as pedantry. The out-of-door +conversational life of Athens was as opposed to +bookish scholasticism as a life can be. The most +perfect books have been written not by those who +thought much of books, but by those who thought<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_457" id="Page_457">[457]</a></span> +little, by those who were under the restraint of +a sensitive talking world, to which books had +contributed something, and a various eager life +the rest. Milton is generally unclassical in spirit +where he is learned, and naturally, because the +purest poets do not overlay their conceptions +with book knowledge, and the classical poets, +having in comparison no books, were under little +temptation to impair the purity of their style by +the accumulation of their research. Over and +above this, there is in Milton, and a little in +Wordsworth also, one defect which is in the +highest degree faulty and unclassical, which mars +the effect and impairs the perfection of the pure +style. There is a want of <i>spontaneity</i>, and a sense +of effort. It has been happily said that Plato’s +words must have <i>grown</i> into their places. No one +would say so of Milton or even of Wordsworth. +About both of them there is a taint of duty; +a vicious sense of the good man’s task. Things +seem right where they are, but they seem to be +put where they are. <i>Flexibility</i> is essential to the +consummate perfection of the pure style because +the sensation of the poet’s efforts carries away +our thoughts from his achievements. We are +admiring his labours when we should be enjoying +his words. But this is a defect in those two writers, +not a defect in pure art. Of course it is more +difficult to write in few words than to write in +many; to take the best adjuncts, and those only, +for what you have to say, instead of using all +which comes to hand; it <i>is</i> an additional labour if +you write verses in a morning, to spend the rest of +the day in <i>choosing</i>, or making those verses fewer. +But a perfect artist in the pure style is as effortless<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_458" id="Page_458">[458]</a></span> +and as natural as in any style, perhaps is more so. +Take the well-known lines:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There was a little lawny islet<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By anemone and violet,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Like mosaic, paven:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And its roof was flowers and leaves<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which the summer’s breath enweaves,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where nor sun, nor showers, nor breeze,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pierce the pines and tallest trees,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Each a gem engraven;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Girt by many an azure wave<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With which the clouds and mountains pave<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A lake’s blue chasm.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Shelley had many merits and many defects. +This is not the place for a complete or indeed for +<i>any</i> estimate of him. But one excellence is most +evident. His words are as flexible as any words; +the rhythm of some modulating air seems to move +them into their place without a struggle by the +poet and almost without his knowledge. This is +the perfection of pure art, to embody typical +conceptions in the choicest, the fewest accidents, +to embody them so that each of these accidents +may produce its full effect, and so to embody +them without effort.</p> + +<p>The extreme opposite to this pure art is what +may be called ornate art. This species of art +aims also at giving a delineation of the typical +idea in its perfection and its fullness, but it aims +at so doing in a manner most different. It wishes +to surround the type with the greatest number of +circumstances which it will <i>bear</i>. It works not by +choice and selection, but by accumulation and +aggregation. The idea is not, as in the pure style, +presented with the least clothing which it will<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_459" id="Page_459">[459]</a></span> +endure, but with the richest and most involved +clothing that it will admit.</p> + +<p>We are fortunate in not having to hunt out of +past literature an illustrative specimen of the +ornate style. Mr. Tennyson has just given one +admirable in itself, and most characteristic of the +defects and the merits of this style. The story of +Enoch Arden, as he has enhanced and presented +it, is a rich and splendid composite of imagery +and illustration. Yet how simple that story is in +itself. A sailor who sells fish, breaks his leg, gets +dismal, gives up selling fish, goes to sea, is wrecked +on a desert island, stays there some years, on his +return finds his wife married to a miller, speaks to +a landlady on the subject, and dies. Told in the +pure and simple, the unadorned and classical style, +this story would not have taken three pages, but +Mr. Tennyson has been able to make it the +principal—the largest tale in his new volume. +He has done so only by giving to every event +and incident in the volume an accompanying +commentary. He tells a great deal about the +torrid zone which a rough sailor like Enoch Arden +certainly would not have perceived; and he gives +to the fishing village, to which all the characters +belong, a softness and a fascination which such +villages scarcely possess in reality.</p> + +<p>The description of the tropical island on which +the sailor is thrown, is an absolute model of +adorned art:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The mountain wooded to the peak, the lawns<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And winding glades high up like ways to Heaven,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The slender coco’s drooping crown of plumes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The lightning flash of insect and of bird,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The lustre of the long convolvuluses<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_460" id="Page_460">[460]</a></span> +<span class="i0">That coil’d around the stately stems, and ran<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ev’n to the limit of the land, the glows<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And glories of the broad belt of the world,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All these he saw; but what he fain had seen<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He could not see, the kindly human face,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but heard<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean-fowl,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The league-long roller thundering on the reef,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The moving whisper of huge trees that branch’d<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And blossom’d in the zenith, or the sweep<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of some precipitous rivulet to the wave,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As down the shore he ranged, or all day long<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A shipwreck’d sailor, waiting for a sail:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No sail from day to day, but every day<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Among the palms and ferns and precipices;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The blaze upon the waters to the east;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The blaze upon his island overhead;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The blaze upon the waters to the west;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then the great stars that globed themselves in Heaven,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The hollower-bellowing ocean, and again<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The scarlet shafts of sunrise—but no sail.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">No expressive circumstance can be added to this +description, no enhancing detail suggested. A much +less happy instance is the description of Enoch’s +life before he sailed:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">While Enoch was abroad on wrathful seas,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or often journeying landward; for in truth<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Enoch’s white horse, and Enoch’s ocean spoil<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In ocean-smelling osier, and his face,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rough-redden’d with a thousand winter gales,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not only to the market-cross were known,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But in the leafy lanes behind the down,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And peacock yew-tree of the lonely Hall,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose Friday fare was Enoch’s ministering.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">So much has not often been made of selling fish.</p> + +<p>The essence of ornate art is in this manner to +accumulate round the typical object, everything<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_461" id="Page_461">[461]</a></span> +which can be said about it, every associated +thought that can be connected with it without +impairing the essence of the delineation.</p> + +<p>The first defect which strikes a student of +ornate art—the first which arrests the mere +reader of it—is what is called a want of simplicity. +Nothing is described as it is, everything has about +it an atmosphere of <i>something else</i>. The combined +and associated thoughts, though they set off and +heighten particular ideas and aspects of the +central conception, yet complicate it: a simple +thing—‘a daisy by the river’s brim’—is never +left by itself, something else is put with it; +something not more connected with it than ‘lion-whelp’ +and the ‘peacock yew-tree’ are with the +‘fresh fish for sale’ that Enoch carries past them. +Even in the highest cases ornate art leaves upon +a cultured and delicate taste, the conviction that +it is not the highest art, that it is somehow +excessive and over-rich, that it is not chaste in +itself or chastening to the mind that sees it—that +it is in an unexplained manner unsatisfactory, +‘a thing in which we feel there is some hidden +want!’</p> + +<p>That want is a want of ‘definition’. We must +all know landscapes, river landscapes especially, +which are in the highest sense beautiful, which +when we first see them give us a delicate pleasure; +which in some—and these the best cases—give +even a gentle sense of surprise that such things +should be so beautiful, and yet when we come to +live in them, to spend even a few hours in them, +we seem stifled and oppressed. On the other hand +there are people to whom the sea-shore is a companion, +an exhilaration; and not so much for the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_462" id="Page_462">[462]</a></span> +brawl of the shore as for the <i>limited</i> vastness, the +finite infinite of the ocean as they see it. Such +people often come home braced and nerved, and +if they spoke out the truth, would have only to say, +‘We have seen the horizon line’; if they were let +alone indeed, they would gaze on it hour after +hour, so great to them is the fascination, so full +the sustaining calm, which they gain from that +union of form and greatness. To a very inferior +extent, but still, perhaps, to an extent which most +people understand better, a common arch will +have the same effect. A bridge completes a river +landscape; if of the old and many-arched sort it +regulates by a long series of defined forms the +vague outline of wood and river which before had +nothing to measure it; if of the new scientific +sort it introduces still more strictly a geometrical +element; it stiffens the scenery which was before +too soft, too delicate, too vegetable. Just such +is the effect of pure style in literary art. It calms +by conciseness; while the ornate style leaves on +the mind a mist of beauty, an excess of fascination, +a complication of charm, the pure style leaves +behind it the simple, defined, measured idea, as it +is, and by itself. That which is chaste chastens; +there is a poised energy—a state half thrill, and +half tranquillity—which pure art gives, which no +other can give; a pleasure justified as well as +felt; an ennobled satisfaction at what ought to +satisfy us, and must ennoble us.</p> + +<p>Ornate art is to pure art what a painted statue +is to an unpainted. It is impossible to deny that +a touch of colour <i>does</i> bring out certain parts, does +convey certain expressions, does heighten certain +features, but it leaves on the work as a whole,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_463" id="Page_463">[463]</a></span> +a want, as we say, ‘of something’; a want of that +inseparable chasteness which clings to simple +sculpture, an impairing predominance of alluring +details which impairs our satisfaction with our +own satisfaction; which makes us doubt whether +a higher being than ourselves will be satisfied even +though we are so. In the very same manner, +though the <i>rouge</i> of ornate literature excites our +eye, it also impairs our confidence.</p> + +<p>Mr. Arnold has justly observed that this self-justifying, +self-<i>proving</i> purity of style, is commoner +in ancient literature than in modern literature, +and also that Shakespeare is not a great or an +unmixed example of it. No one can say that he +is. His works are full of undergrowth, are full of +complexity, are not models of style; except by +a miracle nothing in the Elizabethan age could be +a model of style; the restraining taste of that age +was feebler and more mistaken than that of any +other equally great age. Shakespeare’s mind so +teemed with creation that he required the most +just, most forcible, most constant restraint from +without. He most needed to be guided of poets, +and he was the least and worst guided. As a whole +no one can call his works finished models of the +pure style, or of any style. But he has many +passages of the most pure style, passages which +could be easily cited if space served. And we +must remember that the task which Shakespeare +undertook was the most difficult which any poet +has ever attempted, and that it is a task in which +after a million efforts every other poet has failed. +The Elizabethan drama—as Shakespeare has immortalized +it—undertakes to delineate in five +acts, under stage restrictions, and in mere dialogue,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_464" id="Page_464">[464]</a></span> +a whole list of dramatis personae, a set of characters +enough for a modern novel, and with the distinctness +of a modern novel. Shakespeare is not content to +give two or three great characters in solitude and +in dignity, like the classical dramatists; he +wishes to give a whole <i>party</i> of characters in the +play of life, and according to the nature of each. +He would ‘hold the mirror up to nature’, not to +catch a monarch in a tragic posture, but a whole +group of characters engaged in many actions, +intent on many purposes, thinking many thoughts. +There is life enough, there is action enough, in +single plays of Shakespeare to set up an ancient +dramatist for a long career. And Shakespeare +succeeded. His characters, taken <i>en masse</i>, and +as a whole, are as well-known as any novelist’s +characters; cultivated men know all about them, +as young ladies know all about Mr. Trollope’s +novels. But no other dramatist has succeeded in +such an aim. No one else’s characters are staple +people in English literature, hereditary people +whom every one knows all about in every generation. +The contemporary dramatists, Beaumont +and Fletcher, Ben Jonson, Marlowe, &c., had many +merits, some of them were great men. But a critic +must say of them the worst thing he has to say; +‘they were men who failed in their characteristic +aim;’ they attempted to describe numerous sets +of complicated characters, and they failed. No +one of such characters, or hardly one, lives in +common memory; the Faustus of Marlowe, +a really great idea, is not remembered. They +undertook to write what they could not write, +five acts full of real characters, and in consequence, +the fine individual things they conceived are<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_465" id="Page_465">[465]</a></span> +forgotten by the mixed multitude, and known +only to a few of the few. Of the Spanish theatre +we cannot speak; but there are no such characters +in any French tragedy: the whole aim of that +tragedy forbade it. Goethe has added to literature +a few great characters; he may be said almost to +have added to literature the idea of ‘intellectual +creation’,—the idea of describing great characters +through the intellect; but he has not added to +the common stock what Shakespeare added, a +new <i>multitude</i> of men and women; and these not +in simple attitudes, but amid the most complex +parts of life, with all their various natures roused, +mixed, and strained. The severest art must have +allowed many details, much overflowing circumstance +to a poet who undertook to describe what +almost defies description. Pure art would have +<i>commanded</i> him to use details lavishly, for only +by a multiplicity of such could the required effect +have been at all produced. Shakespeare could +accomplish it, for his mind was a <i>spring</i>, an +inexhaustible fountain of human nature, and it +is no wonder that being compelled by the task +of his time to let the fullness of his nature overflow, +he sometimes let it overflow too much, and +covered with erroneous conceits and superfluous +images characters and conceptions which would +have been far more justly, far more effectually, +delineated with conciseness and simplicity. But +there is an infinity of pure art <i>in</i> Shakespeare, +although there is a great deal else also.</p> + +<p>It will be said, if ornate art be as you say, an +inferior species or art, why should it ever be used? +If pure art be the best sort of art, why should it +not always be used?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_466" id="Page_466">[466]</a></span></p> + +<p>The reason is this: literary art, as we just now +explained, is concerned with literatesque characters +in literatesque situations; and the <i>best</i> art is +concerned with the <i>most</i> literatesque characters in +the <i>most</i> literatesque situations. Such are the +subjects of pure art; it embodies with the fewest +touches, and under the most select and choice +circumstances, the highest conceptions; but it +does not follow that only the best subjects are to +be treated by art, and then only in the very best +way. Human nature could not endure such +a critical commandment as that, and it would be +an erroneous criticism which gave it. <i>Any</i> literatesque +character may be described in literature +under <i>any</i> circumstances which exhibit its literatesqueness.</p> + +<p>The essence of pure art consists in its describing +what is as it is, and this is very well for what can +bear it, but there are many inferior things which +will not bear it, and which nevertheless ought to +be described in books. A certain kind of literature +deals with illusions, and this kind of literature +has given a colouring to the name romantic. +A man of rare genius, and even of poetical genius, +has gone so far as to make these illusions the true +subject of poetry—almost the sole subject. +‘Without,’ says Father Newman, of one of his +characters, ‘being himself a poet, he was in the +season of poetry, in the sweet spring-time, when +the year is most beautiful because it is new. +Novelty was beauty to a heart so open and cheerful +as his; not only because it was novelty, and had +its proper charm as such, but because when we +first see things, we see them in a gay confusion, +which is a principal element of the poetical.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_467" id="Page_467">[467]</a></span> +As time goes on, and we number and sort and +measure things,—as we gain views,—we advance +towards philosophy and truth, but we recede from +poetry.</p> + +<p>‘When we ourselves were young, we once on +a time walked on a hot summer-day from Oxford +to Newington—a dull road, as any one who has +gone it knows; yet it was new to us; and we +protest to you, reader, believe it or not, laugh or +not, as you will, to us it seemed on that occasion +quite touchingly beautiful; and a soft melancholy +came over us, of which the shadows fall even now, +when we look back upon that dusty, weary +journey. And why? because every object which +met us was unknown and full of mystery. A tree +or two in the distance seemed the beginning of +a great wood, or park, stretching endlessly; +a hill implied a vale beyond, with that vale’s +history; the bye-lanes, with their green hedges, +wound on and vanished, yet were not lost to the +imagination. Such was our first journey; but +when we had gone it several times, the mind +refused to act, the scene ceased to enchant, stern +reality alone remained; and we thought it one +of the most tiresome, odious roads we ever had +occasion to traverse.’</p> + +<p>That is to say, that the function of the poet is to +introduce a ‘gay confusion’, a rich medley which +does not exist in the actual world—which perhaps +could not exist in any world—but which would +seem pretty if it did exist. Everyone who reads +<i>Enoch Arden</i> will perceive that this notion of all +poetry is exactly applicable to this one poem. +Whatever be made of Enoch’s ‘Ocean spoil in +ocean-smelling osier,’ of the ‘portal-warding lion-whelp,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_468" id="Page_468">[468]</a></span> +and peacock yew-tree’, every one knows +that in himself Enoch could not have been +charming. People who sell fish about the country +(and that is what he did, though Mr. Tennyson +won’t speak out, and wraps it up) never are +beautiful. As Enoch was and must be coarse, in +itself the poem must depend for its charm on a ‘gay +confusion’—on a splendid accumulation of impossible +accessories.</p> + +<p>Mr. Tennyson knows this better than many of us—he +knows the country world; he has proved it +that no one living knows it better; he has painted +with pure art—with art which describes what is +a race perhaps more refined, more delicate, more +conscientious, than the sailor—the ‘Northern +Farmer’, and we all know what a splendid, what +a living thing, he has made of it. He could, if he +only would, have given us the ideal sailor in like +manner—the ideal of the natural sailor we mean—the +characteristic present man as he lives and is. +But this he has not chosen. He has endeavoured +to describe an exceptional sailor, at an exceptionally +refined port, performing a graceful act, an act of +relinquishment. And with this task before him, +his profound taste taught him that ornate art was +a necessary medium—was the sole effectual +instrument—for his purpose. It was necessary +for him if possible to abstract the mind from +reality, to induce us <i>not</i> to conceive or think of +sailors as they are while we are reading of his +sailors, but to think of what a person who did not +know might fancy sailors to be. A casual traveller +on the sea-shore, with the sensitive mood and the +romantic imagination Mr. Newman has described, +might fancy, would fancy, a seafaring village to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_469" id="Page_469">[469]</a></span> +be like that. Accordingly, Mr. Tennyson has made +it his aim to call off the stress of fancy from real +life, to occupy it otherwise, to bury it with pretty +accessories; to engage it on the ‘peacock yew-tree’, +and the ‘portal-warding lion-whelp’. Nothing, +too, can be more splendid than the description +of the tropics as Mr. Tennyson delineates them, +but a sailor would not have felt the tropics in +that manner. The beauties of nature would not +have so much occupied him. He would have +known little of the scarlet shafts of sunrise and +nothing of the long convolvuluses. As in <i>Robinson +Crusoe</i>, his own petty contrivances and his small +ailments would have been the principal subject +to him. ‘For three years’, he might have said, +‘my back was bad, and then I put two pegs into +a piece of drift wood and so made a chair, and +after that it pleased God to send me a chill.’ +In real life his piety would scarcely have gone +beyond that.</p> + +<p>It will indeed be said, that though the sailor had +no words for, and even no explicit consciousness of +the splendid details of the torrid zone, yet that he +had, notwithstanding, a dim latent inexpressible +conception of them: though he could not speak +of them or describe them, yet they were much +to him. And doubtless such is the case. Rude +people are impressed by what is beautiful—deeply +impressed—though they could not describe what +they see, or what they feel. But what is absurd +in Mr. Tennyson’s description—absurd when we +abstract it from the gorgeous additions and +ornaments with which Mr. Tennyson distracts us—is, +that his hero feels nothing else but these +great splendours. We hear nothing of the physical<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_470" id="Page_470">[470]</a></span> +ailments, the rough devices, the low superstitions, +which really would have been the <i>first</i> things, the +favourite and principal occupations of his mind. +Just so when he gets home he <i>may</i> have had such +fine sentiments, though it is odd, and he <i>may</i> have +spoken of them to his landlady, though that is +odder still—but it is incredible that his whole +mind should be made up of fine sentiments. Beside +those sweet feelings, if he had them, there must have +been many more obvious, more prosaic, and some +perhaps more healthy. Mr. Tennyson has shown +a profound judgement in distracting us as he does. +He has given us a classic delineation of the +‘Northern Farmer’ with no ornament at all—as +bare a thing as can be—because he then wanted +to describe a true type of real men: he has given +us a sailor crowded all over with ornament and +illustration, because he then wanted to describe +an unreal type of fancied men, not sailors as +they are, but sailors as they might be wished.</p> + +<p>Another prominent element in <i>Enoch Arden</i> +is yet more suitable to, yet more requires the aid +of, ornate art. Mr. Tennyson undertook to deal +with <i>half belief</i>. The presentiments which Annie +feels are exactly of that sort which everybody +has felt, and which every one has half believed—which +hardly any one has more than half believed. +Almost every one, it has been said, would be angry +if any one else reported that he believed in ghosts; +yet hardly any one, when thinking by himself, +wholly disbelieves them. Just so such presentiments +as Mr. Tennyson depicts, impress the inner +mind so much that the outer mind—the rational +understanding—hardly likes to consider them +nicely or to discuss them sceptically. For these<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_471" id="Page_471">[471]</a></span> +dubious themes an ornate or complex style is +needful. Classical art speaks out what it has to +say plainly and simply. Pure style cannot hesitate; +it describes in concisest outline what is, as +it is. If a poet really believes in presentiments +he can speak out in pure style. One who could +have been a poet—one of the few in any age of +whom one can say certainly that they could have +been, and have not been—has spoken thus:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When Heaven sends sorrow,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Warnings go first,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Lest it should burst<br /></span> +<span class="i1">With stunning might<br /></span> +<span class="i1">On souls too bright<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To fear the morrow.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Can science bear us<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To the hid springs<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Of human things?<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Why may not dream,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Or thought’s day-gleam,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Startle, yet cheer us?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Are such thoughts fetters,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">While faith disowns<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Dread of earth’s tones,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Recks but Heaven’s call,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And on the wall,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Reads but Heaven’s letters?<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>But if a poet is not sure whether presentiments +are true or not true; if he wishes to leave his +readers in doubt; if he wishes an atmosphere of +indistinct illusion and of moving shadow, he must +use the romantic style, the style of miscellaneous +adjunct, the style ‘which shirks, not meets’ your +intellect, the style which as you are scrutinizing +disappears.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_472" id="Page_472">[472]</a></span></p> + +<p>Nor is this all, or even the principal lesson, +which <i>Enoch Arden</i> may suggest to us, of the +use of ornate art. That art is the appropriate art +for an <i>unpleasing type</i>. Many of the characters of +real life, if brought distinctly, prominently, and +plainly before the mind, as they really are, if +shown in their inner nature, their actual essence, +are doubtless very unpleasant. They would be +horrid to meet and horrid to think of. We fear it +must be owned that Enoch Arden is this kind +of person. A dirty sailor who did <i>not</i> go home to +his wife is not an agreeable being: a varnish must +be put on him to make him shine. It is true that +he acts rightly; that he is very good. But such +is human nature that it finds a little tameness in +mere morality. Mere virtue belongs to a charity +school-girl, and has a taint of the catechism. +All of us feel this, though most of us are too timid, +too scrupulous, too anxious about the virtue of +others, to speak out. We are ashamed of our +nature in this respect, but it is not the less our +nature. And if we look deeper into the matter +there are many reasons why we should not be +ashamed of it. The soul of man, and as we +necessarily believe of beings greater than man, +has many parts beside its moral part. It has an +intellectual part, an artistic part, even a religious +part, in which mere morals have no share. In +Shakespeare or Goethe, even in Newton or +Archimedes, there is much which will not be cut +down to the shape of the commandments. They +have thoughts, feelings, hopes—immortal thoughts +and hopes—which have influenced the life of men, +and the souls of men, ever since their age, but +which the ‘whole duty of man’, the ethical<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_473" id="Page_473">[473]</a></span> +compendium, does not recognize. Nothing is +more unpleasant than a virtuous person with +a mean mind. A highly developed moral nature +joined to an undeveloped intellectual nature, an +undeveloped artistic nature, and a very limited +religious nature, is of necessity repulsive. It +represents a bit of human nature—a good bit, of +course, but a bit only—in disproportionate, unnatural, +and revolting prominence; and, therefore, +unless an artist use delicate care, we are offended. +The dismal act of a squalid man needed many +condiments to make it pleasant, and therefore +Mr. Tennyson was right to mix them subtly and to +use them freely.</p> + +<p>A mere act of self-denial can indeed scarcely be +pleasant upon paper. An heroic struggle with an +external adversary, even though it end in a defeat, +may easily be made attractive. Human nature +likes to see itself look grand, and it looks grand +when it is making a brave struggle with foreign +foes. But it does not look grand when it is divided +against itself. An excellent person striving with +temptation is a very admirable being in reality, +but he is not a pleasant being in description. +We hope he will win and overcome his temptation, +but we feel that he would be a more interesting +being, a higher being, if he had not felt that +temptation so much. The poet must make the +struggle great in order to make the self-denial +virtuous, and if the struggle be too great, we are +apt to feel some mixture of contempt. The internal +metaphysics of a divided nature are but an inferior +subject for art, and if they are to be made attractive, +much else must be combined with them. If the +excellence of <i>Hamlet</i> had depended on the ethical<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_474" id="Page_474">[474]</a></span> +qualities of Hamlet, it would not have been the +masterpiece of our literature. He acts virtuously +of course, and kills the people he ought to kill, but +Shakespeare knew that such goodness would not +much interest the pit. He made him a handsome +prince, and a puzzling meditative character; +these secular qualities relieve his moral excellence, +and so he becomes ‘nice’. In proportion as an +artist has to deal with types essentially imperfect, +he must disguise their imperfections; he must +accumulate around them as many first-rate +accessories as may make his readers forget that +they are themselves second-rate. The sudden +<i>millionaires</i> of the present day hope to disguise +their social defects by buying old places, and +hiding among aristocratic furniture; just so +a great artist who has to deal with characters +artistically imperfect will use an ornate style, +will fit them into a scene where there is much else +to look at.</p> + +<p>For these reasons ornate art is within the limits +as legitimate as pure art. It does what pure art +could not do. The very excellence of pure art +confines its employment. Precisely because it +gives the best things by themselves and exactly +as they are, it fails when it is necessary to describe +inferior things among other things, with a list of +enhancements and a crowd of accompaniments +that in reality do not belong to it. Illusion, half +belief, unpleasant types, imperfect types, are as +much the proper sphere of ornate art, as an inferior +landscape is the proper sphere for the true efficacy +of moonlight. A really great landscape needs +sunlight and bears sunlight; but moonlight is an +equalizer of beauties; it gives a romantic unreality<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_475" id="Page_475">[475]</a></span> +to what will not stand the bare truth. And just so +does romantic art.</p> + +<p>There is, however, a third kind of art which +differs from these on the point in which they +most resemble one another. Ornate art and pure +art have this in common, that they paint the types +of literature in as good perfection as they can. +Ornate art, indeed, uses undue disguises and unreal +enhancements; it does not confine itself to the best +types; on the contrary it is its office to make the best +of imperfect types and lame approximations; but +ornate art, as much as pure art, catches its subject +in the best light it can, takes the most developed +aspect of it which it can find, and throws upon it +the most congruous colours it can use. But +grotesque art does just the contrary. It takes +the type, so to say, <i>in difficulties</i>. It gives a +representation of it in its minimum development, +amid the circumstances least favourable to it, +just while it is struggling with obstacles, just +where it is encumbered with incongruities. It +deals, to use the language of science, not with +normal types but with abnormal specimens; to +use the language of old philosophy, not with what +nature is striving to be, but with what by some +lapse she has happened to become.</p> + +<p>This art works by contrast. It enables you to +see, it makes you see, the perfect type by painting +the opposite deviation. It shows you what ought +to be by what ought not to be, when complete it +reminds you of the perfect image, by showing you +the distorted and imperfect image. Of this art +we possess in the present generation one prolific +master. Mr. Browning is an artist working by +incongruity. Possibly hardly one of his most<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_476" id="Page_476">[476]</a></span> +considerable efforts can be found which is not +great because of its odd mixture. He puts together +things which no one else would have put together, +and produces on our minds a result which no one +else would have produced, or tried to produce. +His admirers may not like all we may have to say +of him. But in our way we too are among his +admirers. No one ever read him without seeing +not only his great ability but his great <i>mind</i>. He +not only possesses superficial useable talents, but +the strong something, the inner secret something +which uses them and controls them; he is great, +not in mere accomplishments, but in himself. +He has applied a hard strong intellect to real life; +he has applied the same intellect to the problems +of his age. He has striven to know what <i>is</i>: he +has endeavoured not to be cheated by counterfeits, +not to be infatuated with illusions. His heart is +in what he says. He has battered his brain against +his creed till he believes it. He has accomplishments +too, the more effective because they are mixed. +He is at once a student of mysticism, and a citizen +of the world. He brings to the club sofa distinct +visions of old creeds, intense images of strange +thoughts: he takes to the bookish student tidings +of wild Bohemia, and little traces of the <i>demi-monde</i>. +He puts down what is good for the naughty and +what is naughty for the good. Over women his +easier writings exercise that imperious power +which belongs to the writings of a great man of +the world upon such matters. He knows women, and +therefore they wish to know him. If we blame +many of Browning’s efforts, it is in the interest of +art, and not from a wish to hurt or degrade him.</p> + +<p>If we wanted to illustrate the nature of grotesque<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_477" id="Page_477">[477]</a></span> +art by an exaggerated instance we should have +selected a poem which the chance of late publication +brings us in this new volume. Mr. Browning +has undertaken to describe what may be called <i>mind +in difficulties</i>—mind set to make out the universe +under the worst and hardest circumstances. He +takes ‘Caliban’, not perhaps exactly Shakespeare’s +Caliban, but an analogous and worse creature; +a strong thinking power, but a nasty creature—a +gross animal, uncontrolled and unelevated by +any feeling of religion or duty. The delineation +of him will show that Mr. Browning does not wish +to take undue advantage of his readers by a choice +of nice subjects.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">’Will sprawl, now that the heat of day is best,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Flat on his belly in the pit’s much mire,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With elbows wide, fists clenched to prop his chin;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, while he kicks both feet in the cool slush,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And feels about his spine small eft-things course,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Run in and out each arm, and make him laugh;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And while above his head a pompion-plant,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Coating the cave-top as a brow its eye,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Creeps down to touch and tickle hair and beard,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And now a flower drops with a bee inside,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And now a fruit to snap at, catch and crunch:<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>This pleasant creature proceeds to give his idea +of the origin of the Universe, and it is as follows. +Caliban speaks in the third person, and is of +opinion that the maker of the Universe took to +making it on account of his personal discomfort:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Setebos, Setebos, and Setebos!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">‘Thinketh, He dwelleth i’ the cold o’ the moon.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘Thinketh He made it, with the sun to match,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But not the stars: the stars came otherwise;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Only made clouds, winds, meteors, such as that:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Also this isle, what lives, and grows thereon,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And snaky sea which rounds and ends the same.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_478" id="Page_478">[478]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘Thinketh, it came of being ill at ease:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He hated that He cannot change His cold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor cure its ache. ’Hath spied an icy fish<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That longed to ’scape the rock-stream where she lived,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And thaw herself within the lukewarm brine<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O’ the lazy sea her stream thrusts far amid,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A crystal spike ’twixt two warm walls of wave;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Only she ever sickened, found repulse<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At the other kind of water, not her life,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Green-dense and dim-delicious, bred o’ the sun)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Flounced back from bliss she was not born to breathe,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And in her old bounds buried her despair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hating and loving warmth alike: so He.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘Thinketh, He made thereat the sun, this isle,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Trees and the fowls here, beast and creeping thing.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yon otter, sleek-wet, black, lithe as a leech;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yon auk, one fire-eye, in a ball of foam,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That floats and feeds; a certain badger brown<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He hath watched hunt with that slant white-wedge eye<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By moonlight; and the pie with the long tongue<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That pricks deep into oakwarts for a worm,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And says a plain word when she finds her prize,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But will not eat the ants; the ants themselves<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That build a wall of seeds and settled stalks<br /></span> +<span class="i0">About their hole—He made all these and more,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Made all we see, and us, in spite: how else?<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>It may seem perhaps to most readers that these +lines are very difficult, and that they are unpleasant. +And so they are. We quote them to illustrate, not +the <i>success</i> of grotesque art, but the <i>nature</i> of +grotesque art. It shows the end at which this +species of art aims, and if it fails, it is from over-boldness +in the choice of a subject by the artist, +or from the defects of its execution. A thinking +faculty more in difficulties—a great type,—an +inquisitive, searching intellect under more disagreeable +conditions, with worse helps, more likely +to find falsehood, less likely to find truth, can +scarcely be imagined. Nor is the mere description<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_479" id="Page_479">[479]</a></span> +of the thought at all bad: on the contrary, if we +closely examine it, it is very clever. Hardly +any one could have amassed so many ideas at once +nasty and suitable. But scarcely any readers—any +casual readers—who are not of the sect of +Mr. Browning’s admirers will be able to examine +it enough to appreciate it. From a defect, partly +of subject, and partly of style, many of Mr. Browning’s +works make a demand upon the reader’s +zeal and sense of duty to which the nature of +most readers is unequal. They have on the turf +the convenient expression ‘staying power’: some +horses can hold on and others cannot. But hardly +any reader not of especial and peculiar nature +can hold on through such composition. There +is not enough of ‘staying power’ in human nature. +One of his greatest admirers once owned to us that +he seldom or never began a new poem without +looking on in advance, and foreseeing with caution +what length of intellectual adventure he was about +to commence. Whoever will work hard at such +poems will find much mind in them: they are +a sort of quarry of ideas, but whoever goes there +will find these ideas in such a jagged, ugly, useless +shape that he can hardly bear them.</p> + +<p>We are not judging Mr. Browning simply from +a hasty recent production. All poets are liable to +misconceptions, and if such a piece as <i>Caliban +upon Setebos</i> were an isolated error, a venial and +particular exception, we should have given it no +prominence. We have put it forward because it +just elucidates both our subject and the characteristics +of Mr. Browning. But many other of his +best known pieces do so almost equally; what +several of his devotees think his best piece is quite<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_480" id="Page_480">[480]</a></span> +enough illustrative for anything we want. It +appears that on Holy Cross day at Rome the Jews +were obliged to listen to a Christian sermon in +the hope of their conversion, though this is, +according to Mr. Browning, what they really said +when they came away:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Fee, faw, fum! bubble and squeak!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Blessedest Thursday’s the fat of the week,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rumble and tumble, sleek and rough,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stinking and savoury, smug and gruff,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Take the church-road, for the bell’s due chime<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gives us the summons—’t is sermon-time.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Boh, here’s Barnabas! Job, that’s you?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Up stumps Solomon—bustling too?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shame, man! greedy beyond your years<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To handsel the bishop’s shaving-shears?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fair play’s a jewel! leave friends in the lurch?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stand on a line ere you start for the church.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Higgledy, piggledy, packed we lie,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rats in a hamper, swine in a stye,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wasps in a bottle, frogs in a sieve,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Worms in a carcase, fleas in a sleeve.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hist! square shoulders, settle your thumbs<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And buzz for the bishop—here he comes.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">And after similar nice remarks for a church, the +edified congregation concludes:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But now, while the scapegoats leave our flock,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the rest sit silent and count the clock,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Since forced to muse the appointed time<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On these precious facts and truths sublime,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Let us fitly employ it, under our breath,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In saying Ben Ezra’s Song of Death.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For Rabbi Ben Ezra, the night he died,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Called sons and sons’ sons to his side,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And spoke, ‘This world has been harsh and strange;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Something is wrong: there needeth a change.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But what, or where? at the last, or first?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In one point only we sinned, at worst.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_481" id="Page_481">[481]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘The Lord will have mercy on Jacob yet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And again in his border see Israel set.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When Judah beholds Jerusalem,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The stranger-seed shall be joined to them:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To Jacob’s House shall the Gentiles cleave,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So the Prophet saith and his sons believe.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘Ay, the children of the chosen race<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shall carry and bring them to their place:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the land of the Lord shall lead the same,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bondsmen and handmaids. Who shall blame<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the slaves enslave, the oppressed ones o’er<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The oppressor triumph for evermore?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘God spoke, and gave us the word to keep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bade never fold the hands nor sleep<br /></span> +<span class="i0">’Mid a faithless world,—at watch and ward,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till Christ at the end relieve our guard.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By His servant Moses the watch was set:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though near upon cock-crow, we keep it yet.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘Thou! if Thou wast He, who at mid-watch came,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By the starlight, naming a dubious Name!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And if, too heavy with sleep—too rash<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With fear—O Thou, if that martyr-gash<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fell on Thee coming to take Thine own,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And we gave the Cross, when we owed the Throne—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘Thou art the Judge. We are bruised thus.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But, the judgement over, join sides with us!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thine too is the cause! and not more Thine<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Than ours, is the work of these dogs and swine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose life laughs through and spits at their creed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who maintain Thee in word, and defy Thee in deed!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘We withstood Christ then? be mindful how<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At least we withstand Barabbas now!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was our outrage sore? But the worst we spared,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To have called these—Christians, had we dared!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Let defiance to them pay mistrust of Thee,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Rome make amends for Calvary!<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_482" id="Page_482">[482]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘By the torture, prolonged from age to age,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By the infamy, Israel’s heritage,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By the Ghetto’s plague, by the garb’s disgrace,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By the badge of shame, by the felon’s place,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By the branding-tool, the bloody whip,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the summons to Christian fellowship,—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘We boast our proof that at least the Jew<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Would wrest Christ’s name from the Devil’s crew.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy face took never so deep a shade<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But we fought them in it, God our aid!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A trophy to bear, as we march, Thy band,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">South, East, and on to the Pleasant Land!’<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>It is very natural that a poet whose wishes +incline, or whose genius conducts him to a grotesque +art, should be attracted towards mediaeval +subjects. There is no age whose legends are +so full of grotesque subjects, and no age where +real life was so fit to suggest them. Then, more +than at any other time, good principles have been +under great hardships. The vestiges of ancient civilization, +the germs of modern civilization, the little +remains of what had been, the small beginnings +of what is, were buried under a cumbrous mass of +barbarism and cruelty. Good elements hidden in +horrid accompaniments are the special theme of +grotesque art, and these mediaeval life and legends +afford more copiously than could have been furnished +before Christianity gave its new elements +of good, or since modern civilization has removed +some few at least of the old elements of destruction. +A <i>buried</i> life like the spiritual mediaeval was +Mr. Browning’s natural element, and he was right +to be attracted by it. His mistake has been, that +he has not made it pleasant; that he has forced +his art to topics on which no one could charm, or +on which he, at any rate, could not; that on<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_483" id="Page_483">[483]</a></span> +these occasions and in these poems he has failed in +fascinating men and women of sane taste.</p> + +<p>We say ‘sane’ because there is a most formidable +and estimable <i>insane</i> taste. The will has great +though indirect power over the taste, just as it +has over the belief. There are some horrid beliefs +from which human nature revolts, from which at +first it shrinks, to which, at first, no effort can +force it. But if we fix the mind upon them they +have a power over us just because of their natural +offensiveness. They are like the sight of human +blood: experienced soldiers tell us that at first +men are sickened by the smell and newness of +blood almost to death and fainting, but that as +soon as they harden their hearts and stiffen their +minds, as soon as they <i>will</i> bear it, then comes an +appetite for slaughter, a tendency to gloat on +carnage, to love blood, at least for the moment, +with a deep eager love. It is a principle that if +we put down a healthy instinctive aversion, nature +avenges herself by creating an unhealthy insane +attraction. For this reason the most earnest +truth-seeking men fall into the worst delusions; +they will not let their mind alone; they force it +towards some ugly thing, which a crotchet of +argument, a conceit of intellect recommends, and +nature punishes their disregard of her warning by +subjection to the ugly one, by belief in it. Just so +the most industrious critics get the most admiration. +They think it unjust to rest in their instinctive +natural horror: they overcome it, and angry +nature gives them over to ugly poems and marries +them to detestable stanzas.</p> + +<p>Mr. Browning possibly, and some of the worst +of Mr. Browning’s admirers certainly, will say that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_484" id="Page_484">[484]</a></span> +these grotesque objects exist in real life, and +therefore they ought to be, at least may be, +described in art. But though pleasure is not the +end of poetry, pleasing is a condition of poetry. +An exceptional monstrosity of horrid ugliness +cannot be made pleasing, except it be made to +suggest—to recall—the perfection, the beauty, +from which it is a deviation. Perhaps in extreme +cases no art is equal to this; but then such self-imposed +problems should not be worked by the +artist; these out-of-the-way and detestable subjects +should be let alone by him. It is rather +characteristic of Mr. Browning to neglect this +rule. He is the most of a realist, and the least +of an idealist of any poet we know. He evidently +sympathizes with some part at least of Bishop +Blougram’s apology. Anyhow this world exists. +‘There <i>is</i> good wine—there <i>are</i> pretty women—there +<i>are</i> comfortable benefices—there <i>is</i> money, +and it is pleasant to spend it. Accept the creed +of your age and you get these, reject that creed and +you lose them. And for what do you lose them? +For a fancy creed of your own, which no one else +will accept, which hardly any one will call a “creed”, +which most people will consider a sort of unbelief.’ +Again, Mr. Browning evidently loves what we +may call the realism, the grotesque realism, of +orthodox christianity. Many parts of it in which +great divines have felt keen difficulties are quite +pleasant to him. He must <i>see</i> his religion, he must +nave an ‘object-lesson’ in believing. He must +have a creed that will <i>take</i>, which wins and holds +the miscellaneous world, which stout men will heed, +which nice women will adore. The spare moments +of solitary religion—the ‘obdurate questionings’,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_485" id="Page_485">[485]</a></span> +the high ‘instincts’, the ‘first affections’, the +‘shadowy recollections’,</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">Which, do they what they may,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are yet the fountain-light of all our day—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are yet a master-light of all our seeing;<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">the great but vague faith—the unutterable tenets +seem to him worthless, visionary; they are not +enough immersed in matter; they move about +‘in worlds not realized’. We wish he could be +tried like the prophet once; he would have found +God in the earthquake and the storm; he could +have deciphered from them a bracing and a rough +religion: he would have known that crude men +and ignorant women felt them too, and he would +accordingly have trusted them; but he would +have distrusted and disregarded the ‘still small +voice’; he would have said it was ‘fancy’—a +thing you thought you heard to-day, but were not +sure you had heard to-morrow: he would call it a +nice illusion, an immaterial prettiness; he would +ask triumphantly ‘How are you to get the mass of +men to heed this little thing?’ he would have persevered +and insisted ‘<i>My wife</i> does not hear it’.</p> + +<p>But although a suspicion of beauty, and a taste +for ugly reality, have led Mr. Browning to exaggerate +the functions, and to caricature the nature of +grotesque art, we own or rather we maintain that +he has given many excellent specimens of that art +within its proper boundaries and limits. Take an +example, his picture of what we may call the +<i>bourgeois</i> nature in <i>difficulties</i>; in the utmost +difficulty, in contact with magic and the supernatural. +He has made of it something homely, +comic, true; reminding us of what <i>bourgeois</i> +nature really is. By showing us the type under<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_486" id="Page_486">[486]</a></span> +abnormal conditions, he reminds us of the type +under its best and most satisfactory conditions—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Hamelin Town’s in Brunswick,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">By famous Hanover city;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The river Weser, deep and wide,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Washes its walls on the southern side;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A pleasanter spot you never spied;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">But, when begins my ditty,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Almost five hundred years ago,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To see the townsfolk suffer so<br /></span> +<span class="i1">From vermin was a pity.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i1">Rats!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They fought the dogs, and killed the cats,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And bit the babies in the cradles,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And ate the cheeses out of the vats,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And licked the soup from the cook’s own ladles,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Split open the kegs of salted sprats,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Made nests inside men’s Sunday hats,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And even spoiled the women’s chats<br /></span> +<span class="i1">By drowning their speaking<br /></span> +<span class="i1">With shrieking and squeaking<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In fifty different sharps and flats.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">At last the people in a body<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To the Town Hall came flocking:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">‘’Tis clear’, cried they, ‘our Mayor’s a noddy;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And as for our Corporation—shocking<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To think we buy gowns lined with ermine<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For dolts that can’t or won’t determine<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What’s best to rid us of our vermin!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You hope, because you’re old and obese,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To find in the furry civic robe ease?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rouse up, Sirs! Give your brains a racking<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To find the remedy we’re lacking,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or, sure as fate, we’ll send you packing!’<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At this the Mayor and Corporation<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Quaked with a mighty consternation.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>A person of musical abilities proposes to extricate +the civic dignitaries from the difficulty, and they +promise him a thousand guilders if he does.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_487" id="Page_487">[487]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Into the street the Piper stept,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Smiling first a little smile,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As if he knew what magic slept<br /></span> +<span class="i1">In his quiet pipe the while;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then, like a musical adept,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And green and blue his sharp eye twinkled<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You heard as if an army muttered;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the muttering grew to a grumbling;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And out of the houses the rats came tumbling.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Cooking tails and pricking whiskers,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Families by tens and dozens,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Followed the Piper for their lives.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From street to street he piped advancing,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And step for step they followed dancing,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Until they came to the river Weser,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wherein all plunged and perished!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">—Save one who, stout as Julius Cæsar,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Swam across and lived to carry<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(As he, the manuscript he cherished)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To Rat-land home his commentary:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which was, ‘At the first shrill notes of the pipe,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I heard a sound as of scraping tripe,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And putting apples, wondrous ripe,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Into a cider-press’s gripe:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And a moving away of pickle-tub boards,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And a drawing the corks of train-oil flasks,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And it seemed as if a voice<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is breathed) called out, “Oh rats, rejoice!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The world is grown to one vast drysaltery!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So, munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!”<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon,<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_488" id="Page_488">[488]</a></span> +<span class="i0">All ready staved, like a great sun shone<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Glorious scarce an inch before me,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Just as methought it said, “Come, bore me!”<br /></span> +<span class="i0">—I found the Weser rolling o’er me.’<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You should have heard the Hamelin people<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">‘Go’, cried the Mayor, ‘and get long poles,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Poke out the nests and block up the holes!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Consult with carpenters and builders,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And leave in our town not even a trace<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the rats!’—when suddenly, up the face<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the Piper perked in the market-place,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With a ‘First, if you please, my thousand guilders!’<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So did the Corporation too.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For council dinners made rare havoc<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And half the money would replenish<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their cellar’s biggest butt with Rhenish.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To pay this sum to a wandering fellow<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With a gipsy coat of red and yellow!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">‘Beside,’ quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">‘Our business was done at the river’s brink;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We saw with our eyes the vermin sink,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And what’s dead can’t come to life, I think.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So, friend, we’re not the folks to shrink<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From the duty of giving you something for drink,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And a matter of money to put in your poke;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But as for the guilders, what we spoke<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of them, as you very well know, was in joke.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Besides, our losses have made us thrifty.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!’<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The piper’s face fell, and he cried,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">‘No trifling! I can’t wait, beside!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I’ve promised to visit by dinner time<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bagdat, and accept the prime<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the Head-Cook’s pottage, all he’s rich in,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For having left, in the Caliph’s kitchen,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of a nest of scorpions no survivor—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With him I proved no bargain-driver,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With you, don’t think I’ll bate a stiver!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And folks who put me in a passion<br /></span> +<span class="i0">May find me pipe to another fashion.’<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_489" id="Page_489">[489]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘How?’ cried the Mayor, ‘d’ye think I’ll brook<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Being worse treated than a Cook?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Insulted by a lazy ribald<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With idle pipe and vesture piebald?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Blow your pipe there till you burst!’<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Once more he stept into the street<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And to his lips again<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And ere he blew three notes (such sweet<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Soft notes as yet musician’s cunning<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Never gave the enraptured air)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There was a rustling, that seemed like a bustling<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Out came the children running.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">All the little boys and girls,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tripping and skipping ran merrily after<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.<br /></span> +</div> + +<p class="dotted2"> </p> + +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And I must not omit to say<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That in Transylvania there’s a tribe<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of alien people that ascribe<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The outlandish ways and dress<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On which their neighbours lay such stress,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To their fathers and mothers having risen<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Out of some subterraneous prison<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Into which they were trepanned<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Long time ago in a mighty band<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But how or why, they don’t understand.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Something more we had to say of Mr. Browning, +but we must stop. It is singularly characteristic +of this age that the poems which rise to the surface +should be examples of ornate art, and grotesque +art, not of pure art. We live in the realm of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_490" id="Page_490">[490]</a></span> +<i>half</i> educated. The number of readers grows daily, +but the quality of readers does not improve rapidly. +The middle class is scattered, headless; it is well-meaning +but aimless; wishing to be wise, but +ignorant how to be wise. The aristocracy of England +never was a literary aristocracy, never even +in the days of its full power, of its unquestioned +predominance, did it guide—did it even seriously +try to guide—the taste of England. Without +guidance young men and tired men are thrown +amongst a mass of books; they have to choose +which they like; many of them would much like +to improve their culture, to chasten their taste, +if they knew how. But left to themselves they +take, not pure art, but showy art; not that which +permanently relieves the eye and makes it happy +whenever it looks, and as long as it looks, but +<i>glaring</i> art which catches and arrests the eye for +a moment, but which in the end fatigues it. But +before the wholesome remedy of nature—the +fatigue—arrives, the hasty reader has passed on to +some new excitement, which in its turn stimulates +for an instant, and then is passed by for ever. +These conditions are not favourable to the due +appreciation of pure art—of that art which must +be known before it is admired—which must have +fastened irrevocably on the brain before you +appreciate it—which you must love ere it will +seem worthy of your love. Women too, whose +voice in literature counts as well as that of men—and +in a light literature counts for more than that +of men—women, such as we know them, such as +they are likely to be, ever prefer a delicate unreality +to a true or firm art. A dressy literature, +an exaggerated literature seem to be fated to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_491" id="Page_491">[491]</a></span> +us. These are our curses, as other times had +theirs.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i11">And yet<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Think not the living times forget,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ages of heroes fought and fell,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That Homer in the end might tell;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O’er grovelling generations past<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Upstood the Gothic fane at last;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And countless hearts in countless years<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had wasted thoughts, and hopes, and fears,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rude laughter and unmeaning tears;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ere England Shakespeare saw, or Rome<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The pure perfection of her dome.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Others I doubt not, if not we,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The issue of our toils shall see;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And (they forgotten and unknown)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Young children gather as their own<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The harvest that the dead had sown.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_36_36" id="Footnote_36_36"></a><a href="#FNanchor_36_36"><span class="label">[36]</span></a> The first words in Lord Jeffrey’s celebrated review of +the <i>Excursion</i> were, ‘This will never do.’</p></div> +</div> + + +<h2><a name="WALTER_HORATIO_PATER" id="WALTER_HORATIO_PATER"></a>WALTER HORATIO PATER<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_492" id="Page_492">[492]</a></span></h2> + +<h3>1839-1894</h3> + +<h3>COLERIDGE’S WRITINGS (1866)</h3> + +<h4><i>Conversations, Letters, and Recollections of S. T. Coleridge.</i> +Edited by <span class="smcap">Thomas Allsop</span>. London. 1864.</h4> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Forms</span> of intellectual and spiritual culture often +exercise their subtlest and most artful charm when +life is already passing from them. Searching and +irresistible as are the changes of the human spirit +on its way to perfection, there is yet so much +elasticity of temper that what must pass away +sooner or later is not disengaged all at once even +from the highest order of minds. Nature, which by +one law of development evolves ideas, moralities, +modes of inward life, and represses them in turn, +has in this way provided that the earlier growth +should propel its fibres into the later, and so transmit +the whole of its forces in an unbroken continuity +of life. Then comes the spectacle of the +reserve of the elder generation exquisitely refined +by the antagonism of the new. That current of +new life chastens them as they contend against it. +Weaker minds do not perceive the change; clearer +minds abandon themselves to it. To feel the +change everywhere, yet not to abandon oneself to +it, is a situation of difficulty and contention. Communicating +in this way to the passing stage of +culture the charm of what is chastened, high-strung,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_493" id="Page_493">[493]</a></span> +athletic, they yet detach the highest minds from +the past by pressing home its difficulties and finally +proving it impossible. Such is the charm of +Julian, of St. Louis, perhaps of Luther; in the +narrower compass of modern times, of Dr. Newman +and Lacordaire; it is also the peculiar charm of +Coleridge.</p> + +<p>Modern thought is distinguished from ancient +by its cultivation of the ‘relative’ spirit in place of +the ‘absolute’. Ancient philosophy sought to +arrest every object in an eternal outline, to fix +thought in a necessary formula, and types of life +in a classification by ‘kinds’ or <i>genera</i>. To the +modern spirit nothing is, or can be rightly known +except relatively under conditions. An ancient +philosopher indeed started a philosophy of the +relative, but only as an enigma. So the germs of +almost all philosophical ideas were enfolded in the +mind of antiquity, and fecundated one by one in +after ages by the external influences of art, religion, +culture in the natural sciences, belonging to a particular +generation, which suddenly becomes preoccupied +by a formula or theory, not so much new +as penetrated by a new meaning and expressiveness. +So the idea of ‘the relative’ has been +fecundated in modern times by the influence of +the sciences of observation. These sciences reveal +types of life evanescing into each other by inexpressible +refinements of change. Things pass into +their opposites by accumulation of undefinable +quantities. The growth of those sciences consists +in a continual analysis of facts of rough and general +observation into groups of facts more precise and +minute. A faculty for truth is a power of distinguishing +and fixing delicate and fugitive details.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_494" id="Page_494">[494]</a></span> +The moral world is ever in contact with the physical; +the relative spirit has invaded moral philosophy +from the ground of the inductive science. +There it has started a new analysis of the relations +of body and mind, good and evil, freedom and +necessity. Hard and abstract moralities are yielding +to a more exact estimate of the subtlety and +complexity of our life. Always, as an organism +increases in perfection the conditions of its life +become more complex. Man is the most complex +of the products of nature. Character merges into +temperament; the nervous system refines itself +into intellect. His physical organism is played +upon not only by the physical conditions about it, +but by remote laws of inheritance, the vibrations +of long past acts reaching him in the midst of the +new order of things in which he lives. When we +have estimated these conditions he is not yet simple +and isolated; for the mind of the race, the character +of the age, sway him this way or that through the +medium of language and ideas. It seems as if the +most opposite statements about him were alike +true; he is so receptive, all the influences of the +world and of society ceaselessly playing upon him, +so that every hour in his life is unique, changed +altogether by a stray word, or glance, or touch. +The truth of these relations experience gives us; +not the truth of eternal outlines effected once for all, +but a world of fine gradations and subtly linked +conditions, shifting intricately as we ourselves +change; and bids us by constant clearing of the +organs of observation and perfecting of analysis +to make what we can of these. To the intellect, to +the critical spirit, these subtleties of effect are more +precious than anything else. What is lost in precision<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_495" id="Page_495">[495]</a></span> +of form is gained in intricacy of expression. +To suppose that what is called ‘ontology’ is what +the speculative instinct seeks, is the misconception +of a backward school of logicians. Who would +change the colour or curve of a roseleaf for that +οὐσία ἀχρώματος, ἀσχημάτιστος, ἀναφής. A transcendentalism +that makes what is abstract more +excellent than what is concrete has nothing akin to +the leading philosophies of the world. The true +illustration of the speculative temper is not the +Hindoo, lost to sense, understanding, individuality; +but such an one as Goethe, to whom every moment +of life brought its share of experimental, +individual knowledge, by whom no touch of the +world of form, colour, and passion was disregarded.</p> + +<p>The literary life of Coleridge was a disinterested +struggle against the application of the relative +spirit to moral and religious questions. Everywhere +he is restlessly scheming to apprehend the +absolute; to affirm it effectively; to get it acknowledged. +Coleridge failed in that attempt, happily +even for him, for it was a struggle against the +increasing life of the mind itself. The real loss +was, that this controversial interest betrayed him +into a direction which was not for him the path +of the highest intellectual success; a direction in +which his artistic talent could never find the conditions +of its perfection. Still, there is so much +witchery about his poems, that it is as a poet that +he will most probably be permanently remembered. +How did his choice of a controversial interest, his +determination to affirm the absolute, weaken or +modify his poetical gift?</p> + +<p>In 1798 he joined Wordsworth in the composition<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_496" id="Page_496">[496]</a></span> +of a volume of poems—the <i>Lyrical Ballads</i>. +What Wordsworth then wrote is already vibrant +with that blithe <i>élan</i> which carried him to final +happiness and self-possession. In Coleridge we +feel already that faintness and obscure dejection +which cling like some contagious damp to all his +writings. Wordsworth was to be distinguished by +a joyful and penetrative conviction of the existence +of certain latent affinities between nature and the +human mind, which reciprocally gild the mind and +nature with a kind of ‘heavenly alchemy’:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i5">... My voice proclaims<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How exquisitely the individual mind<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(And the progressive powers perhaps no less<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the whole species) to the external world<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is fitted:—and how exquisitely, too,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The external world is fitted to the mind:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the creation, by no lower name<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Can it be called, which they with blended might<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Accomplish.<a name="FNanchor_37_37" id="FNanchor_37_37"></a><a href="#Footnote_37_37" class="fnanchor">[37]</a><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>In Wordsworth this took the form of an unbroken +dreaming over the aspects and transitions of nature, +a reflective, but altogether unformulated, analysis +of them.</p> + +<p>There are in Coleridge’s poems expressions of +this conviction as deep as Wordsworth’s. But +Coleridge could never have abandoned himself to +the dream as Wordsworth did, because the first +condition of such abandonment is an unvexed +quietness of heart. No one can read the <i>Lines +composed above Tintern</i> without feeling how +potent the physical element was among the conditions +of Wordsworth’s genius:—‘felt in the +blood and felt along the heart,’—‘My whole life +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_497" id="Page_497">[497]</a></span>I have lived in quiet thought.’ The stimulus +which most artists require from nature he can +renounce. He leaves the ready-made glory of the +Swiss mountains to reflect a glory on a mouldering +leaf. He loves best to watch the floating thistledown, +because of its hint at an unseen life in the +air. Coleridge’s temperament, ἀεὶ ἐν σφοδρᾷ ὀρέξει, +with its faintness, its grieved dejection, +could never have been like that.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i3">My genial spirits fail<br /></span> +<span class="i3">And what can these avail<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To lift the smothering weight from off my breast?<br /></span> +<span class="i3">It were a vain endeavour,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Though I should gaze for ever<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On that green light that lingers in the west:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I may not hope from outward forms to win<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The passion and the life whose fountains are within.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>It is that flawless temperament in Wordsworth +which keeps his conviction of a latent intelligence +in nature within the limits of sentiment or instinct, +and confines it, to those delicate and subdued +shades of expression which perfect art allows. In +sadder dispositions, that is in the majority of cases, +where such a conviction has existed, it has stiffened +into a formula, it has frozen into a scientific or +pseudo-scientific theory. For the perception of +those affinities brings one so near the absorbing +speculative problems of life—optimism, the proportion +of man to his place in nature, his prospects +in relation to it—that it ever tends to become +theory through their contagion. Even in Goethe, +who has brilliantly handled the subject in his +lyrics entitled <i>Gott und Welt</i>, it becomes something +stiffer than poetry; it is tempered by the +‘pale cast’ of his technical knowledge of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_498" id="Page_498">[498]</a></span> +nature of colours, of anatomy, of the metamorphosis +of plants.</p> + +<p>That, however, which had only a limited power +over Coleridge as sentiment, entirely possessed +him as a philosophical idea. We shall see in what +follows how deep its power was, how it pursued him +everywhere, and seemed to him to interpret every +question. Wordsworth’s poetry is an optimism; +it says man’s relation to the world is, and may be +seen by man to be, a perfect relation; but it is +an optimism that begins and ends in an abiding +instinct. Coleridge accepts the same optimism as +a philosophical idea, but an idea is relative to an +intellectual assent; sometimes it seems a better +expression of facts, sometimes a worse, as the +understanding weighs it in the logical balances. +And so it is not a permanent consolation. It is +only in the rarer moments of intellectual warmth +and sunlight that it is entirely credible. In less +exhilarating moments that perfect relation of man +and nature seems to shift and fail; that is, the +philosophical idea ceases to be realizable; and +with Coleridge its place is not supplied, as with +Wordsworth, by the corresponding sentiment or +instinct.</p> + +<p>What in Wordsworth is a sentiment or instinct, +is in Coleridge a philosophical idea. In other +words, Coleridge’s talent is a more intellectual one +than Wordsworth’s, more dramatic, more self-conscious. +Wordsworth’s talent, deeply reflective +as it is, because its base is an instinct, is deficient +in self-knowledge. Possessed by the rumours and +voices of the haunted country, the borders of +which he has passed alone, he never thinks of +withdrawing from it to look down upon it from one<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_499" id="Page_499">[499]</a></span> +of the central heights of human life. His power +absorbs him, not he it; he cannot turn it round or +get without it; he does not estimate its general +relation to life. But Coleridge, just because the +essence of his talent is the intuition of an idea, +commands his talent. He not only feels with +Wordsworth the expression of mind in nature, but +he can project that feeling outside him, reduce it to +a psychological law, define its relation to other +elements of culture, place it in a complete view +of life.</p> + +<p>And in some such activity as that, varied as his +wide learning, in a many-sided dramatic kind of +poetry, assigning its place and value to every mode +of the inward life, seems to have been for Coleridge +the original path of artistic success. But in order +to follow that path one must hold ideas loosely in +the relative spirit, not seek to stereotype any one +of the many modes of that life; one must acknowledge +that the mind is ever greater than its own +products, devote ideas to the service of art rather +than of γνῶσις, not disquiet oneself about the +absolute. Perhaps Coleridge is more interesting +because he did not follow this path. Repressing +his artistic interest and voluntarily discolouring +his own work, he turned to console and strengthen +the human mind, vulgarized or dejected, as he +believed, by the acquisition of new knowledge +about itself in the <i>éclaircissement</i> of the eighteenth +century.</p> + +<p>What the reader of our own generation will least +find in Coleridge’s prose writings is the excitement +of the literary sense. And yet in those grey +volumes we have the production of one who made +way ever by a charm, the charm of voice, of aspect,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_500" id="Page_500">[500]</a></span> +of language, above all, by the intellectual charm of +new, moving, luminous ideas. Perhaps the chief +offence in Coleridge is an excess of seriousness, +a seriousness that arises not from any moral +principle, but from a misconception of the perfect +manner. There is a certain shade of levity and +unconcern, the perfect manner of the eighteenth +century, which marks complete culture in the +handling of abstract questions. The humanist, +he who possesses that complete culture, does not +‘weep’ over the failure of ‘a theory of the quantification +of the predicate’, nor ‘shriek’ over the fall +of a philosophical formula. A kind of humour +is one of the conditions of the true mental attitude +in the criticism of past stages of thought. Humanity +cannot afford to be too serious about them, any +more than a man of good sense can afford to be too +serious in looking back upon his own childhood. +Plato, whom Coleridge claims as the first of his +spiritual ancestors, Plato, as we remember him, +a true humanist, with Petrarch and Goethe and +M. Renan, holds his theories lightly, glances with +a blithe and naïve inconsequence from one view to +another, not anticipating the burden of meaning +‘views’ will one day have for humanity. In +reading him one feels how lately it was that Croesus +thought it a paradox to say that external prosperity +was not necessarily happiness. But on +Coleridge lies the whole weight of the sad reflection +that has since come into the world, with which for +us the air is full, which the children in the market-place +repeat to each other. Even his language +is forced and broken, lest some saving formula +should be lost—‘distinctities’, ‘enucleation’, +‘pentad of operative Christianity’—he has a whole<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_501" id="Page_501">[501]</a></span> +vocabulary of such phrases, and expects to turn the +tide of human thought by fixing the sense of such +expressions as ‘reason’, ‘understanding’, ‘idea’.</p> + +<p>Again, he has not the jealousy of the true artist +in excluding all associations that have no charm +or colour or gladness in them; everywhere he +allows the impress of an inferior theological +literature; he is often prolix and importunate +about most indifferent heroes—Sir Alexander Ball, +Dr. Bell, even Dr. Bowyer, the coarse pedant of the +Blue-coat School. And the source of all this is +closely connected with the source of his literary +activity. For Coleridge had chosen as the mark of +his literary egotism a kind of intellectual <i>tour de +force</i>—to found a religious philosophy, to do something +with the ‘idea’ in spite of the essential nature +of the ‘idea’. And therefore all is fictitious from +the beginning. He had determined, that which +is humdrum, insipid, which the human spirit has +done with, shall yet stimulate and inspire. What +he produced symbolizes this purpose—the mass +of it <i>ennuyant</i>, depressing: the <i>Aids to Reflection</i>, +for instance, with Archbishop Leighton’s vague +pieties all twisted into the jargon of a spiritualistic +philosophy. But sometimes ‘the pulse of the +God’s blood’ does transmute it, kindling here and +there a spot that begins to live; as in that beautiful +fragment at the end of the <i>Church and State</i>, or +in the distilled and concentrated beauty of such +a passage as this:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>The first range of hills, that encircles the scanty vale of +human life, is the horizon for the majority of its inhabitants. +On its ridges the common sun is born and departs. From +them the stars rise, and touching them they vanish. By +the many, even this range, the natural limit and bulwark of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_502" id="Page_502">[502]</a></span> +the vale, is but imperfectly known. Its higher ascents are +too often hidden by mists and clouds from uncultivated +swamps, which few have courage or curiosity to penetrate. +To the multitude below these vapours appear now as the +dark haunts of terrific agents, on which none may intrude +with impunity; and now all a-glow, with colours not their +own, they are gazed at as the splendid palaces of happiness +and power. But in all ages there have been a few who, +measuring and sounding the rivers of the vale at the feet +of their furthest inaccessible falls, have learned that the +sources must be far higher and far inward; a few who, +even in the level streams, have detected elements which +neither the vale itself nor the surrounding mountains +contained or could supply.</p> + +<p class="sig"><i>Biographia Literaria.</i></p></div> + +<p>‘I was driven from life in motion to life in +thought and sensation.’ So Coleridge sums up his +childhood with its delicacy, its sensitiveness, and +passion. From his tenth to his eighteenth year +he was at a rough school in London. Speaking of +this time, he says:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>When I was first plucked up and transplanted from my +birthplace and family, Providence, it has often occurred +to me, gave me the first intimation that it was my lot, and +that it was best for me, to make or find my way of life +a detached individual, a <i>terrae filius</i>, who was to ask love +or service of no one on any more specific relation than that +of being a man, and as such to take my chance for the free +charities of humanity.<a name="FNanchor_38_38" id="FNanchor_38_38"></a><a href="#Footnote_38_38" class="fnanchor">[38]</a></p></div> + +<p>Even his fine external nature was for years +repressed, wronged, driven inward—‘at fourteen +I was in a continual state of low fever.’ He +becomes a dreamer, an eager student, but without +ambition.</p> + +<p>This depressed boy is nevertheless, on the spiritual +side, the child of a noble house. At twenty-five he +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_503" id="Page_503">[503]</a></span>is exercising a wonderful charm, and has defined for +himself a peculiar line of intellectual activity. He +had left Cambridge without a degree, a Unitarian. +Unable to take orders, he determined through +Southey’s influence to devote himself to literature. +When he left Cambridge there was a prejudice +against him which has given occasion to certain +suspicions. Those who knew him best discredit +these suspicions. What is certain is that he was +subject to fits of violent, sometimes fantastic, +despondency. He retired to Stowey, in Somersetshire, +to study poetry and philosophy. In 1797 +his poetical gift was in full flower; he wrote +<i>Kubla Khan</i>, the first part of <i>Christabel</i>, and <i>The +Ancient Mariner</i>. His literary success grew in +spite of opposition. He had a strange attractive +gift of conversation, or rather of monologue, as De +Stael said, full of <i>bizarrerie</i>, with the rapid alternations +of a dream, and here and there a sudden +summons into a world strange to the hearer, +abounding with images drawn from a sort of +divided, imperfect life, as of one to whom the +external world penetrated only in part, and, blended +with all this, passages of the deepest obscurity, +precious only for their musical cadence, the echo +in Coleridge of the eloquence of the older English +writers, of whom he was so ardent a lover. All +through this brilliant course we may discern the +power of the Asiatic temperament, of that voluptuousness +which is perhaps connected with his +appreciation of the intimacy, the almost mystical +<i>rapport</i>, between man and nature. ‘I am much +better’, he writes, ‘and my new and tender health +is all over me like a voluptuous feeling.’</p> + +<p>And whatever fame, or charm, or life-inspiring<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_504" id="Page_504">[504]</a></span> +gift he has had is the vibration of the interest he +excited then, the propulsion into years that +clouded his early promise of that first buoyant, +irresistible self-assertion: so great is even the +indirect power of a sincere effort towards the ideal +life, of even a temporary escape of the spirit from +routine. Perhaps the surest sign of his election—that +he was indeed, on the spiritual side, the child +of a noble house—is that story of the Pantisocratic +scheme, which at this distance looks so grotesque. +In his enthusiasm for the French Revolution, the +old communistic dream with its appeal to nature +(perhaps a little theatrical), touched him, as it had +touched Rousseau, Saint-Pierre, and Chateaubriand. +He had married one, his affection for whom seems +to have been only a passing feeling; with her and +a few friends he was to found a communistic settlement +on the banks of the Susquehannah—‘the +name was pretty and metrical.’ It was one of +Coleridge’s lightest dreams; but also one which +could only have passed through the liberal air of his +earlier life. The later years of the French Revolution, +which for us have discredited all such dreams, +deprived him of that youthfulness which is the +preservative element in a literary talent.</p> + +<p>In 1798, he visited Germany. A beautiful fragment +of this period remains, describing a spring +excursion to the Brocken. His excitement still +vibrates in it. Love, all joyful states of mind, are +self-expressive; they loosen the tongue, they fill +the thoughts with sensuous images, they harmonize +one with the world of sight. We hear of the ‘rich +graciousness and courtesy’ of Coleridge’s manner, +of the white and delicate skin, the abundant black +hair, the full, almost animal lips, that whole<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_505" id="Page_505">[505]</a></span> +physiognomy of the dreamer already touched with +fanaticism. One says of the text of one of his +Unitarian sermons, ‘his voice rose like a stream of +rich distilled perfumes’; another, ‘he talks like +an angel, and does—nothing.’</p> + +<p>Meantime, he had designed an intellectual novelty +in the shape of a religious philosophy. Socinian +theology and the philosophy of Hartley had become +distasteful. ‘Whatever is against right reason, +that no faith can oblige us to believe.’ Coleridge +quotes these words from Jeremy Taylor. And yet +ever since the dawn of the Renaissance, had subsisted +a conflict between reason and faith. From +the first, indeed, the Christian religion had affirmed +the existence of such a conflict, and had even based +its plea upon its own weakness in it. In face of the +classical culture, with its deep wide-struck roots in +the world as it permanently exists, St. Paul asserted +the claims of that which could not appeal with +success to any genuinely human principle. Paradox +as it was, that was the strength of the new spirit; +for how much is there at all times in humanity +which cannot appeal with success for encouragement +or tolerance to any genuinely human principle. +In the Middle Ages it might seem that faith +had reconciled itself to philosophy; the Catholic +church was the leader of the world’s life as well as +of the spirit’s. Looking closer we see that the conflict +is still latent there; the supremacy of faith is +only a part of the worship of sorrow and weakness +which marks the age. The weak are no longer +merely a majority, they are all Europe. It is not +that faith has become one with reason; but +a strange winter, a strange suspension of life, has +passed over the classical culture which is only the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_506" id="Page_506">[506]</a></span> +human reason in its most trenchant form. Glimpse +after glimpse, as that pagan culture awoke to life, +the conflict was felt once more. It is at the court +of Frederick II that the Renaissance first becomes +discernible as an actual power in European society. +How definite and unmistakable is the attitude of +faith towards that! Ever since the Reformation +all phases of theology had been imperfect philosophies—that +is, in which there was a religious +<i>arrière pensée</i>; philosophies which could never be +in the ascendant in a sincerely scientific sphere. +The two elements had never really mixed. Writers +so different as Locke and Taylor have each his +liberal philosophy, and each has his defence of the +orthodox belief; but, also, each has a divided +mind; we wonder how the two elements could +have existed side by side; brought together in +a single mind, but unable to fuse in it, they reveal +their radical contrariety. The Catholic church +and humanity are two powers that divide the +intellect and spirit of man. On the Catholic side +is faith, rigidly logical as Ultramontanism, with +a proportion of the facts of life, that is, all that is +despairing in life coming naturally under its +formula. On the side of humanity is all that is +desirable in the world, all that is sympathetic +with its laws, and succeeds through that sympathy. +Doubtless, for the individual, there are a thousand +intermediate shades of opinion, a thousand resting-places +for the religious spirit; still, τὸ διορίζειν οὐκ ἔστι τῶν πολλῶν, +fine distinctions are not for +the majority; and this makes time eventually +a dogmatist, working out the opposition in its +most trenchant form, and fixing the horns of the +dilemma; until, in the present day, we have on<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_507" id="Page_507">[507]</a></span> +one side Pius IX, the true descendant of the +fisherman, issuing the Encyclical, pleading the old +promise against the world with a special kind of +justice; and on the other side, the irresistible +modern culture, which, as religious men often +remind us, is only Christian accidentally.</p> + +<p>The peculiar temper of Coleridge’s intellect made +the idea of reconciling this conflict very seductive. +With a true speculative talent he united a false +kind of subtlety and the full share of vanity. +A dexterous intellectual <i>tour de force</i> has always an +independent charm; and therefore it is well for +the cause of truth that the directness, sincerity, +and naturalness of things are beyond a certain +limit sacrificed in vain to a factitious interest. +A method so forced as that of Coleridge’s religious +philosophy is from the first doomed to be insipid, +so soon as the temporary interest or taste or +curiosity it was designed to meet has passed away. +Then, as to the manner of such books as the <i>Aids +to Reflection</i>, or <i>The Friend</i>:—These books came +from one whose vocation was in the world of +art; and yet, perhaps, of all books that have been +influential in modern times, they are farthest from +the classical form—bundles of notes—the original +matter inseparably mixed up with that borrowed +from others—the whole, just that mere preparation +for an artistic effect which the finished artist would +be careful one day to destroy. Here, again, we +have a trait profoundly characteristic of Coleridge. +He often attempts to reduce a phase of thought, +subtle and exquisite, to conditions too rough for it. +He uses a purely speculative gift in direct moral +edification. Scientific truth is something fugitive, +relative, full of fine gradations; he tries to fix it in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_508" id="Page_508">[508]</a></span> +absolute formulas. The <i>Aids to Reflection</i>, or <i>The +Friend</i>, is an effort to propagate the volatile spirit +of conversation into the less ethereal fabric of +a written book; and it is only here and there that +the poorer matter becomes vibrant, is really lifted +by the spirit.</p> + +<p>At forty-two, we find Coleridge saying in a +letter:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>I feel with an intensity unfathomable by words my utter +nothingness, impotence, and worthlessness in and for +myself. I have learned what a sin is against an infinite, +imperishable being such as is the soul of man. The consolations, +at least the sensible sweetness of hope, I do not +possess. On the contrary, the temptation which I have +constantly to fight up against is a fear that, if annihilation +and the possibility of heaven were offered to my choice, +I should choose the former.</p></div> + +<p>What was the cause of this change? That is +precisely the point on which, after all the gossip +there has been, we are still ignorant. At times +Coleridge’s opium excesses were great; but what +led to those excesses must not be left out of account. +From boyhood he had a tendency to low fever, +betrayed by his constant appetite for bathing and +swimming, which he indulged even when a physician +had opposed it. In 1803, he went to Malta +as secretary to the English Governor. His daughter +suspects that the source of the evil was there, that +for one of his constitution the climate of Malta +was deadly. At all events, when he returned, the +charm of those five wonderful years had failed at +the source.</p> + +<p>De Quincey said of him, ‘he wanted better +bread than can be made with wheat.’ Lamb said +of him that from boyhood he had ‘hungered for +eternity’. Henceforth those are the two notes of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_509" id="Page_509">[509]</a></span> +his life. From this time we must look for no more +true literary talent in him. His style becomes +greyer and greyer, his thoughts <i>outré</i>, exaggerated, +a kind of credulity or superstition exercised upon +abstract words. Like Clifford, in Hawthorne’s +beautiful romance—the born Epicurean, who by +some strange wrong has passed the best of his days +in a prison—he is the victim of a division of the +will, often showing itself in trivial things: he +could never choose on which side of the garden path +he would walk. In 1803, he wrote a poem on +‘The Pains of Sleep’. That unrest increased. +Mr. Gillman tells us ‘he had long been greatly +afflicted with nightmare, and when residing with +us was frequently aroused from this painful sleep +by any one of the family who might hear him’.</p> + +<p>That faintness and continual dissolution had its +own consumptive refinements, and even brought, +as to the ‘Beautiful Soul’ in <i>Wilhelm Meister</i>, +a faint religious ecstasy—that ‘singing in the sails’ +which is not of the breeze. Here, again, is a note +of Coleridge’s:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>‘In looking at objects of nature while I am thinking, as +at yonder moon, dim-glimmering through the window-pane, +I seem rather to be seeking, as it were asking, a symbolical +language for something within me that already and for ever +exists, than observing anything new. Even when that +latter is the case, yet still I have always an obscure feeling, +as if that new phenomenon were the dim awaking of a forgotten +or hidden truth of my inner nature.’ Then, ‘while +I was preparing the pen to write this remark, I lost the +train of thought which had led me to it.’</p></div> + +<p>What a distemper of the eye of the mind! +What an almost bodily distemper there is in that!</p> + +<p>Coleridge’s intellectual sorrows were many; +but he had one singular intellectual happiness.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_510" id="Page_510">[510]</a></span> +With an inborn taste for transcendental philosophy +he lived just at the time when that philosophy took +an immense spring in Germany, and connected +itself with a brilliant literary movement. He had +the luck to light upon it in its freshness, and introduce +it to his countrymen. What an opportunity +for one reared on the colourless English philosophies, +but who feels an irresistible attraction +towards metaphysical synthesis! How rare are +such occasions of intellectual contentment! This +transcendental philosophy, chiefly as systematized +by Schelling, Coleridge applies, with an eager, unwearied +subtlety, to the questions of theology and +art-criticism. It is in his theory of art-criticism +that he comes nearest to true and important +principles; that is the least fugitive part of his +work. Let us take this first; here we shall most +clearly apprehend his main principle.</p> + +<p>What, then, is the essence of this criticism? On +the whole it may be described as an attempt to +reclaim the world of art as a world of fixed laws—to +show that the creative activity of genius and the +simplest act of thought are but higher and lower +products of the laws of a universal logic. Criticism, +feeling its own unsuccess in dealing with the +greater works of art, has sometimes made too +much of those dark and capricious suggestions of +genius which even the intellect possessed by them +is unable to track or recall. It has seemed due to +their half-sacred character to look for no link +between the process by which they were produced +and the slighter processes of the mind. Coleridge +assumes that the highest phases of thought must be +more, not less, than the lower, subjects of law.</p> + +<p>With this interest, in the <i>Biographia Literaria</i>,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_511" id="Page_511">[511]</a></span> +he refines Schelling’s ‘Philosophy of Nature’ into +a theory of art. ‘Es giebt kein Plagiat in der +Philosophie’ says Heine, alluding to the charge +brought against Schelling of unacknowledged +borrowing from Bruno, and certainly that which +is common to Coleridge and Schelling is of far +earlier origin than the Renaissance. Schellingism, +the ‘Philosophy of Nature’, is indeed a constant +tradition in the history of thought; it embodies +a permanent type of the speculative temper. +That mode of conceiving nature as a mirror or +reflex of the intelligence of man may be traced +up to the first beginnings of Greek speculation. +There are two ways of envisaging those aspects +of nature which appear to bear the impress of +reason or intelligence. There is the deist’s way, +which regards them merely as marks of design, +which separates the informing mind from nature, +as the mechanist from the machine; and there is +the pantheistic way, which identifies the two, +which regards nature itself as the living energy of +an intelligence of the same kind as, but vaster +than, the human. Greek philosophy, finding indications +of mind everywhere, dwelling exclusively +in its observations on that which is general or +formal, on that which modern criticism regards as +the modification of things by the mind of the +observer, adopts the latter, or pantheistic way, +through the influence of the previous mythological +period. Mythology begins in the early necessities +of language, of which it is a kind of accident. But +at a later period its essence changes; it becomes +what it was not at its birth, the servant of a genuine +poetic interest, a kind of <i>vivification</i> of nature. +Played upon by those accidents of language, the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_512" id="Page_512">[512]</a></span> +Greek mind becomes possessed by the conception +of nature as living, thinking, almost speaking to the +mind of man. This unfixed poetical prepossession, +reduced to an abstract form, petrified into an idea, +is the conception which gives a unity of aim to +Greek philosophy. Step by step it works out the +substance of the Hegelian formula: ‘Was ist, das +ist vernünftig; was vernünftig ist, das ist’—‘Whatever +is, is according to reason; whatever is +according to reason, that is.’ A science of which +that could be the formula is still but an intellectual +aspiration; the formula of true science is different. +Experience, which has gradually saddened the +earth’s colour, stiffened its motions, withdrawn +from it some blithe and debonair presence, has +moderated our demands upon science. The positive +method makes very little account of marks of intelligence +in nature; in its wider view of phenomena +it sees that those incidents are a minority, +and may rank as happy coincidences; it absorbs +them in the simpler conception of law. But the +suspicion of a mind latent in nature, struggling for +release and intercourse with the intellect of man +through true ideas, has never ceased to haunt a certain +class of minds. Started again and again in +successive periods by enthusiasts on the antique +pattern, in each case the thought has seemed paler +and more evanescent amidst the growing consistency +and sharpness of outline of other and more +positive forms of knowledge. Still, wherever +a speculative instinct has been united with extreme +inwardness of temperament, as in Jakob Böhme, +there the old Greek conception, like some seed +floating in the air, has taken root and sprung up +anew. Coleridge, thrust inward upon himself,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_513" id="Page_513">[513]</a></span> +driven from ‘life in thought and sensation’ to life +in thought only, feels in that dark London school +a thread of the Greek mind vibrating strangely +in him. At fifteen he is discoursing on Plotinus, +and has translated the hymns of Synesius. So in +later years he reflects from Schelling the flitting +tradition. He conceives a subtle co-ordination +between the ideas of the mind and the laws of the +natural world. Science is to be attained, not by +observation, analysis, generalization, but by the +evolution or recovery of those ideas from within, +by a sort of ἀνάμνησις, every group of observed +facts remaining an enigma until the appropriate +idea is struck upon them from the mind of Newton +or Cuvier, the genius in whom sympathy with the +universal reason is entire. Next he supposes that +this reason or intelligence in nature gradually +becomes reflective—self-conscious. He fancies he +can track through all the simpler orders of life +fragments of an eloquent prophecy about the +human mind. He regards the whole of nature as +a development of higher forms out of the lower, +through shade after shade of systematic change. +The dim stir of chemical atoms towards the axes +of a crystal form, the trance-like life of plants, the +animal troubled by strange irritabilities, are stages +which anticipate consciousness. All through that +increasing stir of life this was forming itself; each +stage in its unsatisfied susceptibilities seeming to +be drawn out of its own limits by the more pronounced +current of life on its confines, the ‘shadow +of approaching humanity’ gradually deepening, +the latent intelligence working to the surface. +At this point the law of development does not +lose itself in caprice; rather it becomes more<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_514" id="Page_514">[514]</a></span> +constraining and incisive. From the lowest to the +highest acts of intelligence, there is another range of +refining shades. Gradually the mind concentrates +itself, frees itself from the limits of the particular, +the individual, attains a strange power of modifying +and centralizing what it receives from without +according to an inward ideal. At last, in imaginative +genius, ideas become effective; the intelligence +of nature, with all its elements connected and +justified, is clearly reflected; and the interpretation +of its latent purposes is fixed in works of art.</p> + +<p>In this fanciful and bizarre attempt to rationalize +art, to range it under the dominion of law, there is +still a gap to be filled up. What is that common +law of the mind, of which a work of art and the +slighter acts of thought are alike products? Here +Coleridge weaves in Kant’s fine-spun theory of the +transformation of sense into perception. What +every theory of perception has to explain is that +associative power which gathers isolated sensible +qualities into the objects of the world about us. +Sense, without an associative power, would be +only a threadlike stream of colours, sounds, odours—each +struck upon one for a moment, and then +withdrawn. The basis of this association may be +represented as a material one, a kind of many-coloured +‘etching’ on the brain. Hartley has +dexterously handled this hypothesis. The charm +of his ‘theory of vibrations’ is the vivid image +it presents to the fancy. How large an element +in a speculative talent is the command of these +happy images! Coleridge, by a finer effort of the +same kind, a greater delicacy of fancy, detects all +sorts of slips, transitions, breaks of continuity in +Hartley’s glancing cobweb. Coleridge, with Kant,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_515" id="Page_515">[515]</a></span> +regards all association as effected by a power +within, to which he gives a fanciful Greek name.<a name="FNanchor_39_39" id="FNanchor_39_39"></a><a href="#Footnote_39_39" class="fnanchor">[39]</a> +In an act of perception there is the matter which +sense presents, colour, tone, feeling; but also +a form or mould, such as space, unity, causation, +suggested from within. In these forms we arrest +and frame the many attributes of sense. It is like +that simple chemical phenomenon where two +colourless fluids uniting reflect a full colour. +Neither matter nor form can be perceived asunder; +they unite into the many-coloured image of life. +This theory has not been able to bear a loyal +induction. Even if it were true, how little it would +tell us; how it attenuates fact! There, again, +the charm is all in the clear image; the image of the +artist combining a few elementary colours, curves, +sounds into a new whole. Well, this power of +association, of concentrating many elements of +sense in an object of perception, is refined and +deepened into the creative acts of imagination.</p> + +<p>We of the modern ages have become so familiarized +with the greater works of art that we are little +sensitive of the act of creation in them; they do +not impress us as a new presence in the world. +Only sometimes in productions which realize immediately +a profound emotion and enforce a change +in taste, such as <i>Werther</i> or <i>Emile</i>, we are actual +witnesses of the moulding of an unforeseen type by +some new principle of association. By imagination, +the distinction between which and fancy is so +thrust upon his readers, Coleridge means a vigorous +act of association, which, by simplifying and restraining +their natural expression to an artificial +order, refines and perfects the types of human +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_516" id="Page_516">[516]</a></span>passion. It represents the excitements of the +human kind, but reflected in a new manner, +‘excitement itself imitating order.’ ‘Originally +the offspring of passion,’ he somewhere says, ‘but +now the adopted children of power.’ So far there +is nothing new or distinctive; every one who can +receive from a poem or picture a total impression +will admit so much. What makes the view distinctive +in Coleridge are the Schellingistic associations +with which he colours it, that faint glamour +of the philosophy of nature which was ever influencing +his thoughts. That suggested the idea +of a subtly winding parallel, a ‘rapport’ in every +detail, between the human mind and the world +without it, laws of nature being so many transformed +ideas. Conversely, the ideas of the human +mind would be only transformed laws. Genius +would be in a literal sense an exquisitely purged +sympathy with nature. Those associative conceptions +of the imagination, those unforeseen types +of passion, would come, not so much of the artifice +and invention of the understanding, as from self-surrender +to the suggestions of nature; they +would be evolved by the stir of nature itself +realizing the highest reach of its latent intelligence; +they would have a kind of antecedent necessity to +rise at some time to the surface of the human +mind.</p> + +<p>It is natural that Shakespeare should be the +idol of all such criticism, whether in England or +Germany. The first effect in Shakespeare is that of +capricious detail, of the waywardness that plays +with the parts careless of the impression of the +whole. But beyond there is the constraining unity +of effect, the uneffaceable impression, of <i>Hamlet</i><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_517" id="Page_517">[517]</a></span> +or <i>Macbeth</i>. His hand moving freely is curved +round by some law of gravitation from within; +that is, there is the most constraining unity in +the most abundant variety. Coleridge exaggerates +this unity into something like the unity of a natural +organism, the associative act that effected it into +something closely akin to the primitive power of +nature itself. ‘In the Shakespearian drama’, he +says, ‘there is a vitality which grows and evolves +itself from within.’ Again:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>He, too, worked in the spirit of nature, by evolving the +germ from within by the imaginative power according to +the idea. For as the power of seeing is to light, so is an +idea in mind to a law in nature. They are correlatives +which suppose each other.</p></div> + +<p>Again:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>The organic form is innate; it shapes, as it develops, +itself from within, and the fulness of its development is one +and the same with the perfection of its outward form. +Such as the life is, such is the form. Nature, the prime +genial artist, inexhaustible in diverse powers, is equally +inexhaustible in forms; each exterior is the physiognomy +of the being within, and even such is the appropriate excellence +of Shakespeare, himself a nature humanized, a genial +understanding, directing self-consciously a power and an +implicit wisdom deeper even than our consciousness.</p></div> + +<p>There ‘the absolute’ has been affirmed in the +sphere of art; and thought begins to congeal. +Coleridge has not only overstrained the elasticity +of his hypothesis, but has also obscured the true +interest of art. For, after all, the artist has become +something almost mechanical; instead of being +the most luminous and self-possessed phase of +consciousness, the associative act itself looks like +some organic process of assimilation. The work of +art is sometimes likened to the living organism.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_518" id="Page_518">[518]</a></span> +That expresses the impression of a self-delighting, +independent life which a finished work of art gives +us; it does not express the process by which that +work was produced. Here there is no blind ferment +of lifeless elements to realize a type. By +exquisite analysis the artist attains clearness of +idea, then, by many stages of refining, clearness of +expression. He moves slowly over his work, +calculating the tenderest tone, and restraining the +subtlest curve, never letting his hand or fancy +move at large, gradually refining flaccid spaces +to the higher degree of expressiveness. Culture, +at least, values even in transcendent works of art +the power of the understanding in them, their +logical process of construction, the spectacle of +supreme intellectual dexterity which they afford.</p> + +<p>Coleridge’s criticism may well be remembered as +part of the long pleading of German culture for the +things ‘behind the veil’. It recalls us from the +work of art to the mind of the artist; and, after +all, this is what is infinitely precious, and the work +of art only as the index of it. Still, that is only +the narrower side of a complete criticism. Perhaps +it is true, as some one says in Lessing’s <i>Emilie +Galotti</i>, that, if Michael Angelo had been born +without hands, he would still have been the greatest +of artists. But we must admit the truth also of +an opposite view: ‘In morals as in art’, says +M. Renan, ‘the word is nothing—the fact is everything. +The idea which lurks under a picture of +Raphael is a slight matter; it is the picture itself +only that counts.’</p> + +<p>What constitutes an artistic gift is, first of all, +a natural susceptibility to moments of strange +excitement, in which the colours freshen upon our<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_519" id="Page_519">[519]</a></span> +thread bare world, and the routine of things about +us is broken by a novel and happier synthesis. +These are moments into which other minds may be +made to enter, but which they cannot originate. +This susceptibility is the element of genius in an +artistic gift. Secondly, there is what may be +called the talent of projection, of throwing these +happy moments into an external concrete form—a +statue, or play, or picture. That projection is +of all degrees of completeness; its facility and +transparence are modified by the circumstances of +the individual, his culture, and his age. When it is +perfectly transparent, the work is classical. Compare +the power of projection in Mr. Browning’s +<i>Sordello</i>, with that power in the <i>Sorrows of +Werther</i>. These two elements determine the two +chief aims of criticism. First, it has to classify +those initiative moments according to the amount +of interest excited in them, to estimate their comparative +acceptability, their comparative power of +giving joy to those who undergo them. Secondly, +it has to test, by a study of the artistic product +itself, in connexion with the intellectual and +spiritual condition of its age, the completeness of +the projection. These two aims form the positive, +or concrete, side of criticism; their direction is not +towards a metaphysical definition of the universal +element in an artistic effort, but towards a subtle +gradation of the shades of difference between one +artistic gift and another. This side of criticism +is infinitely varied; and it is what French culture +more often achieves than the German.</p> + +<p>Coleridge has not achieved this side in an equal +degree with the other; and this want is not supplied +by the <i>Literary Remains</i>, which contain his studies<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_520" id="Page_520">[520]</a></span> +on Shakespeare. There we have a repetition, not +an application, of the absolute formula. Coleridge +is like one who sees in a picture only the rules of +perspective, and is always trying to simplify even +those. Thus: ‘Where there is no humour, but +only wit, or the like, there is no growth from within.’ +‘What is beauty’? he asks. ‘It is the unity of +the manifold, the coalescence of the diverse.’ So +of Dante: ‘There is a total impression of infinity; +the wholeness is not in vision or conception, but in +an inner feeling of totality and absolute being.’ +Again, of the <i>Paradise Lost</i>: ‘It has the totality +of the poem as distinguished from the <i>ab ovo</i> birth +and parentage or straight line of history.’</p> + +<p>That exaggerated inwardness is barren. Here, +too, Coleridge’s thoughts require to be thawed, to +be set in motion. He is admirable in the detection, +the analysis, and statement of a few of the highest +general laws of art-production. But he withdraws +us too far from what we can see, hear, and +feel. Doubtless, the idea, the intellectual element, +is the spirit and life of art. Still, art is the triumph +of the senses and the emotions; and the senses and +the emotions must not be cheated of their triumph +after all. That strange and beautiful psychology +which he employs, with its evanescent delicacies, +has not sufficient corporeity. Again, one feels that +the discussion about Hartley, meeting us in the way, +throws a tone of insecurity over the critical theory +which it introduces. Its only effect is to win for +the terms in which that criticism is expressed, the +associations of one side in a metaphysical controversy.</p> + +<p>The vagueness and fluidity of Coleridge’s theological +opinions have been exaggerated through an<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_521" id="Page_521">[521]</a></span> +illusion, which has arisen from the occasional form +in which they have reached us. Criticism, then, +has to methodize and focus them. They may be +arranged under three heads; the general principles +of supernaturalism, orthodox dogmas, the interpretation +of Scripture. With regard to the first +and second, Coleridge ranks as a Conservative +thinker; but his principles of Scriptural interpretation +resemble Lessing’s; they entitle him to be +regarded as the founder of the modern liberal +school of English theology. By supernaturalism +is meant the theory of a divine person in immediate +communication with the human mind, dealing +with it out of that order of nature which includes +man’s body and his ordinary trains of thought, +according to fixed laws, which the theologian sums +up in the doctrines of ‘grace’ and ‘sin’. Of this +supernaturalism, the <i>Aids to Reflection</i> attempts +to give a metaphysical proof. The first necessity +of the argument is to prove that religion, with its +supposed experiences of grace and sin, and the +realities of a world above the world of sense, is the +fulfilment of the constitution of every man, or, +in the language of the ‘philosophy of nature’, is +part of the ‘idea’ of man; so that, when those +experiences are absent, all the rest of his nature +is unexplained, like some enigmatical fragment, +the construction and working of which we cannot +surmise. According to Schelling’s principle, +the explanation of every phase of life is to be +sought in that next above it. This axiom is +applied to three supposed stages of man’s reflective +life: Prudence, Morality, Religion. Prudence, by +which Coleridge means something like Bentham’s +‘enlightened principle of self-preservation’, is, he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_522" id="Page_522">[522]</a></span> +says, an inexplicable instinct, a blind motion in the +dark, until it is expanded into morality. Morality, +again, is but a groundless prepossession until transformed +into a religious recognition of a spiritual +world, until, as Coleridge says in his rich figurative +language, ‘like the main feeder into some majestic +lake, rich with hidden springs of its own, it flows +into, and becomes one with, the spiritual life.’ A +spiritual life, then, being the fulfilment of human +nature, implied, if we see clearly, in those instincts +which enable one to live on from day to day, is +part of the ‘idea’ of man.</p> + +<p>The second necessity of the argument is to prove +that ‘the idea’, according to the principle of the +‘philosophy of nature’, is an infallible index of the +actual condition of the world without us. Here +Coleridge introduces an analogy:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>In the world, we see everywhere evidences of a unity, +which the component parts are so far from explaining, that +they necessarily presuppose it as the cause and condition +of their existing as those parts, or even of their existing at +all. This antecedent unity, or cause and principle of each +union, it has, since the time of Bacon and Kepler, been +customary to call a law. This crocus for instance; or any +other flower the reader may have before his sight, or choose +to bring before his fancy; that the root, stem, leaves, petals, +&c., cohere to one plant is owing to an antecedent power or +principle in the seed which existed before a single particle +of the matters that constitute the size and visibility of the +crocus had been attracted from the surrounding soil, air, +and moisture. Shall we turn to the seed? there, too, the +same necessity meets us: an antecedent unity must here, +too, be supposed. Analyse the seeds with the finest tools, +and let the solar microscope come in aid of your senses, +what do you find?—means and instruments; a wondrous +fairy tale of nature, magazines of food, stores of various +sorts, pipes, spiracles, defences; a house of many chambers, +and the owner and inhabitant invisible.</p> + +<p class="sig"><i>Aids to Reflection.</i></p></div> + +<p>Nature, that is, works by what we may call<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_523" id="Page_523">[523]</a></span> +‘intact ideas’. It co-ordinates every part of the +crocus to all the other parts; one stage of its +growth to the whole process; and having framed +its organism to assimilate certain external elements, +it does not cheat it of those elements, soil, air, +moisture. Well, if the ‘idea’ of man is to be +intact, he must be enveloped in a supernatural +world; and nature always works by intact ideas. +The spiritual life is the highest development of the +idea of man; there must be a supernatural world +corresponding to it.</p> + +<p>One finds, it is hard to say how many, difficulties +in drawing Coleridge’s conclusion. To mention +only one of them—the argument looks too like the +exploded doctrine of final causes. Of course the +crocus would not live unless the conditions of its +life were supplied. The flower is made for soil, air, +moisture, and it has them; just as man’s senses +are made for a sensible world, and we have the +sensible world. But give the flower the power of +dreaming, nourish it on its own reveries, put man’s +wild hunger of heart and susceptibility to <i>ennui</i> in +it, and what indication of the laws of the world +without it, would be afforded by its longing to +break its bonds?</p> + +<p>In theology people are content with analogies, +probabilities, with the empty schemes of arguments +for which the data are still lacking; arguments, the +rejection of which Coleridge tells us implies ‘an +evil heart of unbelief’, but of which we might as +truly say that they derive all their consistency +from the peculiar atmosphere of the mind which +receives them. Such arguments are received in +theology because what chains men to a religion<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_524" id="Page_524">[524]</a></span> +is not its claim on their reason, their hopes or fears, +but the glow it affords to the world, its ‘beau +ideal’. Coleridge thinks that if we reject the +supernatural, the spiritual element in life will +evaporate also, that we shall have to accept a life +with narrow horizons, without disinterestedness, +harshly cut off from the springs of life in the past. +But what is this spiritual element? It is the +passion for inward perfection, with its sorrows, its +aspirations, its joy. These mental states are the +delicacies of the higher morality of the few, of +Augustine, of the author of the ‘Imitation’, of +Francis de Sales; in their essence they are only +the permanent characteristics of the higher life. +Augustine, or the author of the ‘Imitation’, +agreeably to the culture of their age, had expressed +them in the terms of a metaphysical theory, and +expanded them into what theologians call the +doctrines of grace and sin, the fluctuations of the +union of the soul with its unseen friend. The life +of those who are capable of a passion for perfection +still produces the same mental states; but that +religious expression of them is no longer congruous +with the culture of the age. Still, all inward life +works itself out in a few simple forms, and culture +cannot go very far before the religious graces reappear +in it in a subtilized intellectual shape. +There are aspects of the religious character which +have an artistic worth distinct from their religious +import. Longing, a chastened temper, spiritual +joy, are precious states of mind, not because they +are part of man’s duty or because God has commanded +them, still less because they are means of +obtaining a reward, but because like culture itself +they are remote, refined, intense, existing only by<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_525" id="Page_525">[525]</a></span> +the triumph of a few over a dead world of routine +in which there is no lifting of the soul at all. If +there is no other world, art in its own interest must +cherish such characteristics as beautiful spectacles. +Stephen’s face, ‘like the face of an angel,’ has +a worth of its own, even if the opened heaven is but +a dream.</p> + +<p>Our culture, then, is not supreme, our intellectual +life is incomplete, we fail of the intellectual throne, +if we have no inward longing, inward chastening, +inward joy. Religious belief, the craving for objects +of belief, may be refined out of our hearts, but they +must leave their sacred perfume, their spiritual sweetness +behind. This law of the highest intellectual life +has sometimes seemed hard to understand. Those +who maintain the claims of the older and narrower +forms of religious life against the claims of culture +are often embarrassed at finding the intellectual +life heated through with the very graces to which +they would sacrifice it. How often in the higher +class of theological writings—writings which really +spring from an original religious genius, such as +those of Dr. Newman—does the modern aspirant +to perfect culture seem to find the expression of the +inmost delicacies of his own life, the same yet +different! The spiritualities of the Christian life +have often drawn men on, little by little, into the +broader spiritualities of systems opposed to it—pantheism, +or positivism, or a philosophy of indifference. +Many in our own generation, through religion, +have become dead to religion. How often do we +have to look for some feature of the ancient religious +life, not in a modern saint, but in a modern +artist or philosopher! For those who have passed +out of Christianity, perhaps its most precious<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_526" id="Page_526">[526]</a></span> +souvenir is the ideal of a transcendental disinterestedness. +Where shall we look for this ideal? +In Spinoza; or perhaps in Bentham or in Austin.</p> + +<p>Some of those who have wished to save supernaturalism—as, +for instance, Theodore Parker—have +rejected more or less entirely the dogmas of +the Church. Coleridge’s instinct is truer than +theirs; the two classes of principles are logically +connected. It was in defence of the dogmas of +the Church that Coleridge elaborated his unhappy +crotchet of the diversity of the reason from the +understanding. The weakness of these dogmas +had ever been, not so much a failure of the authority +of Scripture or tradition in their favour, as their +conflict with the reason that they were words +rather than conceptions. That analysis of words +and conceptions which in modern philosophy has +been a principle of continual rejuvenescence with +Descartes and Berkeley, as well as with Bacon and +Locke, had desolated the field of scholastic theology. +It is the rationality of the dogmas of that theology +that Coleridge had a taste for proving.</p> + +<p>Of course they conflicted with the understanding, +with the common daylight of the mind, but then +might there not be some mental faculty higher than +the understanding? The history of philosophy +supplied many authorities for this opinion. Then, +according to the ‘philosophy of nature’, science +and art are both grounded upon the ‘ideas’ of +genius, which are a kind of intuition, which are +their own evidence. Again, this philosophy was +always saying the ideas of the mind must be true, +must correspond to reality; and what an aid to +faith is that, if one is not too nice in distinguishing +between ideas and mere convictions, or prejudices,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_527" id="Page_527">[527]</a></span> +or habitual views, or safe opinions! Kant also +had made a distinction between the reason and the +understanding. True, this harsh division of mental +faculties is exactly what is most sterile in Kant, the +essential tendency of the German school of thought +being to show that the mind always acts <i>en masse</i>. +Kant had defined two senses of reason as opposed +to the understanding. First, there was the +‘speculative reason’, with its ‘three categories of +totality’, God, the soul, and the universe—three +mental forms which might give a sort of unity to +science, but to which no actual intuition corresponded. +The tendency of this part of Kant’s +critique is to destroy the rational groundwork of +theism. Then there was the ‘practical reason’, +on the relation of which to the ‘speculative’, we may +listen to Heinrich Heine:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>‘After the tragedy comes the farce. [The tragedy is +Kant’s destructive criticism of the speculative reason.] +So far Immanuel Kant has been playing the relentless +philosopher; he has laid siege to heaven.’ Heine goes on +with some violence to describe the havoc Kant has made +of the orthodox belief: ‘Old Lampe,<a name="FNanchor_40_40" id="FNanchor_40_40"></a><a href="#Footnote_40_40" class="fnanchor">[40]</a> with the umbrella +under his arm, stands looking on much disturbed, perspiration +and tears of sorrow running down his cheeks. Then +Immanuel Kant grows pitiful, and shows that he is not only +a great philosopher but also a good man. He considers +a little; and then, half in good nature, half in irony, he says, +“Old Lampe must have a god, otherwise the poor man will +not be happy; but man ought to be happy in this life, +the practical reason says that; let the practical reason +stand surety for the existence of a god; it is all the same +to me.” Following this argument, Kant distinguishes +between the theoretical and the practical reason, and, with +the practical reason for a magic wand, he brings to life the +dead body of deism, which the theoretical reason had +slain.’</p></div> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_528" id="Page_528">[528]</a></span></p> +<p>Coleridge first confused the speculative reason +with the practical, and then exaggerated the variety +and the sphere of their combined functions. Then +he has given no consistent definition of the reason. +It is ‘the power of universal and necessary convictions’; +it is ‘the knowledge of the laws of +the whole considered as one’; it is ‘the science of +all as a whole’. Again, the understanding is ‘the +faculty judging according to sense’, or ‘the +faculty of means to mediate ends’; and so on. +The conception floating in his mind seems to have +been a really valuable one; that, namely, of a distinction +between an organ of adequate and an +organ of inadequate ideas. But when we find him +casting about for a definition, not precisely determining +the functions of the reason, making long +preparations for the ‘deduction’ of the faculty, as +in the third column of <i>The Friend</i>, but never +actually starting, we suspect that the reason is +a discovery in psychology which Coleridge has +a good will to make, and that is all; that he has +got no farther than the old vague desire to escape +from the limitations of thought by some extraordinary +mystical faculty. Some of the clergy +eagerly welcomed the supposed discovery. In +their difficulties they had often appealed in the old +simple way to sentiment and emotion as of higher +authority than the understanding, and on the +whole had had to get on with very little philosophy. +Like M. Jourdain, they were amazed to find that +they had been all the time appealing to the reason; +now they might actually go out to meet the enemy. +Orthodoxy might be cured by a hair of the dog that +had bitten it.</p> + +<p>Theology is a great house, scored all over with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_529" id="Page_529">[529]</a></span> +hieroglyphics by perished hands. When we +decipher one of these hieroglyphics, we find in it +the statement of a mistaken opinion; but knowledge +has crept onward since the hand dropped +from the wall; we no longer entertain the opinion, +and we can trace the origin of the mistake. Dogmas +are precious as memorials of a class of sincere +and beautiful spirits, who in a past age of humanity +struggled with many tears, if not for true knowledge, +yet for a noble and elevated happiness. +That struggle is the substance, the dogma only its +shadowy expression; received traditionally in an +altered age, it is the shadow of a shadow, a mere +τρίτον εἴδωλον, twice removed from substance +and reality. The true method then in the treatment +of dogmatic theology must be historical. +Englishmen are gradually finding out how much +that method has done since the beginning of modern +criticism by the hands of such writers as Baur. +Coleridge had many of the elements of this method: +learning, inwardness, a subtle psychology, a dramatic +power of sympathy with modes of thought +other than his own. Often in carrying out his own +method he gives the true historical origin of a +dogma, but, with a strange dullness of the historical +sense, he regards this as a reason for the existence +of the dogma now, not merely as reason for its +having existed in the past. Those historical +elements he could not envisage in the historical +method, because this method is only one of the +applications, the most fruitful of them all, of the +relative spirit.</p> + +<p>After Coleridge’s death, seven letters of his on +the inspiration of Scripture were published, under +the title of <i>Confessions of an Inquiring Spirit</i>.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_530" id="Page_530">[530]</a></span> +This little book has done more than any other of +Coleridge’s writings to discredit his name with the +orthodox. The frequent occurrence in it of the +word ‘bibliolatry’, borrowed from Lessing, would +sufficiently account for this pious hatred. From +bibliolatry Coleridge was saved by the spiritualism, +which, in questions less simple than that of the +infallibility of Scripture, was so retarding to his +culture. Bibliolators may remember that one +who committed a kind of intellectual suicide by +catching at any appearance of a fixed and absolute +authority, never dreamed of resting on the authority +of a book. His Schellingistic notion of the possibility +of absolute knowledge, of knowing God, of +a light within every man which might discover +to him the doctrines of Christianity, tended to +depreciate historical testimony, perhaps historical +realism altogether. Scripture is a legitimate sphere +for the understanding. He says, indeed, that there +is more in the Bible that ‘finds’ him than he has +experienced in all other books put together. But +still, ‘There is a Light higher than all, even the +Word that was in the beginning. If between this +Word and the written letter I shall anywhere seem +to myself to find a discrepance, I will not conclude +that such there actually is; nor on the other hand +will I fall under the condemnation of them that +would lie for God, but seek as I may, be thankful +for what I have—and wait.’ Coleridge is the +inaugurator of that <i>via media</i> of Scriptural criticism +which makes much of saving the word ‘inspiration’, +while it attenuates its meaning; which supposes +a sort of modified inspiration residing in the whole, +not in the several parts. ‘The Scriptures were +not dictated by an infallible intelligence;’ nor<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_531" id="Page_531">[531]</a></span> +‘the writers each and all divinely informed as well +as inspired’. ‘They refer to other documents, and +in all points express themselves as sober-minded +and veracious writers under ordinary circumstances +are known to do.’ To make the Bible itself ‘the +subject of a special article of faith, is an unnecessary +and useless abstraction’.</p> + +<p>His judgement on the popular view of inspiration +is severe. It is borrowed from the Cabbalists; +it ‘petrifies at once the whole body of Holy Writ, +with all its harmonies and symmetrical gradations;—turns +it at once into a colossal Memnon’s head, +a hollow passage for a voice, a voice that mocks +the voices of many men, and speaks in their +names, and yet is but one voice and the same;—and +no man uttered it and never in a human heart +was it conceived’. He presses very hard on the +tricks of the ‘routiniers of desk and pulpit’; +forced and fantastic interpretations; ‘the strange—in +all other writings unexampled—practice of +bringing together into logical dependency detached +sentences from books composed at the distance of +centuries, nay, sometimes a millennium, from each +other, under different dispensations, and for different +objects.’</p> + +<p>Certainly he is much farther from bibliolatry +than from the perfect freedom of the humanist +interpreters. Still he has not freed himself from +the notion of a sacred canon; he cannot regard the +books of Scripture simply as fruits of the human +spirit; his criticism is not entirely disinterested. +The difficulties he finds are chiefly the supposed +immoralities of Scripture; just those difficulties +which fade away before the modern or relative +spirit, which in the moral world, as in the physical<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_532" id="Page_532">[532]</a></span> +traces everywhere change, growth, development. +Of historical difficulties, of those deeper moral +difficulties which arise, for instance, from a consideration +of the constitutional unveracity of the +Oriental mind, he has no suspicion. He thinks +that no book of the New Testament was composed +so late as <small>A.D.</small> 120.</p> + +<p>Coleridge’s undeveloped opinions would be +hardly worth stating except for the warning they +afford against retarding compromises. In reading +these letters one never doubts what Coleridge tells +us of himself: ‘that he loved truth with an indescribable +awe,’ or, as he beautifully says, ‘that +he would creep towards the light, even if the light +had made its way through a rent in the wall of the +temple.’ And yet there is something sad in reading +them by the light which twenty-five years have +thrown back upon them. Taken as a whole, they +contain a fallacy which a very ardent lover of truth +might have detected.</p> + +<p>The Bible is not to judge the spirit, but the spirit +the Bible. The Bible is to be treated as a literary +product. Well, but that is a conditional, not an +absolute principle—that is not, if we regard it +sincerely, a delivery of judgement, but only a suspension +of it. If we are true to the spirit of that, +we must wait patiently the complete result of +modern criticism. Coleridge states that the +authority of Scripture is on its trial—that at +present it is not known to be an absolute resting-place; +and then, instead of leaving that to aid in +the formation of a fearless spirit, the spirit which, +for instance, would accept the results of M. Renan’s +investigations, he turns it into a false security by +anticipating the judgement of an undeveloped<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_533" id="Page_533">[533]</a></span> +criticism. Twenty-five years of that criticism +have gone by, and have hardly verified the +anticipation.</p> + +<p>The man of science asks, Are absolute principles +attainable? What are the limits of knowledge? +The answer he receives from science itself is not +ambiguous. What the moralist asks is, Shall we +gain or lose by surrendering human life to the +relative spirit? Experience answers, that the +dominant tendency of life is to turn ascertained +truth into a dead letter—to make us all the +phlegmatic servants of routine. The relative +spirit, by dwelling constantly on the more fugitive +conditions or circumstances of things, breaking +through a thousand rough and brutal classifications, +and giving elasticity to inflexible principles, +begets an intellectual finesse, of which the ethical +result is a delicate and tender justness in the criticism +of human life. Who would gain more than +Coleridge by criticism in such a spirit? We know +how his life has appeared when judged by absolute +standards. We see him trying to apprehend the +absolute, to stereotype one form of faith, to attain, +as he says, ‘fixed principles’ in politics, morals, +and religion; to fix one mode of life as the essence +of life, refusing to see the parts as parts only; and +all the time his own pathetic history pleads for +a more elastic moral philosophy than his, and +cries out against every formula less living and +flexible than life itself.</p> + +<p>‘From his childhood he hungered for eternity.’ +After all, that is the incontestable claim of Coleridge. +The perfect flower of any elementary type of life +must always be precious to humanity, and Coleridge +is the perfect flower of the romantic type. More<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_534" id="Page_534">[534]</a></span> +than Childe Harold, more than Werther, more +than René, Coleridge, by what he did, what he was, +and what he failed to do, represents that inexhaustible +discontent, languor, and home-sickness, +the chords of which ring all through our modern +literature. Criticism may still discuss the claims +of classical and romantic art, or literature, or +sentiment; and perhaps one day we may come to +forget the horizon, with full knowledge to be content +with what is here and now; and that is the +essence of classical feeling. But by us of the +present moment, by us for whom the Greek spirit, +with its engaging naturalness, simple, chastened, +debonair,τρυφῆς, ἁβρότητος, χλιδῆς, χαρίτων, ἱμέρου πόθου πατήρ, +is itself the Sangraal of an endless +pilgrimage, Coleridge, with his passion for the +absolute, for something fixed where all is moving, +his faintness, his broken memory, his intellectual +disquiet, may still be ranked among the interpreters +of one of the constituent elements of our +life.</p> + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_37_37" id="Footnote_37_37"></a><a href="#FNanchor_37_37"><span class="label">[37]</span></a> Preface to the <i>Excursion</i>.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_38_38" id="Footnote_38_38"></a><a href="#FNanchor_38_38"><span class="label">[38]</span></a> Biographical Supplement to <i>Biographia Literaria</i>, +chap. ii.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_39_39" id="Footnote_39_39"></a><a href="#FNanchor_39_39"><span class="label">[39]</span></a> Esemplastic.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_40_40" id="Footnote_40_40"></a><a href="#FNanchor_40_40"><span class="label">[40]</span></a> The servant who attended Kant in his walks.</p></div> +</div> + + +<h2><a name="RALPH_WALDO_EMERSON" id="RALPH_WALDO_EMERSON"></a>RALPH WALDO EMERSON<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_535" id="Page_535">[535]</a></span></h2> + +<h3>1803-1882</h3> + +<h3>SHAKESPEARE; OR, THE POET. 1850.</h3> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Great</span> men are more distinguished by range and +extent than by originality. If we require the +originality which consists in weaving, like a spider, +their web from their own bowels; in finding clay, +and making bricks, and building the house; no +great men are original. Nor does valuable originality +consist in unlikeness to other men. The hero +is in the press of knights, and the thick of events; +and, seeing what men want, and sharing their +desire, he adds the needful length of sight and of +arm, to come at the desired point. The greatest +genius is the most indebted man. A poet is no +rattlebrain, saying what comes uppermost, and, +because he says everything, saying, at last, something +good; but a heart in unison with his time +and country. There is nothing whimsical and +fantastic in his production, but sweet and sad +earnest, freighted with the weightiest convictions, +and pointed with the most determined aim which +any man or class knows of in his times.</p> + +<p>The Genius of our life is jealous of individuals, +and will not have any individual great, except +through the general. There is no choice to genius. +A great man does not wake up on some fine morning, +and say, ‘I am full of life, I will go to sea, and +find an Antarctic continent: to-day I will square<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_536" id="Page_536">[536]</a></span> +the circle: I will ransack botany, and find a new +food for man: I have a new architecture in my +mind: I foresee a new mechanic power:’ no, but +he finds himself in the river of the thoughts and +events, forced onward by the ideas and necessities +of his contemporaries. He stands where all the +eyes of men look one way, and their hands all +point in the direction in which he should go. The +church has reared him amidst rites and pomps, +and he carries out the advice which her music gave +him, and builds a cathedral needed by her chants +and processions. He finds a war raging: it educates +him, by trumpet, in barracks, and he betters +the instruction. He finds two counties groping to +bring coal, or flour, or fish, from the place of production +to the place of consumption, and he hits +on a railroad. Every master has found his material +collected, and his power lay in his sympathy with +his people, and in his love of the materials he +wrought in. What an economy of power! and +what a compensation for the shortness of life! +All is done to his hand. The world has brought +him thus far on his way. The human race has +gone out before him, sunk the hills, filled the hollows, +and bridged the rivers. Men, nations, poets, +artisans, women, all have worked for him, and he +enters into their labours. Choose any other thing, +out of the line of tendency, out of the national +feeling and history, and he would have all to do +for himself; his powers would be expended in the +first preparations. Great genial power, one would +almost say, consists in not being original at all; +in being altogether receptive; in letting the world +do all, and suffering the spirit of the hour to pass +unobstructed through the mind.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_537" id="Page_537">[537]</a></span></p> + +<p>Shakespeare’s youth fell in a time when the +English people were importunate for dramatic +entertainments. The court took offence easily at +political allusions, and attempted to suppress +them. The Puritans, a growing and energetic +party, and the religious among the Anglican church, +would suppress them. But the people wanted them. +Inn-yards, houses without roofs, and extemporaneous +enclosures at country fairs, were the ready +theatres of strolling players. The people had +tasted this new joy; and, as we could not hope +to suppress newspapers now,—no, not by the +strongest party,—neither then could king, prelate, +or puritan, alone or united, suppress an organ, +which was ballad, epic, newspaper, caucus, lecture, +punch, and library, at the same time. Probably +king, prelate, and puritan, all found their own +account in it. It had become, by all causes, a +national interest,—by no means conspicuous, so +that some great scholar would have thought of +treating it in an English history,—but not a whit +less considerable, because it was cheap, and of no +account, like a baker’s shop. The best proof of its +vitality is the crowd of writers which suddenly +broke into this field: Kyd, Marlowe, Greene, +Jonson, Chapman, Dekker, Webster, Heywood, +Middleton, Peele, Ford, Massinger, Beaumont, +and Fletcher.</p> + +<p>The secure possession, by the stage, of the public +mind, is of the first importance to the poet who +works for it. He loses no time in idle experiments. +Here is audience and expectation prepared. In +the case of Shakespeare, there is much more. At +the time when he left Stratford, and went up to +London, a great body of stage-plays, of all dates<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_538" id="Page_538">[538]</a></span> +and writers, existed in manuscript, and were in +turn produced on the boards. Here is the Tale +of Troy, which the audience will bear hearing some +part of every week; the Death of Julius Cæsar, +and other stories out of Plutarch, which they never +tire of; a shelf full of English history, from the +chronicles of Brut and Arthur, down to the royal +Henries, which men hear eagerly; and a string +of doleful tragedies, merry Italian tales, and Spanish +voyages, which all the London prentices know. +All the mass has been treated, with more or less +skill, by every playwright, and the prompter has +the soiled and tattered manuscripts. It is now +no longer possible to say who wrote them first. +They have been the property of the Theatre so +long, and so many rising geniuses have enlarged +or altered them, inserting a speech, or a whole +Scene, or adding a song, that no man can any +longer claim copyright in this work of numbers. +Happily, no man wishes to. They are not yet +desired in that way. We have few readers, many +spectators and hearers. They had best lie where +they are.</p> + +<p>Shakespeare, in common with his comrades, +esteemed the mass of old plays, waste stock, in +which any experiment could be freely tried. Had +the <i>prestige</i> which hedges about a modern tragedy +existed, nothing could have been done. The rude +warm blood of the living England circulated in +the play, as in street-ballads, and gave body which +he wanted to his airy and majestic fancy. The +poet needs a ground in popular tradition on which +he may work, and which, again, may restrain his +art within the due temperance. It holds him to +the people, supplies a foundation for his edifice;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_539" id="Page_539">[539]</a></span> +and, in furnishing so much work done to his hand, +leaves him at leisure, and in full strength for the +audacities of his imagination. In short, the poet +owes to his legend what sculpture owed to the +temple. Sculpture in Egypt, and in Greece, grew +up in subordination to architecture. It was the +ornament of the temple wall: at first, a rude relief +carved on pediments, then the relief became bolder, +and a head or arm was projected from the wall, +the groups being still arranged with reference +to the building, which serves also as a frame to +hold the figures; and when, at last, the greatest +freedom of style and treatment was reached, the +prevailing genius of architecture still enforced a +certain calmness and continence in the statue. +As soon as the statue was begun for itself, and +with no reference to the temple or palace, the art +began to decline; freak, extravagance, and exhibition, +took the place of the old temperance. This +balance-wheel, which the sculptor found in architecture, +the perilous irritability of poetic talent +found in the accumulated dramatic materials to +which the people were already wonted, and which +had a certain excellence which no single genius, +however extraordinary, could hope to create.</p> + +<p>In point of fact, it appears that Shakespeare did +owe debts in all directions, and was able to use +whatever he found; and the amount of indebtedness +may be inferred from Malone’s laborious computations +in regard to the First, Second, and Third +parts of <i>Henry VI</i>, in which, ‘out of 6043 lines, +1771 were written by some author preceding +Shakespeare; 2373 by him, on the foundation +laid by his predecessors; and 1899 were entirely +his own.’ And the proceeding investigation hardly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_540" id="Page_540">[540]</a></span> +leaves a single drama of his absolute invention. +Malone’s sentence is an important piece of external +history. In <i>Henry VIII</i>, I think I see plainly the +cropping out of the original rock on which his own +finer stratum was laid. The first play was written +by a superior, thoughtful man, with a vicious ear. +I can mark his lines, and know well their cadence. +See Wolsey’s soliloquy, and the following scene +with Cromwell, where,—instead of the metre of +Shakespeare, whose secret is, that the thought +constructs the tune, so that reading for the sense +will best bring out the rhythm,—here the lines are +constructed on a given tune, and the verse has even +a trace of pulpit eloquence. But the play contains, +through all its length, unmistakable traits of +Shakespeare’s hand, and some passages, as the +account of the coronation, are like autographs. +What is odd, the compliment to Queen Elizabeth +is in the bad rhythm.</p> + +<p>Shakespeare knew that tradition supplies a +better fable than any invention can. If he lost +any credit of design, he augmented his resources; +and, at that day, our petulant demand for originality +was not so much pressed. There was no +literature for the million. The universal reading, +the cheap press, were unknown. A great poet, +who appears in illiterate times, absorbs into his +sphere all the light which is anywhere radiating. +Every intellectual jewel, every flower of sentiment, +it is his fine office to bring to his people; and he +comes to value his memory equally with his invention. +He is therefore little solicitous whence his +thoughts have been derived; whether through +translation, whether through tradition, whether +by travel in distant countries, whether by inspiration;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_541" id="Page_541">[541]</a></span> +from whatever source, they are equally +welcome to his uncritical audience. Nay, he +borrows very near home. Other men say wise +things as well as he; only they say a good many +foolish things, and do not know when they have +spoken wisely. He knows the sparkle of the true +stone, and puts it in high place, wherever he finds +it. Such is the happy position of Homer, perhaps; +of Chaucer, of Saadi. They felt that all wit was +their wit. And they are librarians and historiographers, +as well as poets. Each romancer was +heir and dispenser of all the hundred tales of the +world,—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Presenting Thebes’ and Pelops’ line,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the tale of Troy divine.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The influence of Chaucer is conspicuous in all +our early literature; and, more recently, not only +Pope and Dryden have been beholden to him, but, +in the whole society of English writers, a large +unacknowledged debt is easily traced. One is +charmed with the opulence which feeds so many +pensioners. But Chaucer is a huge borrower. +Chaucer, it seems, drew continually, through +Lydgate and Caxton, from Guido di Colonna, +whose Latin romance of the Trojan war was in +turn a compilation from Dares Phrygius, Ovid, +and Statius. Then Petrarch, Boccaccio, and the +Provençal poets are his benefactors: the <i>Romaunt +of the Rose</i> is only judicious translation from +William of Lorris and John of Meun: <i>Troilus and +Creseide</i>, from Lollius of Urbino: <i>The Cock and +the Fox</i>, from the <i>Lais</i> of Marie: <i>The House of +Fame</i>, from the French or Italian: and poor +Gower he uses as if he were only a brick-kiln or<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_542" id="Page_542">[542]</a></span> +stone-quarry, out of which to build his house. He +steals by this apology; that what he takes has no +worth where he finds it, and the greatest where he +leaves it. It has come to be practically a sort of +rule in literature, that a man, having once shown +himself capable of original writing, is entitled +thenceforth to steal from the writings of others +at discretion. Thought is the property of him who +can entertain it; and of him who can adequately +place it. A certain awkwardness marks the use +of borrowed thoughts; but, as soon as we have +learned what to do with them, they become our +own.</p> + +<p>Thus, all originality is relative. Every thinker +is retrospective. The learned member of the +legislature at Westminster or at Washington, +speaks and votes for thousands. Show us the +constituency, and the now invisible channels by +which the senator is made aware of their wishes, +the crowd of practical and knowing men, who, by +correspondence or conversation, are feeding him +with evidence, anecdotes, and estimates, and it +will bereave his fine attitude and resistance of +something of their impressiveness. As Sir Robert +Peel and Mr. Webster vote, so Locke and Rousseau +think for thousands; and so there were fountains +all around Homer, Menu, Saadi, or Milton, from +which they drew; friends, lovers, books, traditions, +proverbs,—all perished,—which, if seen, +would go to reduce the wonder. Did the bard +speak with authority? Did he feel himself overmatched +by any companion? The appeal is to +the consciousness of the writer. Is there at last +in his breast a Delphi whereof to ask concerning +any thought or thing, whether it be verily so, yea<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_543" id="Page_543">[543]</a></span> +or nay? and to have answer, and to rely on that? +All the debts which such a man could contract to +other wit, would never disturb his consciousness +of originality: for the ministrations of books, and +of other minds, are a whiff of smoke to that most +private reality with which he has conversed.</p> + +<p>It is easy to see that what is best written or done +by genius, in the world, was no man’s work, but +came by wide social labour, when a thousand +wrought like one, sharing the same impulse. Our +English Bible is a wonderful specimen of the +strength and music of the English language. But +it was not made by one man, or at one time; but +centuries and churches brought it to perfection; +There never was a time when there was not some +translation existing. The Liturgy, admired for its +energy and pathos, is an anthology of the piety of +ages and nations, a translation of the prayers and +forms of the Catholic church,—these collected, too, +in long periods, from the prayers and meditations +of every saint and sacred writer, all over the world. +Grotius makes the like remark in respect to the +Lord’s Prayer, that the single clauses of which it +is composed were already in use, in the time of +Christ, in the rabbinical forms. He picked out +the grains of gold. The nervous language of the +Common Law, the impressive forms of our courts, +and the precision and substantial truth of the +legal distinctions, are the contribution of all the +sharp-sighted, strong-minded men who have lived +in the countries where these laws govern. The +translation of Plutarch gets its excellence by being +translation on translation. There never was a +time when there was none. All the truly idiomatic +and national phrases are kept, and all others<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_544" id="Page_544">[544]</a></span> +successively picked out, and thrown away. Something +like the same process had gone on, long +before, with the originals of these books. The +world takes liberties with world-books. Vedas, +Æsop’s Fables, Pilpay, Arabian Nights, Cid, Iliad, +Robin Hood, Scottish Minstrelsy, are not the work +of single men. In the composition of such works, +the time thinks, the market thinks, the mason, +the carpenter, the merchant, the farmer, the fop, +all think for us. Every book supplies its time with +one good word; every municipal law, every trade, +every folly of the day, and the generic catholic +genius who is not afraid or ashamed to owe his +originality to the originality of all, stands with the +next age as the recorder and embodiment of his +own.</p> + +<p>We have to thank the researches of antiquaries, +and the Shakespeare Society, for ascertaining the +steps of the English drama, from the Mysteries +celebrated in churches and by churchmen, and the +final detachment from the church, and the completion +of secular plays, from <i>Ferrex and Porrex</i>, +and <i>Gammer Gurton’s Needle</i>, down to the possession +of the stage by the very pieces which Shakespeare +altered, remodelled, and finally made his +own. Elated with success, and piqued by the +growing interest of the problem, they have left no +bookstall unsearched, no chest in a garret unopened, +no file of old yellow accounts to decompose in +damp and worms, so keen was the hope to discover +whether the boy Shakespeare poached or not, +whether he held horses at the theatre door, whether +he kept school, and why he left in his will only his +second-best bed to Ann Hathaway, his wife.</p> + +<p>There is somewhat touching in the madness with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_545" id="Page_545">[545]</a></span> +which the passing age mischooses the object on +which all candles shine, and all eyes are turned; +the care with which it registers every trifle touching +Queen Elizabeth, and King James, and the Essexes, +Leicesters, Burleighs, and Buckinghams; and lets +pass without a single valuable note the founder of +another dynasty, which alone will cause the Tudor +dynasty to be remembered,—the man who carries +the Saxon race in him by the inspiration which +feeds him, and on whose thoughts the foremost +people of the world are now for some ages to be +nourished, and minds to receive this and not +another bias. A popular player,—nobody suspected +he was the poet of the human race; and the secret +was kept as faithfully from poets and intellectual +men, as from courtiers and frivolous people. Bacon, +who took the inventory of the human understanding +for his times, never mentioned his name. Ben +Jonson, though we have strained his few words +of regard and panegyric, had no suspicion of the +elastic fame whose first vibrations he was attempting. +He no doubt thought the praise he has conceded +to him generous, and esteemed himself, out +of all question, the better poet of the two.</p> + +<p>If it need wit to know wit, according to the +proverb, Shakespeare’s time should be capable +of recognizing it. Sir Henry Wotton was born +four years after Shakespeare, and died twenty-three +years after him; and I find, among his +correspondents and acquaintances, the following +persons: Theodore Beza, Isaac Casaubon, Sir +Philip Sidney, Earl of Essex, Lord Bacon, Sir +Walter Raleigh, John Milton, Sir Henry Vane, +Izaac Walton, Dr. Donne, Abraham Cowley, +Bellarmine, Charles Cotton, John Pym, John Hales,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_546" id="Page_546">[546]</a></span> +Kepler, Vieta, Albericus Gentilis, Paul Sarpi, +Arminius; with all of whom exists some token of +his having communicated, without enumerating +many others, whom doubtless he saw,—Shakespeare, +Spenser, Jonson, Beaumont, Massinger, two +Herberts, Marlowe, Chapman, and the rest. Since +the constellation of great men who appeared in +Greece in the time of Pericles, there was never +any such society; yet their genius failed them to +find out the best head in the universe. Our poet’s +mask was impenetrable. You cannot see the +mountain near. It took a century to make it suspected; +and not until two centuries had passed, +after his death, did any criticism which we think +adequate begin to appear. It was not possible to +write the history of Shakespeare till now; for he +is the father of German literature: it was on the +introduction of Shakespeare into German, by +Lessing, and the translation of his works by +Wieland and Schlegel, that the rapid burst of +German literature was most intimately connected. +It was not until the nineteenth century, whose +speculative genius is a sort of living Hamlet, that +the tragedy of Hamlet could find such wondering +readers. Now, literature, philosophy, and thought +are Shakespearized. His mind is the horizon +beyond which, at present, we do not see. Our ears +are educated to music by his rhythm. Coleridge +and Goethe are the only critics who have expressed +our convictions with any adequate fidelity; but +there is in all cultivated minds a silent appreciation +of his superlative power and beauty, which, like +Christianity, qualifies the period.</p> + +<p>The Shakespeare Society have inquired in all +directions, advertised the missing facts, offered<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_547" id="Page_547">[547]</a></span> +money for any information that will lead to proof; +and with what result? Beside some important +illustration of the history of the English stage, to +which I have adverted, they have gleaned a few +facts touching the property, and dealings in regard +to property, of the poet. It appears that, from +year to year, he owned a larger share in the +Blackfriars Theatre: its wardrobe and other +appurtenances were his; that he bought an estate +in his native village, with his earnings, as writer +and shareholder; that he lived in the best house +in Stratford; was intrusted by his neighbours with +their commissions in London, as of borrowing +money, and the like; that he was a veritable +farmer. About the time when he was writing +<i>Macbeth</i>, he sues Philip Rogers, in the borough-court +of Stratford, for thirty-five shillings, ten +pence, for corn delivered to him at different times; +and, in all respects, appears as a good husband, +with no reputation for eccentricity or excess. He +was a good-natured sort of man, an actor and +shareholder in the theatre, not in any striking +manner distinguished from other actors and +managers. I admit the importance of this information. +It was well worth the pains that have +been taken to procure it.</p> + +<p>But whatever scraps of information concerning +his condition these researches may have rescued, +they can shed no light upon that infinite invention +which is the concealed magnet of his attraction +for us. We are very clumsy writers of history. +We tell the chronicle of parentage, birth, birthplace, +schooling, schoolmates, earning of money, +marriage, publication of books, celebrity, death; +and when we have come to an end of this gossip,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_548" id="Page_548">[548]</a></span> +no ray of relation appears between it and the +goddess-born; and it seems as if, had we dipped +at random into the <i>Modern Plutarch</i> and read any +other life there, it would have fitted the poems +as well. It is the essence of poetry to spring, like +the rainbow daughter of Wonder, from the invisible, +to abolish the past, and refuse all history. +Malone, Warburton, Dyce, and Collier have wasted +their oil. The famed theatres, Covent Garden, +Drury Lane, the Park, and Tremont, have vainly +assisted. Betterton, Garrick, Kemble, Kean, and +Macready dedicate their lives to this genius; him +they crown, elucidate, obey, and express. The +genius knows them not. The recitation begins; +one golden word leaps out immortal from all this +painted pedantry, and sweetly torments us with +invitations to its own inaccessible homes. I +remember, I went once to see the Hamlet of a +famed performer, the pride of the English stage; +and all I then heard, and all I now remember, of +the tragedian, was that in which the tragedian +had no part; simply, Hamlet’s question to the +ghost:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i7">What may this mean,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That thou, dead corse, again in complete steel<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Revisit’st thus the glimpses of the moon?<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">That imagination which dilates the closet he +writes in to the world’s dimension, crowds it with +agents in rank and order, as quickly reduces the +big reality to be the glimpses of the moon. These +tricks of his magic spoil for us the illusions of the +green-room. Can any biography shed light on the +localities into which the <i>Midsummer Night’s +Dream</i> admits me? Did Shakespeare confide to +any notary or parish recorder, sacristan, or surrogate,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_549" id="Page_549">[549]</a></span> +in Stratford, the genesis of that delicate +creation? The forest of Arden, the nimble air of +Scone Castle, the moonlight of Portia’s villa, ‘the +antres vast and desarts idle’ of Othello’s captivity,—where +is the third cousin, or grand-nephew, +the chancellor’s file of accounts, or private letter, +that has kept one word of those transcendent +secrets? In fine, in this drama, as in all great +works of art,—in the Cyclopean architecture of +Egypt and India; in the Phidian sculpture; the +Gothic minsters; the Italian painting; the +Ballads of Spain and Scotland;—the Genius draws +up the ladder after him, when the creative age +goes up to heaven, and gives way to a new age, +which sees the works, and asks in vain for a +history.</p> + +<p>Shakespeare is the only biographer of Shakespeare; +and even he can tell nothing, except to the +Shakespeare in us; that is, to our most apprehensive +and sympathetic hour. He cannot step +from off his tripod, and give us anecdotes of his +inspirations. Read the antique documents extricated, +analysed, and compared by the assiduous +Dyce and Collier; and now read one of those +skyey sentences,—aerolites,—which seem to have +fallen out of heaven, and which, not your experience, +but the man within the breast, has accepted +as words of fate; and tell me if they match; if +the former account in any manner for the latter; +or which gives the most historical insight into +the man.</p> + +<p>Hence, though our external history is so meagre, +yet with Shakespeare for biographer, instead of +Aubrey and Rowe, we have really the information +which is material, that which describes character<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_550" id="Page_550">[550]</a></span> +and fortune, that which, if we were about to meet +the man and deal with him, would most import +us to know. We have his recorded convictions on +those questions which knock for answer at every +heart,—on life and death, on love, on wealth and +poverty, on the prizes of life, and the ways whereby +we come at them; on the characters of men, and +the influences, occult and open, which affect their +fortunes; and on those mysterious and demoniacal +powers which defy our science, and which yet +interweave their malice and their gift in our +brightest hours. Who ever read the volume of the +Sonnets, without finding that the poet had there +revealed, under masks that are no masks to the +intelligent, the lore of friendship and of love; the +confusion of sentiments in the most susceptible, +and, at the same time, the most intellectual of +men? What trait of his private mind has he +hidden in his dramas? One can discern, in his +ample pictures of the gentleman and the king, +what forms and humanities pleased him; his +delight in troops of friends, in large hospitality, +in cheerful giving. Let Timon, let Warwick, let +Antonio the merchant, answer for his great heart. +So far from Shakespeare’s being the least known, +he is the one person, in all modern history, known +to us. What point of morals, of manners, of +economy, of philosophy, of religion, of taste, of +the conduct of life, has he not settled? What +mystery has he not signified his knowledge of? +What office, or function, or district of man’s work, +has he not remembered? What king has he not +taught state, as Talma taught Napoleon? What +maiden has not found him finer than her delicacy? +What lover has he not outloved? What sage has<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_551" id="Page_551">[551]</a></span> +he not outseen? What gentleman has he not +instructed in the rudeness of his behaviour?</p> + +<p>Some able and appreciating critics think no +criticism on Shakespeare valuable, that does not +rest purely on the dramatic merit; that he is +falsely judged as poet and philosopher. I think +as highly as these critics of his dramatic merit, but +still think it secondary. He was a full man, who +liked to talk; a brain exhaling thoughts and +images, which, seeking vent, found the drama next +at hand. Had he been less, we should have had +to consider how well he filled his place, how good +a dramatist he was, and he is the best in the world. +But it turns out, that what he has to say is of that +weight as to withdraw some attention from the +vehicle; and he is like some saint whose history +is to be rendered into all languages, into verse and +prose, into songs and pictures, and cut up into +proverbs; so that the occasion which gave the +saint’s meaning the form of a conversation, or of +a prayer, or of a code of laws, is immaterial, compared +with the universality of its application. So +it fares with the wise Shakespeare and his book of +life. He wrote the airs for all our modern music: +he wrote the text of modern life; the text of +manners: he drew the man of England and +Europe; the father of the man in America: he +drew the man, and described the day, and what is +done in it; he read the hearts of men and women, +their probity, and their second thought, and wiles; +the wiles of innocence, and the transitions by which +virtues and vices slide into their contraries: he +could divide the mother’s part from the father’s +part in the face of the child, or draw the fine +demarcations of freedom and of fate: he knew the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_552" id="Page_552">[552]</a></span> +laws of repression which make the police of nature; +and all the sweets and all the terrors of human lot +lay in his mind as truly but as softly as the landscape +lies on the eye. And the importance of this +wisdom of life sinks the form, as of Drama or Epic, +out of notice. ’Tis like making a question concerning +the paper on which a king’s message is written.</p> + +<p>Shakespeare is as much out of the category of +eminent authors, as he is out of the crowd. He +is inconceivably wise; the others, conceivably. +A good reader can, in a sort, nestle into Plato’s +brain, and think from thence; but not into Shakespeare’s. +We are still out of doors. For executive +faculty, for creation, Shakespeare is unique. No +man can imagine it better. He was the farthest +reach of subtlety compatible with an individual +self,—the subtilest of authors, and only just within +the possibility of authorship. With this wisdom +of life, is the equal endowment of imaginative and +of lyric power. He clothed the creatures of his +legend with form and sentiments, as if they were +people who had lived under his roof; and few real +men have left such distinct characters as these +fictions. And they spoke in language as sweet as +it was fit. Yet his talents never seduced him into +an ostentation, nor did he harp on one string. An +omnipresent humanity co-ordinates all his faculties. +Give a man of talents a story to tell, and +his partiality will presently appear. He has certain +observations, opinions, topics, which have some +accidental prominence, and which he disposes all +to exhibit. He crams this part, and starves that +other part, consulting not the fitness of the thing, +but his fitness and strength. But Shakespeare has +no peculiarity, no importunate topic; but all is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_553" id="Page_553">[553]</a></span> +duly given; no veins, no curiosities: no cow-painter, +no bird-fancier, no mannerist is he: he +has no discoverable egotism: the great he tells +greatly; the small, subordinately. He is wise +without emphasis or assertion; he is strong, as +nature is strong, who lifts the land into mountain +slopes without effort, and by the same rule as she +floats a bubble in the air, and likes as well to do +the one as the other. This makes that equality of +power in farce, tragedy, narrative, and love-songs; +a merit so incessant, that each reader is incredulous +of the perception of other readers.</p> + +<p>This power of expression, or of transferring the +inmost truth of things into music and verse, makes +him the type of the poet, and has added a new +problem to metaphysics. This is that which +throws him into natural history, as a main production +of the globe, and as announcing new eras +and ameliorations. Things were mirrored in his +poetry without loss or blur; he could paint the +fine with precision, the great with compass; the +tragic and the comic indifferently, and without any +distortion or favour. He carried his powerful +execution into minute details, to a hair point; +finishes an eyelash or a dimple as firmly as he +draws a mountain; and yet these, like nature’s, +will bear the scrutiny of the solar microscope.</p> + +<p>In short, he is the chief example to prove that +more or less of production, more or fewer pictures, +is a thing indifferent. He had the power to make +one picture. Daguerre learned how to let one +flower etch its image on his plate of iodine; +and then proceeds at leisure to etch a million. +There are always objects; but there was never +representation. Here is perfect representation, at<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_554" id="Page_554">[554]</a></span> +last; and now let the world of figures sit for their +portraits. No recipe can be given for the making +of a Shakespeare; but the possibility of the +translation of things into song is demonstrated.</p> + +<p>His lyric power lies in the genius of the piece. +The sonnets, though their excellence is lost in the +splendour of the dramas, are as inimitable as they; +and it is not a merit of lines, but a total merit of the +piece; like the tone of voice of some incomparable +person, so is this a speech of poetic beings, and any +clause as unproducible now as a whole poem.</p> + +<p>Though the speeches in the plays, and single +lines, have a beauty which tempts the ear to pause +on them for their euphuism, yet the sentence is so +loaded with meaning, and so linked with its foregoers +and followers, that the logician is satisfied. +His means are as admirable as his ends; every +subordinate invention, by which he helps himself +to connect some irreconcilable opposites, is a poem +too. He is not reduced to dismount and walk, +because his horses are running off with him in +some distant direction: he always rides.</p> + +<p>The finest poetry was first experience: but the +thought has suffered a transformation since it was +an experience. Cultivated men often attain a good +degree of skill in writing verses; but it is easy to +read, through their poems, their personal history: +any one acquainted with parties can name every +figure: this is Andrew, and that is Rachel. The +sense thus remains prosaic. It is a caterpillar with +wings, and not yet a butterfly. In the poet’s mind, +the fact has gone quite over into the new element +of thought, and has lost all that is exuvial. This +generosity abides with Shakespeare. We say, from +the truth and closeness of his pictures, that he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_555" id="Page_555">[555]</a></span> +knows the lesson by heart. Yet there is not a trace +of egotism.</p> + +<p>One more royal trait properly belongs to the +poet. I mean his cheerfulness, without which no +man can be a poet,—for beauty is his aim. He loves +virtue, not for its obligation, but for its grace: he +delights in the world, in man, in woman, for the +lovely light that sparkles from them. Beauty, the +spirit of joy and hilarity, he sheds over the universe. +Epicurus relates that poetry hath such charms +that a lover might forsake his mistress to partake +of them. And the true bards have been noted for +their firm and cheerful temper. Homer lies in +sunshine; Chaucer is glad and erect; and Saadi +says, ‘It was rumoured abroad that I was penitent; +but what had I to do with repentance?’ Not less +sovereign and cheerful,—much more sovereign and +cheerful, is the tone of Shakespeare. His name +suggests joy and emancipation to the heart of +men. If he should appear in any company of +human souls, who would not march in his troop? +He touches nothing that does not borrow health +and longevity from his festal style.</p> + + +<p class="newsection">And now, how stands the account of man with +this bard and benefactor, when in solitude, shutting +our ears to the reverberations of his fame, we seek +to strike the balance? Solitude has austere lessons; +it can teach us to spare both heroes and poets; +and it weighs Shakespeare also, and finds him to +share the halfness and imperfection of humanity.</p> + +<p>Shakespeare, Homer, Dante, Chaucer, saw the +splendour of meaning that plays over the visible +world; knew that a tree had another use than for +apples, and corn another than for meal, and the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_556" id="Page_556">[556]</a></span> +ball of the earth, than for tillage and roads: that +these things bore a second and finer harvest to the +mind, being emblems of its thoughts, and conveying +in all their natural history a certain mute +commentary on human life. Shakespeare employed +them as colours to compose his picture. He rested +in their beauty; and never took the step which +seemed inevitable to such genius, namely, to +explore the virtue which resides in these symbols, +and imparts this power,—What is that which they +themselves say? He converted the elements, +which waited on his command, into entertainments. +He was master of the revels to mankind. +Is it not as if one should have, through majestic +powers of science, the comets given into his hand, +or the planets and their moons, and should draw +them from their orbits to glare with the municipal +fireworks on a holiday night, and advertise in all +towns, ‘very superior pyrotechny this evening!’ +Are the agents of nature, and the power to understand +them, worth no more than a street serenade, +or the breath of a cigar? One remembers again +the trumpet-text in the Koran,—‘The heavens +and the earth, and all that is between them, think +ye we have created them in jest?’ As long as the +question is of talent and mental power, the world +of men has not his equal to show. But when the +question is to life, and its materials, and its auxiliaries, +how does he profit me? What does it +signify? It is but a Twelfth Night, or Midsummer +Night’s Dream, or a Winter Evening’s Tale: what +signifies another picture more or less? The Egyptian +verdict of the Shakespeare Societies comes to +mind, that he was a jovial actor and manager. I +cannot marry this fact to his verse. Other admirable<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_557" id="Page_557">[557]</a></span> +men have led lives in some sort of keeping +with their thought; but this man, in wide contrast. +Had he been less, had he reached only the +common measure of great authors, of Bacon, +Milton, Tasso, Cervantes, we might leave the fact +in the twilight of human fate: but, that this man +of men, he who gave to the science of mind a new +and larger subject than had ever existed, and +planted the standard of humanity some furlongs +forward into Chaos,—that he should not be wise for +himself,—it must even go into the world’s history, +that the best poet led an obscure and profane life, +using his genius for the public amusement.</p> + +<p>Well, other men, priest and prophet, Israelite, +German, and Swede, beheld the same objects: +they also saw through them that which was contained. +And to what purpose? The beauty +straightway vanished; they read commandments, +all-excluding mountainous duty; an obligation, +a sadness, as of piled mountains, fell on them, and +life became ghastly, joyless, a pilgrim’s progress, +a probation, beleaguered round with doleful histories +of Adam’s fall and curse, behind us; with +doomsdays and purgatorial and penal fires before +us; and the heart of the seer and the heart of the +listener sank in them.</p> + +<p>It must be conceded that these are half-views of +half-men. The world still wants its poet-priest, a +reconciler, who shall not trifle with Shakespeare +the player, nor shall grope in graves with Swedenborg +the mourner; but who shall see, speak, and +act, with equal inspiration. For knowledge will +brighten the sunshine; right is more beautiful +than private affection; and love is compatible +with universal wisdom.</p> + + + +<h2><a name="JAMES_RUSSELL_LOWELL" id="JAMES_RUSSELL_LOWELL"></a>JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_558" id="Page_558">[558]</a></span></h2> + +<h3>1819-1891</h3> + +<h3>WORDSWORTH (1875)</h3> + + +<p><span class="smcap">A generation</span> has now passed away since +Wordsworth was laid with the family in the churchyard +at Grasmere. Perhaps it is hardly yet time +to take a perfectly impartial measure of his value as +a poet. To do this is especially hard for those who +are old enough to remember the last shot which the +foe was sullenly firing in that long war of critics +which began when he published his manifesto as +Pretender, and which came to a pause rather than +end when they flung up their caps with the rest +at his final coronation. Something of the intensity +of the <i>odium theologicum</i> (if indeed the <i>aestheticum</i> +be not in these days the more bitter of the two) +entered into the conflict. The Wordsworthians +were a sect, who, if they had the enthusiasm, had +also not a little of the exclusiveness and partiality +to which sects are liable. The verses of the master +had for them the virtue of religious canticles +stimulant of zeal and not amenable to the ordinary +tests of cold-blooded criticism. Like the hymns +of the Huguenots and Covenanters, they were songs +of battle no less than of worship, and the combined +ardours of conviction and conflict lent them a fire +that was not naturally their own. As we read +them now, that virtue of the moment is gone out of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_559" id="Page_559">[559]</a></span> +them, and whatever of Dr. Wattsiness there is gives +us a slight shock of disenchantment. It is something +like the difference between the <i>Marseillaise</i> sung by +armed propagandists on the edge of battle, or by +Brissotins in the tumbrel, and the words of it read +coolly in the closet, or recited with the factitious +frenzy of Thérèse. It was natural in the early days +of Wordsworth’s career to dwell most fondly on +those profounder qualities to appreciate which +settled in some sort the measure of a man’s right +to judge of poetry at all. But now we must admit +the shortcomings, the failures, the defects, as no +less essential elements in forming a sound judgement +as to whether the seer and artist were so united +in him as to justify the claim first put in by himself +and afterwards maintained by his sect to a place +beside the few great poets who exalt men’s minds, +and give a right direction and safe outlet to their +passions through the imagination, while insensibly +helping them toward balance of character and +serenity of judgement by stimulating their sense of +proportion, form, and the nice adjustment of +means to ends. In none of our poets has the +constant propulsion of an unbending will, and the +concentration of exclusive, if I must not say somewhat +narrow, sympathies done so much to make +the original endowment of nature effective, and in +none accordingly does the biography throw so +much light on the works, or enter so largely into +their composition as an element whether of power +or of weakness. Wordsworth never saw, and +I think never wished to see, beyond the limits +of his own consciousness and experience. He early +conceived himself to be, and through life was confirmed +by circumstances in the faith that he was,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_560" id="Page_560">[560]</a></span> +a ‘dedicated spirit’,<a name="FNanchor_41_41" id="FNanchor_41_41"></a><a href="#Footnote_41_41" class="fnanchor">[41]</a> a state of mind likely to +further an intense but at the same time one-sided +development of the intellectual powers. The +solitude in which the greater part of his mature life +was passed, while it doubtless ministered to the +passionate intensity of his musings upon man and +nature, was, it may be suspected, harmful to him +as an artist, by depriving him of any standard of +proportion outside himself by which to test the +comparative value of his thoughts, and by rendering +him more and more incapable of that urbanity +of mind which could be gained only by commerce +with men more nearly on his own level, and which +gives tone without lessening individuality. Wordsworth +never quite saw the distinction between the +eccentric and the original. For what we call +originality seems not so much anything peculiar, +much less anything odd, but that quality in a man +which touches human nature at most points of its +circumference, which reinvigorates the consciousness +of our own powers by recalling and confirming +our own unvalued sensations and perceptions, gives +classic shape to our own amorphous imaginings, +and adequate utterance to our own stammering +conceptions or emotions. The poet’s office is to +be a Voice, not of one crying in the wilderness to +a knot of already magnetized acolytes, but singing +amid the throng of men, and lifting their common +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_561" id="Page_561">[561]</a></span>aspirations and sympathies (so first clearly revealed +to themselves) on the wings of his song to a purer +ether and a wider reach of view. We cannot, if we +would, read the poetry of Wordsworth as mere +poetry; at every other page we find ourselves +entangled in a problem of aesthetics. The world-old +question of matter and form, of whether nectar +<i>is</i> of precisely the same flavour when served to us +from a Grecian chalice or from any jug of ruder +pottery, comes up for decision anew. The Teutonic +nature has always shown a sturdy preference of +the solid bone with a marrow of nutritious moral +to any shadow of the same on the flowing mirror +of sense. Wordsworth never lets us long forget +the deeply rooted stock from which he sprang,—<i>vien +ben dà lui</i>.</p> + + +<p class="newsection">William Wordsworth was born at Cockermouth +in Cumberland on the 7th of April, 1770, the +second of five children. His father was John +Wordsworth, an attorney-at-law, and agent of Sir +James Lowther, afterwards first Earl of Lonsdale. +His mother was Anne Cookson, the daughter of +a mercer in Penrith. His paternal ancestors had +been settled immemorially at Penistone in Yorkshire, +whence his grandfather had emigrated to +Westmorland. His mother, a woman of piety +and wisdom, died in March 1778, being then in +her thirty-second year. His father, who never +entirely cast off the depression occasioned by her +death, survived her but five years, dying in +December 1783, when William was not quite +fourteen years old.</p> + +<p>The poet’s early childhood was passed partly +at Cockermouth, and partly with his maternal<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_562" id="Page_562">[562]</a></span> +grandfather at Penrith. His first teacher appears +to have been Mrs. Anne Birkett, a kind of Shenstone’s +Schoolmistress, who practised the memory +of her pupils, teaching them chiefly by rote, and not +endeavouring to cultivate their reasoning faculties, +a process by which children are apt to be converted +from natural logicians into impertinent sophists. +Among his schoolmates here was Mary Hutchinson, +who afterwards became his wife.</p> + +<p>In 1778 he was sent to a school founded by +Edwin Sandys, Archbishop of York, in the year +1585, at Hawkshead in Lancashire. Hawkshead +is a small market-town in the vale of Esthwaite, +about a third of a mile north-west of the lake. +Here Wordsworth passed nine years, among a people +of simple habits and scenery of a sweet and pastoral +dignity. His earliest intimacies were with the +mountains, lakes, and streams of his native district, +and the associations with which his mind was +stored during its most impressible period were +noble and pure. The boys were boarded among +the dames of the village, thus enjoying a freedom +from scholastic restraints, which could be nothing +but beneficial in a place where the temptations were +only to sports that hardened the body, while they +fostered a love of nature in the spirit and habits of +observation in the mind. Wordsworth’s ordinary +amusements here were hunting and fishing, rowing, +skating, and long walks around the lake and +among the hills, with an occasional scamper on +horseback.<a name="FNanchor_42_42" id="FNanchor_42_42"></a><a href="#Footnote_42_42" class="fnanchor">[42]</a> His life as a schoolboy was favourable +also to his poetic development, in being +identified with that of the people among whom he +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_563" id="Page_563">[563]</a></span>lived. Among men of simple habits, and where +there are small diversities of condition, the feelings +and passions are displayed with less restraint, and +the young poet grew acquainted with that primal +human basis of character where the Muse finds firm +foothold, and to which he ever afterward cleared +his way through all the overlying drift of conventionalism. +The dalesmen were a primitive and +hardy race who kept alive the traditions and often +the habits of a more picturesque time. A common +level of interests and social standing fostered unconventional +ways of thought and speech, and friendly +human sympathies. Solitude induced reflection, +a reliance of the mind on its own resources, and +individuality of character. Where everybody +knew everybody, and everybody’s father had +known everybody’s father, the interest of man in +man was not likely to become a matter of cold +hearsay and distant report. When death knocked +at any door in the hamlet, there was an echo from +every fireside, and a wedding dropped its white +flowers at every threshold. There was not a grave +in the churchyard but had its story; not a crag or +glen or aged tree untouched with some ideal hue of +legend. It was here that Wordsworth learned that +homely humanity which gives such depth and +sincerity to his poems. Travel, society, culture, +nothing could obliterate the deep trace of that early +training which enables him to speak directly to the +primitive instincts of man. He was apprenticed +early to the difficult art of being himself.</p> + +<p>At school he wrote some task-verses on subjects +imposed by the master, and also some voluntaries +of his own, equally undistinguished by any peculiar +merit. But he seems to have made up his mind as<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_564" id="Page_564">[564]</a></span> +early as in his fourteenth year to become a poet.<a name="FNanchor_43_43" id="FNanchor_43_43"></a><a href="#Footnote_43_43" class="fnanchor">[43]</a> +‘It is recorded’, says his biographer vaguely, ‘that +the poet’s father set him very early to learn portions +of the best English poets by heart, so that at an +early age he could repeat large portions of Shakespeare, +Milton, and Spenser.’</p> + +<p>The great event of Wordsworth’s schooldays was +the death of his father, who left what may be +called a hypothetical estate, consisting chiefly of +claims upon the first Earl of Lonsdale, the payment +of which, though their justice was acknowledged, +that nobleman contrived in some unexplained way +to elude so long as he lived. In October 1787 he +left school for St. John’s College, Cambridge. He +was already, we are told, a fair Latin scholar, and +had made some progress in mathematics. The +earliest books we hear of his reading were <i>Don +Quixote</i>, <i>Gil Blas</i>, <i>Gulliver’s Travels</i>, and the <i>Tale +of a Tub</i>; but at school he had also become +familiar with the works of some English poets, +particularly Goldsmith and Gray, of whose poems +he had learned many by heart. What is more to +the purpose, he had become, without knowing it, +a lover of Nature in all her moods, and the same +mental necessities of a solitary life which compel +men to an interest in the transitory phenomena +of scenery, had made him also studious of the +movements of his own mind, and the mutual interaction +and dependence of the external and internal +universe.</p> + +<p>Doubtless his early orphanage was not without +its effect in confirming a character naturally impatient +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_565" id="Page_565">[565]</a></span>of control, and his mind, left to itself, +clothed itself with an indigenous growth, which +grew fairly and freely, unstinted by the shadow of +exotic plantations. It has become a truism, that +remarkable persons have remarkable mothers; +but perhaps this is chiefly true of such as have +made themselves distinguished by their industry, +and by the assiduous cultivation of faculties in +themselves of only an average quality. It is rather +to be noted how little is known of the parentage of +men of the first magnitude, how often they seem in +some sort foundlings, and how early an apparently +adverse destiny begins the culture of those who are +to encounter and master great intellectual or +spiritual experiences.</p> + +<p>Of his disposition as a child little is known, but +that little is characteristic. He himself tells us +that he was ‘stiff, moody, and of violent temper’. +His mother said of him that he was the only one +of her children about whom she felt any anxiety,—for +she was sure that he would be remarkable for +good or evil. Once, in resentment at some fancied +injury, he resolved to kill himself, but his heart +failed him. I suspect that few boys of passionate +temperament have escaped these momentary suggestions +of despairing helplessness. ‘On another +occasion,’ he says, ‘while I was at my grandfather’s +house at Penrith, along with my eldest +brother Richard, we were whipping tops together +in the long drawing-room, on which the carpet was +only laid down on particular occasions. The walls +were hung round with family pictures, and I said to +my brother, “Dare you strike your whip through +that old lady’s petticoat?” He replied, “No, I +won’t.” “Then,” said I, “here goes,” and I struck<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_566" id="Page_566">[566]</a></span> +my lash through her hooped petticoat, for which, +no doubt, though I have forgotten it, I was properly +punished. But, possibly from some want of judgement +in punishments inflicted, I had become perverse +and obstinate in defying chastisement, and +rather proud of it than otherwise.’ This last +anecdote is as happily typical as a bit of Greek +mythology which always prefigured the lives of +heroes in the stories of their childhood. Just so do +we find him afterward striking his defiant lash +through the hooped petticoat of the artificial style +of poetry, and proudly unsubdued by the punishment +of the Reviewers.</p> + +<p>Of his college life the chief record is to be found +in <i>The Prelude</i>. He did not distinguish himself as +a scholar, and if his life had any incidents, they were +of that interior kind which rarely appear in biography, +though they may be of controlling influence +upon the life. He speaks of reading Chaucer, +Spenser, and Milton while at Cambridge,<a name="FNanchor_44_44" id="FNanchor_44_44"></a><a href="#Footnote_44_44" class="fnanchor">[44]</a> but no +reflection from them is visible in his earliest +published poems. The greater part of his vacations +was spent in his native Lake-country, where +his only sister, Dorothy, was the companion of +his rambles. She was a woman of large natural +endowments, chiefly of the receptive kind, and had +much to do with the formation and tendency of the +poet’s mind. It was she who called forth the shyer +sensibilities of his nature, and taught an originally +harsh and austere imagination to surround itself +with fancy and feeling, as the rock fringes itself +with a sun-spray of ferns. She was his first public, +and belonged to that class of prophetically appreciative +temperaments whose apparent office it is to +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_567" id="Page_567">[567]</a></span>cheer the early solitude of original minds with +messages from the future. Through the greater +part of his life she continued to be a kind of poetical +conscience to him.</p> + +<p>Wordsworth’s last college vacation was spent in +a foot journey upon the Continent (1790). In +January 1791 he took his degree of B.A., and left +Cambridge. During the summer of this year he +visited Wales, and, after declining to enter upon +holy orders under the plea that he was not of age +for ordination, went over to France in November, +and remained during the winter at Orleans. Here +he became intimate with the republican General +Beaupuis, with whose hopes and aspirations he +ardently sympathized. In the spring of 1792 +he was at Blois, and returned thence to Orleans, +which he finally quitted in October for Paris. He +remained here as long as he could with safety, and +at the close of the year went back to England, thus, +perhaps, escaping the fate which soon after overtook +his friends the Brissotins.</p> + +<p>As hitherto the life of Wordsworth may be called +a fortunate one, not less so in the training and +expansion of his faculties was this period of his stay +in France. Born and reared in a country where the +homely and familiar nestles confidingly amid the +most savage and sublime forms of nature, he had +experienced whatever impulses the creative faculty +can receive from mountain and cloud and the voices +of winds and waters, but he had known man only +as an actor in fireside histories and tragedies, for +which the hamlet supplied an ample stage. In +France he first felt the authentic beat of a nation’s +heart; he was a spectator at one of those dramas +where the terrible footfall of the Eumenides is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_568" id="Page_568">[568]</a></span> +heard nearer and nearer in the pauses of the action; +and he saw man such as he can only be when he is +vibrated by the orgasm of a national emotion. He +sympathized with the hopes of France and of mankind +deeply, as was fitting in a young man and +a poet; and if his faith in the gregarious advancement +of men was afterward shaken, he only held +the more firmly by his belief in the individual, and +his reverence for the human as something quite +apart from the popular and above it. Wordsworth +has been unwisely blamed, as if he had been recreant +to the liberal instincts of his youth. But it was +inevitable that a genius so regulated and metrical +as his, a mind which always compensated itself for +its artistic radicalism by an involuntary leaning +toward external respectability, should recoil from +whatever was convulsionary and destructive in +politics, and above all in religion. He reads the +poems of Wordsworth without understanding, who +does not find in them the noblest incentives to faith +in man and the grandeur of his destiny, founded +always upon that personal dignity and virtue, the +capacity for whose attainment alone makes universal +liberty possible and assures its permanence. +He was to make men better by opening to them +the sources of an inalterable well-being; to make +them free, in a sense higher than political, by showing +them that these sources are within them, and +that no contrivance of man can permanently emancipate +narrow natures and depraved minds. His +politics were always those of a poet, circling in the +larger orbit of causes and principles, careless of the +transitory oscillation of events.</p> + +<p>The change in his point of view (if change there +was) certainly was complete soon after his return<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_569" id="Page_569">[569]</a></span> +from France, and was perhaps due in part to the +influence of Burke.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">While he [Burke] forewarns, denounces, launches forth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Against all systems built on abstract rights,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Keen ridicule; the majesty proclaims<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of institutes and laws hallowed by time;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Declares the vital power of social ties<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Endeared by custom; and with high disdain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Exploding upstart theory, insists<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Upon the allegiance to which men are born.<br /></span> +<span class="i4">... Could a youth, and one<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In ancient story versed, whose breast had heaved<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Under the weight of classic eloquence,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sit, see, and hear, unthankful, uninspired?<a name="FNanchor_45_45" id="FNanchor_45_45"></a><a href="#Footnote_45_45" class="fnanchor">[45]</a><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>He had seen the French for a dozen years eagerly +busy in tearing up whatever had roots in the past, +replacing the venerable trunks of tradition and +orderly growth with liberty-poles, then striving +vainly to piece together the fibres they had broken, +and to reproduce artificially that sense of permanence +and continuity which is the main safeguard +of vigorous self-consciousness in a nation. +He became a Tory through intellectual conviction, +retaining, I suspect, to the last, a certain radicalism +of temperament and instinct. Haydon tells us +that in 1809 Sir George Beaumont said to him +and Wilkie, ‘Wordsworth may perhaps walk in; if +he do, I caution you both against his terrific democratic +notions’; and it must have been many years +later that Wordsworth himself told Crabb Robinson, +‘I have no respect whatever for Whigs, but I have +a great deal of the Chartist in me’. In 1802, during +his tour in Scotland, he travelled on Sundays as on +the other days of the week. He afterwards became +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_570" id="Page_570">[570]</a></span>a theoretical churchgoer. ‘Wordsworth defended +earnestly the Church establishment. He even said +he would shed his blood for it. Nor was he disconcerted +by a laugh raised against him on account +of his having confessed that he knew not when he +had been in a church in his own country. “All our +ministers are so vile,” said he. The mischief of +allowing the clergy to depend on the caprice of the +multitude he thought more than outweighed all the +evils of an establishment.’</p> + +<p>In December 1792 Wordsworth had returned to +England, and in the following year published +<i>Descriptive Sketches</i> and the <i>Evening Walk</i>. He +did this, as he says in one of his letters, to show +that, although he had gained no honours at the +University, he <i>could</i> do something. They met +with no great success, and he afterward corrected +them so much as to destroy all their interest as +juvenile productions, without communicating to +them any of the merits of maturity. In commenting, +sixty years afterward, on a couplet in one of +these poems,—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And, fronting the bright west, the oak entwines<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its darkening boughs and leaves in stronger lines,—<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">he says: ‘This is feebly and imperfectly expressed, +but I recollect distinctly the very spot where this +first struck me.... The moment was important +in my poetical history; for I date from it my consciousness +of the infinite variety of natural appearances +which had been unnoticed by the poets of any +age or country, so far as I was acquainted with +them, and I made a resolution to supply in some +degree the deficiency.’</p> + +<p>It is plain that Wordsworth’s memory was playing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_571" id="Page_571">[571]</a></span> +him a trick here, misled by that instinct (it may +almost be called) of consistency which leads men +first to desire that their lives should have been +without break or seam, and then to believe that +they have been such. The more distant ranges +of perspective are apt to run together in retrospection. +How far could Wordsworth at fourteen have +been acquainted with the poets of all ages and +countries,—he who to his dying day could not +endure to read Goethe and knew nothing of +Calderon? It seems to me rather that the earliest +influence traceable in him is that of Goldsmith, and +later of Cowper, and it is, perhaps, some slight indication +of its having already begun that his first +volume of <i>Descriptive Sketches</i> (1793) was put +forth by Johnson, who was Cowper’s publisher. +By and by the powerful impress of Burns is seen +both in the topics of his verse and the form of his +expression. But whatever their ultimate effect +upon his style, certain it is that his juvenile poems +were clothed in the conventional habit of the +eighteenth century. ‘The first verses from which +he remembered to have received great pleasure +were Miss Carter’s <i>Poem on Spring</i>, a poem in the +six-line stanza which he was particularly fond +of and had composed much in,—for example, +<i>Ruth</i>.’ This is noteworthy, for Wordsworth’s +lyric range, especially so far as tune is concerned, +was always narrow. His sense of melody was +painfully dull, and some of his lighter effusions, as +he would have called them, are almost ludicrously +wanting in grace of movement. We cannot expect +in a modern poet the thrush-like improvisation, +the impulsively bewitching cadences, that charm +us in our Elizabethan drama and whose last warble<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_572" id="Page_572">[572]</a></span> +died with Herrick; but Shelley, Tennyson, and +Browning have shown that the simple pathos of +their music was not irrecoverable, even if the artless +poignancy of their phrase be gone beyond recall. +We feel this lack in Wordsworth all the more keenly +if we compare such verses as</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Like an army defeated<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The snow hath retreated<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And now doth fare ill<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On the top of the bare hill,<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">with Goethe’s exquisite <i>Ueber allen Gipfeln ist Ruh</i>, +in which the lines (as if shaken down by a momentary +breeze of emotion) drop lingeringly one after +another like blossoms upon turf.</p> + +<p><i>The Evening Walk</i> and <i>Descriptive Sketches</i> show +plainly the prevailing influence of Goldsmith, both +in the turn of thought and the mechanism of +the verse. They lack altogether the temperance +of tone and judgement in selection which have +made the <i>Traveller</i> and the <i>Deserted Village</i> perhaps +the most truly classical poems in the language. +They bear here and there, however, the unmistakable +stamp of the maturer Wordsworth, not only +in a certain blunt realism, but in the intensity and +truth of picturesque epithet. Of this realism, +from which Wordsworth never wholly freed himself, +the following verses may suffice as a specimen. +After describing the fate of a chamois-hunter killed +by falling from a crag, his fancy goes back to the +bereaved wife and son:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Haply that child in fearful doubt may gaze,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Passing his father’s bones in future days,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Start at the reliques of that very thigh<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On which so oft he prattled when a boy.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_573" id="Page_573">[573]</a></span></div></div> + +<p class="noin">In these poems there is plenty of that ‘poetic +diction’ against which Wordsworth was to lead the +revolt nine years later.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">To wet the peak’s impracticable sides<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He opens of his feet the sanguine tides,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Weak and more weak the issuing current eyes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lapped by the panting tongue of thirsty skies.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">Both of these passages have disappeared from the +revised edition, as well as some curious outbursts +of that motiveless despair which Byron made +fashionable not long after. Nor are there wanting +touches of fleshliness which strike us oddly as +coming from Wordsworth.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Farewell! those forms that in thy noontide shade<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rest near their little plots of oaten glade,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Those steadfast eyes that beating breasts inspire<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To throw the ‘sultry ray’ of young Desire;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Those lips whose tides of fragrance come and go<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Accordant to the cheek’s unquiet glow;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Those shadowy breasts in love’s soft light arrayed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And rising by the moon of passion swayed.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">The political tone is also mildened in the revision, +as where he changes ‘despotcourts’ into ‘tyranny’. +One of the alterations is interesting. In the +<i>Evening Walk</i> he had originally written</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And bids her soldier come her wars to share<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Asleep on Minden’s charnel hill afar.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">An erratum at the end directs us to correct the +second verse, thus:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Asleep on Bunker’s charnel hill afar.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">Wordsworth somewhere rebukes the poets for +making the owl a bodeful bird. He had himself +done so in the <i>Evening Walk</i>, and corrects his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_574" id="Page_574">[574]</a></span> +epithets to suit his later judgement, putting ‘gladsome’ +for ‘boding’, and replacing</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The tremulous sob of the complaining owl<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">by</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The sportive outcry of the mocking owl.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">Indeed, the character of the two poems is so much +changed in the revision as to make the dates +appended to them a misleading anachronism. But +there is one truly Wordsworthian passage which +already gives us a glimpse of that passion with +which he was the first to irradiate descriptive +poetry and which sets him on a level with Turner.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">’Tis storm; and hid in mist from hour to hour<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All day the floods a deepening murmur pour:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sky is veiled and every cheerful sight;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dark is the region as with coming night;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But what a sudden burst of overpowering light!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Triumphant on the bosom of the storm,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Glances the fire-clad eagle’s wheeling form;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Eastward, in long prospective glittering shine<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The wood-crowned cliffs that o’er the lake recline;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Those eastern cliffs a hundred streams unfold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At once to pillars turned that flame with gold;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Behind his sail the peasant tries to shun<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The West that burns like one dilated sun,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where in a mighty crucible expire<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The mountains, glowing hot like coals of fire.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">Wordsworth has made only one change in these +verses, and that for the worse, by substituting +‘glorious’ (which was already implied in ‘glances’ +and ‘fire-clad’) for ‘wheeling’. In later life he +would have found it hard to forgive the man who +should have made cliffs recline over a lake. On +the whole, what strikes us as most prophetic in +these poems is their want of continuity, and the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_575" id="Page_575">[575]</a></span> +purple patches of true poetry on a texture of +unmistakable prose; perhaps we might add the +incongruous clothing of prose thoughts in the +ceremonial robes of poesy.</p> + +<p>During the same year (1793) he wrote, but did +not publish, a political tract, in which he avowed +himself opposed to monarchy and to the hereditary +principle, and desirous of a republic, if it could be +had without a revolution. He probably continued +to be all his life in favour of that ideal republic +‘which never was on land or sea’, but fortunately +he gave up politics that he might devote himself +to his own nobler calling, to which politics are +subordinate, and for which he found freedom +enough in England as it was. Dr. Wordsworth +admits that his uncle’s opinions were democratical +so late as 1802. I suspect that they remained so in +an esoteric way to the end of his days. He had +himself suffered by the arbitrary selfishness of +a great landholder, and he was born and bred in +a part of England where there is a greater social +equality than elsewhere. The look and manner of +the Cumberland people especially are such as recall +very vividly to a New-Englander the associations +of fifty years ago, ere the change from New England +to New Ireland had begun. But meanwhile, Want, +which makes no distinctions of Monarchist or +Republican, was pressing upon him. The debt due +to his father’s estate had not been paid, and +Wordsworth was one of those rare idealists who +esteem it the first duty of a friend of humanity to +live for, and not on, his neighbour. He at first +proposed establishing a periodical journal to be +called <i>The Philanthropist</i>, but luckily went no +further with it, for the receipts from an organ of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_576" id="Page_576">[576]</a></span> +opinion which professed republicanism, and at the +same time discountenanced the plans of all existing +or defunct republicans, would have been necessarily +scanty. There being no appearance of any +demand, present or prospective, for philanthropists, +he tried to get employment as correspondent of +a newspaper. Here also it was impossible that he +should succeed; he was too great to be merged in +the editorial We, and had too well defined a private +opinion on all subjects to be able to express that +average of public opinion which constitutes able +editorials. But so it is that to the prophet in the +wilderness the birds of ill omen are already on the +wing with food from heaven; and while Wordsworth’s +relatives were getting impatient at what +they considered his waste of time, while one thought +he had gifts enough to make a good parson, and +another lamented the rare attorney that was lost +in him, the prescient muse guided the hand of +Raisley Calvert while he wrote the poet’s name in +his will for a legacy of £900. By the death of +Calvert, in 1795, this timely help came to Wordsworth +at the turning-point of his life, and made it +honest for him to write poems that will never die, +instead of theatrical critiques as ephemeral as +play-bills, or leaders that led only to oblivion.</p> + +<p>In the autumn of 1795 Wordsworth and his +sister took up their abode at Racedown Lodge, near +Crewkerne, in Dorsetshire. Here nearly two years +were passed, chiefly in the study of poetry, and +Wordsworth to some extent recovered from the +fierce disappointment of his political dreams, and +regained that equable tenor of mind which alone +is consistent with a healthy productiveness. Here +Coleridge, who had contrived to see something<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_577" id="Page_577">[577]</a></span> +more in the <i>Descriptive Sketches</i> than the public +had discovered there, first made his acquaintance. +The sympathy and appreciation of an intellect +like Coleridge’s supplied him with that external +motive to activity which is the chief use of popularity, +and justified to him his opinion of his own +powers. It was now that the tragedy of <i>The +Borderers</i> was for the most part written, and that +plan of the <i>Lyrical Ballads</i> suggested which gave +Wordsworth a clue to lead him out of the metaphysical +labyrinth in which he was entangled. It +was agreed between the two young friends, that +Wordsworth was to be a philosophic poet, and, by +a good fortune uncommon to such conspiracies, +Nature had already consented to the arrangement. +In July 1797, the two Wordsworths removed to +Allfoxden in Somersetshire, that they might be +near Coleridge, who in the meanwhile had married +and settled himself at Nether Stowey. In November +<i>The Borderers</i> was finished, and Wordsworth went +up to London with his sister to offer it for the stage. +The good Genius of the poet again interposing, the +play was decisively rejected, and Wordsworth went +back to Allfoxden, himself the hero of that first +tragi-comedy so common to young authors.</p> + +<p>The play has fine passages, but is as unreal as +<i>Jane Eyre</i>. It shares with many of Wordsworth’s +narrative poems the defect of being written to +illustrate an abstract moral theory, so that the +overbearing thesis is continually thrusting the +poetry to the wall. Applied to the drama, such +predestination makes all the personages puppets +and disenables them for being characters. Wordsworth +seems to have felt this when he published +<i>The Borderers</i> in 1842, and says in a note that it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_578" id="Page_578">[578]</a></span> +was ‘at first written ... without any view to its +exhibition upon the stage’. But he was mistaken. +The contemporaneous letters of Coleridge to Cottle +show that he was long in giving up the hope of +getting it accepted by some theatrical manager.</p> + +<p>He now applied himself to the preparation of the +first volume of the <i>Lyrical Ballads</i> for the press, and +it was published toward the close of 1798. The +book, which contained also <i>The Ancient Mariner</i> +of Coleridge, attracted little notice, and that in +great part contemptuous. When Mr. Cottle, the +publisher, shortly after sold his copyrights to +Mr. Longman, that of the <i>Lyrical Ballads</i> was +reckoned at <i>zero</i>, and it was at last given up to the +authors. A few persons were not wanting, however, +who discovered the dawn-streaks of a new +day in that light which the critical fire-brigade +thought to extinguish with a few contemptuous +spurts of cold water.</p> + +<p>Lord Byron describes himself as waking one +morning and finding himself famous, and it is quite +an ordinary fact, that a blaze may be made with +a little saltpetre that will be stared at by thousands +who would have thought the sunrise tedious. If +we may believe his biographer, Wordsworth might +have said that he awoke and found himself infamous, +for the publication of the <i>Lyrical Ballads</i> +undoubtedly raised him to the distinction of being +the least popular poet in England. Parnassus has +two peaks; the one where improvising poets cluster; +the other where the singer of deep secrets sits alone,—a +peak veiled sometimes from the whole morning +of a generation by earth-born mists and smoke of +kitchen fires, only to glow the more consciously at +sunset, and after nightfall to crown itself with imperishable<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_579" id="Page_579">[579]</a></span> +stars. Wordsworth had that self-trust +which in the man of genius is sublime, and in the +man of talent insufferable. It mattered not to +him though all the reviewers had been in a chorus +of laughter or conspiracy of silence behind him. +He went quietly over to Germany to write more +Lyrical Ballads, and to begin a poem on the growth +of his own mind, at a time when there were only two +men in the world (himself and Coleridge) who were +aware that he had one, or at least one anywise +differing from those mechanically uniform ones +which are stuck drearily, side by side, in the great +pin-paper of society.</p> + +<p>In Germany Wordsworth dined in company +with Klopstock, and after dinner they had +a conversation, of which Wordsworth took notes. +The respectable old poet, who was passing the +evening of his days by the chimney-corner, Darby +and Joan like, with his respectable Muse, seems +to have been rather bewildered by the apparition +of a living genius. The record is of value now +chiefly for the insight it gives us into Wordsworth’s +mind. Among other things he said, ‘that it was +the province of a great poet to raise people up to +his own level, not to descend to theirs’,—memorable +words, the more memorable that a literary +life of sixty years was in keeping with them.</p> + +<p>It would be instructive to know what were +Wordsworth’s studies during his winter in Goslar. +De Quincey’s statement is mere conjecture. It +may be guessed fairly enough that he would seek +an entrance to the German language by the easy +path of the ballad, a course likely to confirm him +in his theories as to the language of poetry. The +Spinozism with which he has been not unjustly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_580" id="Page_580">[580]</a></span> +charged was certainly not due to any German +influence, for it appears unmistakably in the +<i>Lines composed at Tintern Abbey</i> in July 1798. +It is more likely to have been derived from his +talks with Coleridge in 1797. When Emerson +visited him in 1833, he spoke with loathing of +<i>Wilhelm Meister</i>, a part of which he had read +in Carlyle’s translation apparently. There was +some affectation in this, it should seem, for he had +read Smollett. On the whole, it may be fairly +concluded that the help of Germany in the +development of his genius may be reckoned as +very small, though there is certainly a marked +resemblance both in form and sentiment between +some of his earlier lyrics and those of Goethe. +His poem of the <i>Thorn</i>, though vastly more imaginative, +may have been suggested by Bürger’s +<i>Pfarrer’s Tochter von Taubenhain</i>. The little grave +<i>drei Spannen lang</i>, in its conscientious measurement, +certainly recalls a famous couplet in the English +poem.</p> + +<p>After spending the winter at Goslar, Wordsworth +and his sister returned to England in the spring +of 1799, and settled at Grasmere in Westmorland. +In 1800, the first edition of the <i>Lyrical Ballads</i> +being exhausted, it was republished with the +addition of another volume, Mr. Longman paying +£100 for the copyright of two editions. The book +passed to a second edition in 1802, and to a third +in 1805. Wordsworth sent a copy of it, with a +manly letter, to Mr. Fox, particularly recommending +to his attention the poems <i>Michael</i> and +<i>The Brothers</i>, as displaying the strength and +permanence among a simple and rural population +of those domestic affections which were certain to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_581" id="Page_581">[581]</a></span> +decay gradually under the influence of manufactories +and poor-houses. Mr. Fox wrote a civil acknowledgement, +saying that his favourites among the +poems were <i>Harry Gill</i>, <i>We are Seven</i>, <i>The Mad +Mother</i>, and <i>The Idiot</i>, but that he was prepossessed +against the use of blank verse for simple +subjects. Any political significance in the poems +he was apparently unable to see. To this second +edition Wordsworth prefixed an argumentative +Preface, in which he nailed to the door of the +cathedral of English song the critical theses which +he was to maintain against all comers in his poetry +and his life. It was a new thing for an author to +undertake to show the goodness of his verses by +the logic and learning of his prose; but Wordsworth +carried to the reform of poetry all that fervour and +faith which had lost their political object, and it +is another proof of the sincerity and greatness of +his mind, and of that heroic simplicity which is +their concomitant, that he could do so calmly +what was sure to seem ludicrous to the greater +number of his readers. Fifty years have since +demonstrated that the true judgement of one man +outweighs any counterpoise of false judgement, +and that the faith of mankind is guided to a man +only by a well-founded faith in himself. To this +<i>Defensio</i> Wordsworth afterward added a supplement, +and the two form a treatise of permanent +value for philosophic statement and decorous +English. Their only ill effect has been, that they +have encouraged many otherwise deserving young +men to set a Sibylline value on their verses in +proportion as they were unsaleable. The strength +of an argument for self-reliance drawn from the +example of a great man depends wholly on the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_582" id="Page_582">[582]</a></span> +greatness of him who uses it; such arguments +being like coats of mail, which, though they serve +the strong against arrow-flights and lance-thrusts, +may only suffocate the weak or sink him the sooner +in the waters of oblivion.</p> + +<p>An advertisement prefixed to the <i>Lyrical +Ballads</i>, as originally published in one volume, +warned the reader that ‘they were written chiefly +with a view to ascertain how far <i>the language of +conversation in the middle and lower classes</i> of +society is adapted to the purposes of poetic +pleasure’. In his preface to the second edition, in +two volumes, Wordsworth already found himself +forced to shift his ground a little (perhaps in +deference to the wider view and finer sense of +Coleridge), and now says of the former volume +that ‘it was published as an experiment which, +I hoped, might be of some use to ascertain how +far, by fitting to metrical arrangement, <i>a selection +of the real language of men in a state of vivid sensation</i>, +that sort of pleasure and that quantity of +pleasure may be imparted which a poet may +<i>rationally endeavour</i> to impart’. Here is evidence +of a retreat towards a safer position, though +Wordsworth seems to have remained unconvinced +at heart, and for many years longer clung obstinately +to the passages of bald prose into which +his original theory had betrayed him. In 1815 +his opinions had undergone a still further change, +and an assiduous study of the qualities of his own +mind and of his own poetic method (the two subjects +in which alone he was ever a thorough +scholar) had convinced him that poetry was in no +sense that appeal to the understanding which is +implied by the words ‘rationally endeavour to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_583" id="Page_583">[583]</a></span> +impart’. In the preface of that year he says, +‘The observations prefixed to that portion of these +volumes which was published many years ago +under the title of <i>Lyrical Ballads</i> have so little of +special application to the greater part of the present +enlarged and diversified collection, that they could +not with propriety stand as an introduction to it.’ +It is a pity that he could not have become an +earlier convert to Coleridge’s pithy definition, +that ‘prose was words in their best order, and +poetry the <i>best</i> words in the best order’. But +idealization was something that Wordsworth was +obliged to learn painfully. It did not come to him +naturally as to Spenser and Shelley and to Coleridge +in his higher moods. Moreover, it was in the +too frequent choice of subjects incapable of being +idealized without a manifest jar between theme +and treatment that Wordsworth’s great mistake +lay. For example, in <i>The Blind Highland Boy</i> he +had originally the following stanzas:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Strong is the current, but be mild,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ye waves, and spare the helpless child!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If ye in anger fret or chafe,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A bee-hive would be ship as safe<br /></span> +<span class="i1">As that in which he sails.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But say, what was it? Thought of fear!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Well may ye tremble when ye hear!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">—A household tub like one of those<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which women use to wash their clothes,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">This carried the blind boy.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>In endeavouring to get rid of the downright +vulgarity of phrase in the last stanza, Wordsworth +invents an impossible tortoise-shell, and thus robs +his story of the reality which alone gave it a living +interest. Any extemporized raft would have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_584" id="Page_584">[584]</a></span> +floated the boy down to immortality. But Wordsworth +never quite learned the distinction between +Fact, which suffocates the Muse, and Truth, which +is the very breath of her nostrils. Study and self-culture +did much for him, but they never quite +satisfied him that he was capable of making a +mistake. He yielded silently to friendly remonstrance +on certain points, and gave up, for example, +the ludicrous exactness of</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I’ve measured it from side to side,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">’Tis three feet long and two feet wide.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">But I doubt if he was ever really convinced, and +to his dying day he could never quite shake off +that habit of over-minute detail which renders +the narratives of uncultivated people so tedious, +and sometimes so distasteful. <i>Simon Lee</i>, after +his latest revision, still contains verses like these:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And he is lean and he is sick;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His body, dwindled and awry,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rests upon ankles swollen and thick;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His legs are thin and dry;<br /></span> +</div> + +<p class="dotted2" style="margin-left: 5%"> </p> + +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Few months of life he has in store,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As he to you will tell,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For still, the more he works, the more<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Do his weak ankles swell,—<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">which are not only prose, but <i>bad</i> prose, and moreover +guilty of the same fault for which Wordsworth +condemned Dr. Johnson’s famous parody on the +ballad-style,—that their ‘<i>matter</i> is contemptible’. +The sonorousness of conviction with which Wordsworth +sometimes gives utterance to commonplaces +of thought and trivialities of sentiment has a ludicrous +effect on the profane and even on the faithful<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_585" id="Page_585">[585]</a></span> +in unguarded moments. We are reminded of a +passage in <i>The Excursion</i>:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">List! I heard<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From yon huge breast of rock <i>a solemn bleat</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Sent forth as if it were the mountain’s voice</i>.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>In 1800 the friendship of Wordsworth with +Lamb began, and was thenceforward never interrupted. +He continued to live at Grasmere, conscientiously +diligent in the composition of poems, +secure of finding the materials of glory within and +around him; for his genius taught him that +inspiration is no product of a foreign shore, and +that no adventurer ever found it, though he +wandered as long as Ulysses. Meanwhile the +appreciation of the best minds and the gratitude +of the purest hearts gradually centred more and +more towards him. In 1802 he made a short visit +to France, in company with Miss Wordsworth, and +soon after his return to England was married to +Mary Hutchinson, on the 4th of October of the +same year. Of the good fortune of this marriage +no other proof is needed than the purity and +serenity of his poems, and its record is to be sought +nowhere else.</p> + +<p>On the 18th of June, 1803, his first child, John, +was born, and on the 14th of August of the same +year he set out with his sister on a foot journey +into Scotland. Coleridge was their companion +during a part of this excursion, of which Miss +Wordsworth kept a full diary. In Scotland he +made the acquaintance of Scott, who recited to +him a part of the <i>Lay of the Last Minstrel</i>, then in +manuscript. The travellers returned to Grasmere +on the 25th of September. It was during this year<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_586" id="Page_586">[586]</a></span> +that Wordsworth’s intimacy with the excellent +Sir George Beaumont began. Sir George was an +amateur painter of considerable merit, and his +friendship was undoubtedly of service to Wordsworth +in making him familiar with the laws of a +sister art and thus contributing to enlarge the +sympathies of his criticism, the tendency of which +was toward too great exclusiveness. Sir George +Beaumont, dying in 1827, did not forgo his regard +for the poet, but contrived to hold his affection in +mortmain by the legacy of an annuity of £100, to +defray the charges of a yearly journey.</p> + +<p>In March 1805, the poet’s brother, John, lost his +life by the shipwreck of the <i>Abergavenny</i> East-Indiaman, +of which he was captain. He was a man +of great purity and integrity, and sacrificed himself +to his sense of duty by refusing to leave the +ship till it was impossible to save him. Wordsworth +was deeply attached to him, and felt such +grief at his death as only solitary natures like his +are capable of, though mitigated by a sense of the +heroism which was the cause of it. The need of +mental activity as affording an outlet to intense +emotion may account for the great productiveness +of this and the following year. He now completed +<i>The Prelude</i>, wrote <i>The Waggoner</i>, and increased +the number of his smaller poems enough to fill +two volumes, which were published in 1807.</p> + +<p>This collection, which contained some of the +most beautiful of his shorter pieces, and among +others the incomparable <i>Odes</i> to Duty and on +Immortality, did not reach a second edition till +1815. The reviewers had another laugh, and rival +poets pillaged while they scoffed, particularly +Byron, among whose verses a bit of Wordsworth<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_587" id="Page_587">[587]</a></span> +showed as incongruously as a sacred vestment on +the back of some buccaneering plunderer of an +abbey. There was a general combination to put +him down, but on the other hand there was a +powerful party in his favour, consisting of William +Wordsworth. He not only continued in good +heart himself, but, reversing the order usual on +such occasions, kept up the spirits of his friends.</p> + +<p>Wordsworth passed the winter of 1806-7 in a +house of Sir George Beaumont’s, at Coleorton in +Leicestershire, the cottage at Grasmere having +become too small for his increased family. On +his return to the Vale of Grasmere he rented the +house at Allan Bank, where he lived three years. +During this period he appears to have written very +little poetry, for which his biographer assigns as +a primary reason the smokiness of the Allan Bank +chimneys. This will hardly account for the failure +of the summer crop, especially as Wordsworth +composed chiefly in the open air. It did not +prevent him from writing a pamphlet upon the +Convention of Cintra, which was published too +late to attract much attention, though Lamb says +that its effect upon him was like that which one of +Milton’s tracts might have had upon a contemporary. +It was at Allan Bank that Coleridge +dictated <i>The Friend</i>, and Wordsworth contributed +to it two essays, one in answer to a letter of +Mathetes (Professor Wilson), and the other on +Epitaphs, republished in the Notes to <i>The +Excursion</i>. Here also he wrote his <i>Description +of the Scenery of the Lakes</i>. Perhaps a truer +explanation of the comparative silence of Wordsworth’s +Muse during these years is to be found in +the intense interest which he took in current events,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_588" id="Page_588">[588]</a></span> +whose variety, picturesqueness, and historical +significance were enough to absorb all the energies +of his imagination.</p> + +<p>In the spring of 1811 Wordsworth removed to +the Parsonage at Grasmere. Here he remained +two years, and here he had his second intimate +experience of sorrow in the loss of two of his +children, Catharine and Thomas, one of whom +died 4th June, and the other 1st December, 1812. +Early in 1813 he bought Rydal Mount, and, having +removed thither, changed his abode no more during +the rest of his life. In March of this year he was +appointed Distributor of Stamps for the county of +Westmorland, an office whose receipts rendered +him independent, and whose business he was able +to do by deputy, thus leaving him ample leisure +for nobler duties. De Quincey speaks of this +appointment as an instance of the remarkable +good luck which waited upon Wordsworth through +his whole life. In our view it is only another +illustration of that scripture which describes the +righteous as never forsaken. Good luck is the +willing handmaid of upright, energetic character, +and conscientious observance of duty. Wordsworth +owed his nomination to the friendly exertions of +the Earl of Lonsdale, who desired to atone as far +as might be for the injustice of the first Earl, and +who respected the honesty of the man more than +he appreciated the originality of the poet. The +Collectorship at Whitehaven (a more lucrative +office) was afterwards offered to Wordsworth, and +declined. He had enough for independence, and +wished nothing more. Still later, on the death of +the Stamp-Distributor for Cumberland, a part of +that district was annexed to Westmorland, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_589" id="Page_589">[589]</a></span> +Wordsworth’s income was raised to something +more than £1,000 a year.</p> + +<p>In 1814 he made his second tour in Scotland, +visiting Yarrow in company with the Ettrick +Shepherd. During this year <i>The Excursion</i> was +published, in an edition of five hundred copies, +which supplied the demand for six years. Another +edition of the same number of copies was published +in 1827, and not exhausted till 1834. In 1815 +<i>The White Doe of Rylstone</i> appeared, and in +1816 <i>A Letter to a Friend of Burns</i>, in which +Wordsworth gives his opinion upon the limits to +be observed by the biographers of literary men. +It contains many valuable suggestions, but allows +hardly scope enough for personal details, to which +he was constitutionally indifferent. Nearly the +same date may be ascribed to a rhymed translation +of the first three books of the <i>Aeneid</i>, a specimen of +which was printed in the Cambridge <i>Philological +Museum</i> (1832). In 1819 <i>Peter Bell</i>, written twenty +years before, was published, and, perhaps in +consequence of the ridicule of the reviewers, found +a more rapid sale than any of his previous volumes. +<i>The Waggoner</i>, printed in the same year, was less +successful. His next publication was the volume +of <i>Sonnets on the river Duddon</i>, with some +miscellaneous poems, 1820. A tour on the +Continent in 1820 furnished the subjects for +another collection, published in 1822. This was +followed in the same year by the volume of +<i>Ecclesiastical Sketches</i>. His subsequent publications +were <i>Yarrow Revisited</i>, 1835, and the tragedy of +<i>The Borderers</i>, 1842.</p> + +<p>During all these years his fame was increasing +slowly but steadily, and his age gathered to itself<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_590" id="Page_590">[590]</a></span> +the reverence and the troops of friends which his +poems and the nobly simple life reflected in them +deserved. Public honours followed private appreciation. +In 1838 the University of Dublin conferred +upon him the degree of D.C.L. In 1839 Oxford +did the same, and the reception of the poet (now +in his seventieth year) at the University was +enthusiastic. In 1842 he resigned his office of +Stamp-Distributor, and Sir Robert Peel had the +honour of putting him upon the civil list for a pension +of £300. In 1843 he was appointed Laureate, with +the express understanding that it was a tribute of +respect, involving no duties except such as might +be self-imposed. His only official production was +an Ode for the installation of Prince Albert as +Chancellor of the University of Cambridge. His +life was prolonged yet seven years, almost, it should +seem, that he might receive that honour which he +had truly conquered for himself by the unflinching +bravery of a literary life of half a century, +unparalleled for the scorn with which its labours +were received, and the victorious acknowledgement +which at last crowned them. Surviving nearly +all his contemporaries, he had, if ever any man had, +a foretaste of immortality, enjoying in a sort his +own posthumous renown, for the hardy slowness +of its growth gave a safe pledge of its durability. +He died on the 23rd of April, 1850, the anniversary +of the death of Shakespeare.</p> + +<p>We have thus briefly sketched the life of +Wordsworth,—a life uneventful even for a man of +letters; a life like that of an oak, of quiet self-development, +throwing out stronger roots toward +the side whence the prevailing storm-blasts blow, +and of tougher fibre in proportion to the rocky<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_591" id="Page_591">[591]</a></span> +nature of the soil in which it grows. The life and +growth of his mind, and the influences which shaped +it, are to be looked for, even more than is the case +with most poets, in his works, for he deliberately +recorded them there.</p> + +<p>Of his personal characteristics little is related. +He was somewhat above the middle height, but, +according to De Quincey, of indifferent figure, the +shoulders being narrow and drooping. His finest +feature was the eye, which was grey and full of +spiritual light. Leigh Hunt says: ‘I never beheld +eyes that looked so inspired, so supernatural. +They were like fires, half burning, half smouldering, +with a sort of acrid fixture of regard. One might +imagine Ezekiel or Isaiah to have had such eyes.’ +Southey tells us that he had no sense of smell, and +Haydon that he had none of form. The best +likeness of him, in De Quincey’s judgement, is +the portrait of Milton prefixed to Richardson’s +notes on <i>Paradise Lost</i>. He was active in his +habits, composing in the open air, and generally +dictating his poems. His daily life was regular, +simple, and frugal; his manners were dignified and +kindly; and in his letters and recorded conversations +it is remarkable how little that was personal +entered into his judgement of contemporaries.</p> + +<p>The true rank of Wordsworth among poets is, +perhaps, not even yet to be fairly estimated, so +hard is it to escape into the quiet hall of judgement +uninflamed by the tumult of partisanship which +besets the doors.</p> + +<p>Coming to manhood, predetermined to be a great +poet, at a time when the artificial school of poetry +was enthroned with all the authority of long +succession and undisputed legitimacy, it was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_592" id="Page_592">[592]</a></span> +almost inevitable that Wordsworth, who, both by +nature and judgement was a rebel against the +existing order, should become a partisan. Unfortunately, +he became not only the partisan of +a system, but of William Wordsworth as its +representative. Right in general principle, he +thus necessarily became wrong in particulars. +Justly convinced that greatness only achieves its +ends by implicitly obeying its own instincts, he +perhaps reduced the following his instincts too +much to a system, mistook his own resentments +for the promptings of his natural genius, and, +compelling principle to the measure of his own +temperament or even of the controversial exigency +of the moment, fell sometimes into the error of +making naturalness itself artificial. If a poet +resolve to be original, it will end commonly in his +being merely peculiar.</p> + +<p>Wordsworth himself departed more and more in +practice, as he grew older, from the theories which +he had laid down in his prefaces;<a name="FNanchor_46_46" id="FNanchor_46_46"></a><a href="#Footnote_46_46" class="fnanchor">[46]</a> but those +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_593" id="Page_593">[593]</a></span>theories undoubtedly had a great effect in retarding +the growth of his fame. He had carefully constructed +a pair of spectacles through which his earlier poems +were to be studied, and the public insisted on +looking through them at his mature works, and were +consequently unable to see fairly what required +a different focus. He forced his readers to come to +his poetry with a certain amount of conscious +preparation, and thus gave them beforehand the +impression of something like mechanical artifice, +and deprived them of the contented repose of +implicit faith. To the child a watch seems to be +a living creature; but Wordsworth would not +let his readers be children, and did injustice to +himself by giving them an uneasy doubt whether +creations which really throbbed with the very +heart’s-blood of genius, and were alive with nature’s +life of life, were not contrivances of wheels and +springs. A naturalness which we are told to expect +has lost the crowning grace of nature. The men +who walked in Cornelius Agrippa’s visionary +gardens had probably no more pleasurable +emotion than that of a shallow wonder, or an +equally shallow self-satisfaction in thinking they +had hit upon the secret of the thaumaturgy; but +to a tree that has grown as God willed we come +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_594" id="Page_594">[594]</a></span>without a theory and with no botanical predilections, +enjoying it simply and thankfully; or the Imagination +recreates for us its past summers and winters, +the birds that have nested and sung in it, the sheep +that have clustered in its shade, the winds that have +visited it, the cloud-bergs that have drifted over it, +and the snows that have ermined it in winter. +The Imagination is a faculty that flouts at +foreordination, and Wordsworth seemed to do all +he could to cheat his readers of her company by +laying out paths with a peremptory <i>Do not step off +the gravel!</i> at the opening of each, and preparing +pitfalls for every conceivable emotion, with guide-boards +to tell each when and where it must be +caught.</p> + +<p>But if these things stood in the way of immediate +appreciation, he had another theory which interferes +more seriously with the total and permanent +effect of his poems. He was theoretically determined +not only to be a philosophic poet, but to be a <i>great</i> +philosophic poet, and to this end he must produce +an epic. Leaving aside the question whether the +epic be obsolete or not, it may be doubted whether +the history of a single man’s mind is universal +enough in its interest to furnish all the requirements +of the epic machinery, and it may be more than +doubted whether a poet’s philosophy be ordinary +metaphysics, divisible into chapter and section. +It is rather something which is more energetic in +a word than in a whole treatise, and our hearts +unclose themselves instinctively at its simple <i>Open +sesame!</i> while they would stand firm against the +reading of the whole body of philosophy. In point +of fact, the one element of greatness which <i>The +Excursion</i> possesses indisputably is heaviness. It<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_595" id="Page_595">[595]</a></span> +is only the episodes that are universally read, and +the effect of these is diluted by the connecting +and accompanying lectures on metaphysics. +Wordsworth had his epic mould to fill, and, like +Benvenuto Cellini in casting his Perseus, was +forced to throw in everything, debasing the metal, +lest it should run short. Separated from the rest, +the episodes are perfect poems in their kind, and +without example in the language.</p> + +<p>Wordsworth, like most solitary men of strong +minds, was a good critic of the substance of poetry, +but somewhat niggardly in the allowance he made +for those subsidiary qualities which make it the +charmer of leisure and the employment of minds +without definite object. It may be doubted, +indeed, whether he set much store by any contemporary +writing but his own, and whether he did +not look upon poetry too exclusively as an exercise +rather of the intellect than as a nepenthe of the +imagination. He says of himself, speaking of his +youth:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i13">In fine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I was a better judge of thoughts than words,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Misled in estimating words, not only<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By common inexperience of youth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But by the trade in classic niceties,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The dangerous craft of culling term and phrase<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From languages that want the living voice<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To carry meaning to the natural heart;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To tell us what is passion, what is truth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What reason, what simplicity and sense.<a name="FNanchor_47_47" id="FNanchor_47_47"></a><a href="#Footnote_47_47" class="fnanchor">[47]</a><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Though he here speaks in the preterite tense, +this was always true of him, and his thought seems +often to lean upon a word too weak to bear its +weight. No reader of adequate insight can help +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_596" id="Page_596">[596]</a></span>regretting that he did not earlier give himself to +‘the trade of classic niceties’. It was precisely +this which gives to the blank-verse of Landor the +severe dignity and reserved force which alone +among later poets recall the tune of Milton, and +to which Wordsworth never attained. Indeed, +Wordsworth’s blank-verse (though the passion be +profounder) is always essentially that of Cowper. +They were alike also in their love of outward +nature and of simple things. The main difference +between them is one of scenery rather than of +sentiment, between the lifelong familiar of the +mountains and the dweller on the plain.</p> + +<p>It cannot be denied that in Wordsworth the +very highest powers of the poetic mind were +associated with a certain tendency to the diffuse +and commonplace. It is in the understanding +(always prosaic) that the great golden veins of his +imagination are imbedded. He wrote too much +to write always well; for it is not a great Xerxes-army +of words, but a compact Greek ten thousand, +that march safely down to posterity. He set +tasks to his divine faculty, which is much the same +as trying to make Jove’s eagle do the service of +a clucking hen. Throughout <i>The Prelude</i> and <i>The +Excursion</i> he seems striving to bind the wizard +Imagination with the sand-ropes of dry disquisition, +and to have forgotten the potent spell-word which +would make the particles cohere. There is an +arenaceous quality in the style which makes +progress wearisome. Yet with what splendours +as of mountain-sunsets are we rewarded! what +golden rounds of verse do we not see stretching +heavenward with angels ascending and descending! +what haunting harmonies hover around us deep<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_597" id="Page_597">[597]</a></span> +and eternal like the undying baritone of the sea! +and if we are compelled to fare through sands and +desert wildernesses, how often do we not hear airy +shapes that syllable our names with a startling +personal appeal to our highest consciousness and +our noblest aspiration, such as we wait for in vain +in any other poet!</p> + +<p>Take from Wordsworth all which an honest +criticism cannot but allow, and what is left will +show how truly great he was. He had no humour, +no dramatic power, and his temperament was +of that dry and juiceless quality, that in all his +published correspondence you shall not find +a letter, but only essays. If we consider carefully +where he was most successful, we shall find that +it was not so much in description of natural scenery, +or delineation of character, as in vivid expression +of the effect produced by external objects and +events upon his own mind, and of the shape and +hue (perhaps momentary) which they in turn took +from his mood or temperament. His finest +passages are always monologues. He had a fondness +for particulars, and there are parts of his +poems which remind us of local histories in the +undue relative importance given to trivial matters. +He was the historian of Wordsworthshire. This +power of particularization (for it is as truly +a power as generalization) is what gives such vigour +and greatness to single lines and sentiments of +Wordsworth, and to poems developing a single +thought or sentiment. It was this that made him +so fond of the sonnet. That sequestered nook +forced upon him the limits which his fecundity +(if I may not say his garrulity) was never self-denying +enough to impose on itself. It suits his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_598" id="Page_598">[598]</a></span> +solitary and meditative temper, and it was there +that Lamb (an admirable judge of what was +permanent in literature) liked him best. Its +narrow bounds, but fourteen paces from end to +end, turn into a virtue his too common fault of +giving undue prominence to every passing emotion. +He excels in monologue, and the law of the sonnet +tempers monologue with mercy. In <i>The Excursion</i> +we are driven to the subterfuge of a French +verdict of extenuating circumstances. His mind +had not that reach and elemental movement of +Milton’s, which, like the trade-wind, gathered to +itself thoughts and images like stately fleets from +every quarter; some deep with silks and spicery, +some brooding over the silent thunders of their +battailous armaments, but all swept forward in +their destined track, over the long billows of his +verse, every inch of canvas strained by the unifying +breath of their common epic impulse. It was an +organ that Milton mastered, mighty in compass, +capable equally of the trumpet’s ardours or the slim +delicacy of the flute, and sometimes it bursts +forth in great crashes through his prose, as if he +touched it for solace in the intervals of his toil. +If Wordsworth sometimes puts the trumpet to +his lips, yet he lays it aside soon and willingly for +his appropriate instrument, the pastoral reed. +And it is not one that grew by any vulgar stream, +but that which Apollo breathed through, tending +the flocks of Admetus,—that which Pan endowed +with every melody of the visible universe,—the +same in which the soul of the despairing nymph +took refuge and gifted with her dual nature,—so +that ever and anon, amid the notes of human joy +or sorrow, there comes suddenly a deeper and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_599" id="Page_599">[599]</a></span> +almost awful tone, thrilling us into dim consciousness +of a forgotten divinity.</p> + +<p>Wordsworth’s absolute want of humour, while it +no doubt confirmed his self-confidence by making +him insensible both to the comical incongruity +into which he was often led by his earlier theory +concerning the language of poetry and to the not +unnatural ridicule called forth by it, seems to +have been indicative of a certain dullness of +perception in other directions.<a name="FNanchor_48_48" id="FNanchor_48_48"></a><a href="#Footnote_48_48" class="fnanchor">[48]</a> We cannot help +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_600" id="Page_600">[600]</a></span>feeling that the material of his nature was essentially +prose, which, in his inspired moments, he had the +power of transmuting, but which, whenever the +inspiration failed or was factitious, remained +obstinately leaden. The normal condition of +many poets would seem to approach that temperature +to which Wordsworth’s mind could be raised +only by the white heat of profoundly inward +passion. And in proportion to the intensity +needful to make his nature thoroughly aglow is +the very high quality of his best verses. They +seem rather the productions of nature than of man, +and have the lastingness of such, delighting our +age with the same startle of newness and beauty +that pleased our youth. Is it his thought? +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_601" id="Page_601">[601]</a></span>It has the shifting inward lustre of diamond. +Is it his feeling? It is as delicate as the impressions +of fossil ferns. He seems to have caught and fixed +for ever in immutable grace the most evanescent +and intangible of our intuitions, the very ripple-marks +on the remotest shores of being. But this +intensity of mood which insures high quality is by +its very nature incapable of prolongation, and +Wordsworth, in endeavouring it, falls more below +himself, and is, more even than many poets his +inferiors in imaginative quality, a poet of passages. +Indeed, one cannot help having the feeling sometimes +that the poem is there for the sake of these +passages, rather than that these are the natural +jets and elations of a mind energized by the +rapidity of its own motion. In other words, the +happy couplet or gracious image seems not to +spring from the inspiration of the poem conceived +as a whole, but rather to have dropped of itself +into the mind of the poet in one of his rambles, who +then, in a less rapt mood, has patiently built up +around it a setting of verse too often ungraceful +in form and of a material whose cheapness may +cast a doubt on the priceless quality of the gem it +encumbers.<a name="FNanchor_49_49" id="FNanchor_49_49"></a><a href="#Footnote_49_49" class="fnanchor">[49]</a> During the most happily productive +period of his life, Wordsworth was impatient of +what may be called the mechanical portion of his +art. His wife and sister seem from the first to +have been his scribes. In later years, he had +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_602" id="Page_602">[602]</a></span>learned and often insisted on the truth that poetry +was an art no less than a gift, and corrected his +poems in cold blood, sometimes to their detriment. +But he certainly had more of the vision than of the +faculty divine, and was always a little numb on +the side of form and proportion. Perhaps his best +poem in these respects is the <i>Laodamia</i>, and it is +not uninstructive to learn from his own lips that +‘it cost him more trouble than almost anything of +equal length he had ever written’. His longer +poems (miscalled epical) have no more intimate +bond of union than their more or less immediate +relation to his own personality. Of character +other than his own he had but a faint conception, +and all the personages of <i>The Excursion</i> that +are not Wordsworth are the merest shadows of +himself upon mist, for his self-concentrated nature +was incapable of projecting itself into the consciousness +of other men and seeing the springs of action +at their source in the recesses of individual +character. The best parts of these longer poems +are bursts of impassioned soliloquy, and his fingers +were always clumsy at the <i>callida junctura</i>. The +stream of narration is sluggish, if varied by times +with pleasing reflections (<i>viridesque placido aequore +sylvas</i>); we are forced to do our own rowing, and +only when the current is hemmed in by some +narrow gorge of the poet’s personal consciousness +do we feel ourselves snatched along on the smooth +but impetuous rush of unmistakable inspiration. +The fact that what is precious in Wordsworth’s +poetry was (more truly even than with some +greater poets than he) a gift rather than an +achievement should always be borne in mind in +taking the measure of his power. I know not<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_603" id="Page_603">[603]</a></span> +whether to call it height or depth, this peculiarity +of his, but it certainly endows those parts of his +work which we should distinguish as Wordsworthian +with an unexpectedness and impressiveness of +originality such as we feel in the presence of Nature +herself. He seems to have been half conscious of +this, and recited his own poems to all comers with +an enthusiasm of wondering admiration that +would have been profoundly comic but for its +simple sincerity and for the fact that William +Wordsworth, Esquire, of Rydal Mount, was one +person, and the William Wordsworth whom he so +heartily reverenced quite another. We recognize +two voices in him, as Stephano did in Caliban. +There are Jeremiah and his scribe Baruch. If the +prophet cease from dictating, the amanuensis, +rather than be idle, employs his pen in jotting +down some anecdotes of his master, how he one +day went out and saw an old woman, and the +next day did <i>not</i>, and so came home and dictated +some verses on this ominous phenomenon, and +how another day he saw a cow. These marginal +annotations have been carelessly taken up into the +text, have been religiously held by the pious to be +orthodox scripture, and by dexterous exegesis have +been made to yield deeply oracular meanings. +Presently the real prophet takes up the word +again and speaks as one divinely inspired, the +Voice of a higher and invisible power. Wordsworth’s +better utterances have the bare sincerity, the +absolute abstraction from time and place, the +immunity from decay, that belong to the grand +simplicities of the Bible. They seem not more his +own than ours and every man’s, the word of the +inalterable Mind. This gift of his was naturally<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_604" id="Page_604">[604]</a></span> +very much a matter of temperament, and accordingly +by far the greater part of his finer product +belongs to the period of his prime, ere Time had +set his lumpish foot on the pedal that deadens the +nerves of animal sensibility.<a name="FNanchor_50_50" id="FNanchor_50_50"></a><a href="#Footnote_50_50" class="fnanchor">[50]</a> He did not grow as +those poets do in whom the artistic sense is predominant. +One of the most delightful fancies of +the Genevese humorist, Toepffer, is the poet Albert, +who, having had his portrait drawn by a highly +idealizing hand, does his best afterwards to look +like it. Many of Wordsworth’s later poems seem +like rather unsuccessful efforts to resemble his +former self. They would never, as Sir John +Harington says of poetry, ‘keep a child from play +and an old man from the chimney-corner’.<a name="FNanchor_51_51" id="FNanchor_51_51"></a><a href="#Footnote_51_51" class="fnanchor">[51]</a></p> + +<p>Chief Justice Marshall once blandly interrupted +a junior counsel who was arguing certain obvious +points of law at needless length, by saying, ‘Brother +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_605" id="Page_605">[605]</a></span>Jones, there are <i>some</i> things which a Supreme Court +of the United States sitting in equity may be +presumed to know.’ Wordsworth has this fault +of enforcing and restating obvious points till the +reader feels as if his own intelligence were somewhat +underrated. He is over-conscientious in giving us +full measure, and once profoundly absorbed in the +sound of his own voice, he knows not when to stop. +If he feel himself flagging, he has a droll way of +keeping the floor, as it were, by asking himself +a series of questions sometimes not needing, and +often incapable of answer. There are three stanzas +of such near the close of the First Part of <i>Peter +Bell</i>, where Peter first catches a glimpse of the +dead body in the water, all happily incongruous, +and ending with one which reaches the height of +comicality:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Is it a fiend that to a stake<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of fire his desperate self is tethering?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or stubborn spirit doomed to yell,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In solitary ward or cell,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ten thousand miles from all his brethren?<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">The same want of humour which made him +insensible to incongruity may perhaps account also +for the singular unconsciousness of disproportion +which so often strikes us in his poetry. For +example, a little farther on in <i>Peter Bell</i> we find:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Now</i>—like a tempest-shattered bark<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That overwhelmed and prostrate lies,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And in a moment to the verge<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is lifted of a foaming surge—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Full suddenly the Ass doth rise!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">And one cannot help thinking that the similes of +the huge stone, the sea-beast, and the cloud, noble<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_606" id="Page_606">[606]</a></span> +as they are in themselves, are somewhat too lofty +for the service to which they are put.<a name="FNanchor_52_52" id="FNanchor_52_52"></a><a href="#Footnote_52_52" class="fnanchor">[52]</a></p> + +<p>The movement of Wordsworth’s mind was too slow +and his mood too meditative for narrative poetry. +He values his own thoughts and reflections too +much to sacrifice the least of them to the interests +of his story. Moreover, it is never action that +interests him, but the subtle motives that lead +to or hinder it. <i>The Waggoner</i> involuntarily +suggests a comparison with <i>Tam O’Shanter</i>, +infinitely to its own disadvantage. <i>Peter Bell</i>, +full though it be of profound touches and subtle +analysis, is lumbering and disjointed. Even Lamb +was forced to confess that he did not like it. +<i>The White Doe</i>, the most Wordsworthian of them +all in the best meaning of the epithet, is also only +the more truly so for being diffuse and reluctant. +What charms in Wordsworth and will charm +for ever is the</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i7">Happy tone<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of meditation slipping in between<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The beauty coming and the beauty gone.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">A few poets, in the exquisite adaptation of their +words to the tune of our own feelings and fancies, +in the charm of their manner, indefinable as the +sympathetic grace of woman, <i>are</i> everything to us +without our being able to say that they are much +in themselves. They rather narcotize than fortify. +Wordsworth must subject our mood to his own +before he admits us to his intimacy; but, once +admitted, it is for life, and we find ourselves in his +debt, not for what he has been to us in our hours +of relaxation, but for what he has done for us as +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_607" id="Page_607">[607]</a></span>a reinforcement of faltering purpose and personal +independence of character. His system of a Nature-cure, +first professed by Dr. Jean Jacques and +continued by Cowper, certainly breaks down as +a whole. The Solitary of <i>The Excursion</i>, who +has not been cured of his scepticism by living +among the medicinal mountains, is, so far as we +can see, equally proof against the lectures of +Pedlar and Parson. Wordsworth apparently felt +that this would be so, and accordingly never saw +his way clear to finishing the poem. But the +treatment, whether a panacea or not, is certainly +wholesome inasmuch as it inculcates abstinence, +exercise, and uncontaminate air. I am not sure, +indeed, that the Nature-cure theory does not tend +to foster in constitutions less vigorous than +Wordsworth’s what Milton would call a fugitive +and cloistered virtue at a dear expense of manlier +qualities. The ancients and our own Elizabethans, +ere spiritual megrims had become fashionable, +perhaps made more out of life by taking a frank +delight in its action and passion and by grappling +with the facts of this world, rather than muddling +themselves over the insoluble problems of another. +If they had not discovered the picturesque, as we +understand it, they found surprisingly fine scenery +in man and his destiny, and would have seen +something ludicrous, it may be suspected, in the +spectacle of a grown man running to hide his head +in the apron of the Mighty Mother whenever he +had an ache in his finger or got a bruise in the +tussle for existence.</p> + +<p>But when, as I have said, our impartiality has +made all those qualifications and deductions against +which even the greatest poet may not plead his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_608" id="Page_608">[608]</a></span> +privilege, what is left to Wordsworth is enough to +justify his fame. Even where his genius is wrapped +in clouds, the unconquerable lightning of imagination +struggles through, flashing out unexpected +vistas, and illuminating the humdrum pathway +of our daily thought with a radiance of momentary +consciousness that seems like a revelation. If it +be the most delightful function of the poet to set +our lives to music, yet perhaps he will be even +more sure of our maturer gratitude if he do his +part also as moralist and philosopher to purify +and enlighten; if he define and encourage our +vacillating perceptions of duty; if he piece +together our fragmentary apprehensions of our +own life and that larger life whose unconscious +instruments we are, making of the jumbled bits +of our dissected map of experience a coherent +chart. In the great poets there is an exquisite +sensibility both of soul and sense that sympathizes +like gossamer sea-moss with every movement of +the element in which it floats, but which is rooted +on the solid rock of our common sympathies. +Wordsworth shows less of this finer feminine fibre +of organization than one or two of his contemporaries, +notably than Coleridge or Shelley; but +he was a masculine thinker, and in his more +characteristic poems there is always a kernel of +firm conclusion from far-reaching principles that +stimulates thought and challenges meditation. +Groping in the dark passages of life, we come upon +some axiom of his, as it were a wall that gives us +our bearings and enables us to find an outlet. +Compared with Goethe we feel that he lacks that +serene impartiality of mind which results from +breadth of culture; nay, he seems narrow, insular,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_609" id="Page_609">[609]</a></span> +almost provincial. He reminds us of those saints +of Dante who gather brightness by revolving on +their own axis. But through this very limitation +of range he gains perhaps in intensity and the +impressiveness which results from eagerness of +personal conviction. If we read Wordsworth +through, as I have just done, we find ourselves +changing our mind about him at every other page, +so uneven is he. If we read our favourite poems +or passages only, he will seem uniformly great. +And even as regards <i>The Excursion</i> we should +remember how few long poems will bear consecutive +reading. For my part I know of but one,—the +<i>Odyssey</i>.</p> + +<p>None of our great poets can be called popular in +any exact sense of the word, for the highest poetry +deals with thoughts and emotions which inhabit, +like rarest sea-mosses, the doubtful limits of that +shore between our abiding divine and our fluctuating +human nature, rooted in the one, but living in the +other, seldom laid bare, and otherwise visible only +at exceptional moments of entire calm and +clearness. Of no other poet except Shakespeare +have so many phrases become household words as +of Wordsworth. If Pope has made current more +epigrams of worldly wisdom, to Wordsworth +belongs the nobler praise of having defined for us, +and given us for a daily possession, those faint +and vague suggestions of other-worldliness of whose +gentle ministry with our baser nature the hurry +and bustle of life scarcely ever allowed us to be +conscious. He has won for himself a secure +immortality by a depth of intuition which makes +only the best minds at their best hours worthy, or +indeed capable, of his companionship, and by<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_610" id="Page_610">[610]</a></span> +a homely sincerity of human sympathy which +reaches the humblest heart. Our language owes +him gratitude for the habitual purity and abstinence +of his style, and we who speak it, for having +emboldened us to take delight in simple things, +and to trust ourselves to our own instincts. And +he hath his reward. It needs not to bid</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Renowned Chaucer lie a thought more nigh<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To rare Beaumont, and learned Beaumont lie<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A little nearer Spenser;<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">for there is no fear of crowding in that little +society with whom he is now enrolled as fifth in +the succession of the great English Poets.</p> + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_41_41" id="Footnote_41_41"></a><a href="#FNanchor_41_41"><span class="label">[41]</span></a> In the <i>Prelude</i> he attributes this consecration to a sunrise +seen (during a college vacation) as he walked homeward +from some village festival where he had danced all night: +</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">My heart was full; I made no vows, but vows<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Were then made for me; bond unknown to me<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was given that I should be, else sinning greatly.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A dedicated Spirit.—Book IV.<br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_42_42" id="Footnote_42_42"></a><a href="#FNanchor_42_42"><span class="label">[42]</span></a> <i>Prelude</i>, Book II.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_43_43" id="Footnote_43_43"></a><a href="#FNanchor_43_43"><span class="label">[43]</span></a> +</p> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I to the muses have been bound,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">These fourteen years, by strong indentures.<br /></span> +<span class="i13"><i>Idiot Boy</i> (1798).</span></div> +</div></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_44_44" id="Footnote_44_44"></a><a href="#FNanchor_44_44"><span class="label">[44]</span></a> <i>Prelude</i>, Book III.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_45_45" id="Footnote_45_45"></a><a href="#FNanchor_45_45"><span class="label">[45]</span></a> <i>Prelude</i>, Book VII. Written before 1805, and referring +to a still earlier date.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_46_46" id="Footnote_46_46"></a><a href="#FNanchor_46_46"><span class="label">[46]</span></a> How far he swung backward toward the school under +whose influence he grew up, and toward the style against +which he had protested so vigorously, a few examples will +show. The advocate of the language of common life has +a verse in his <i>Thanksgiving Ode</i> which, if one met with it +by itself, he would think the achievement of some later +copyist of Pope: +</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">While the <i>tubed engine</i> [the organ] feels the inspiring blast.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">And in <i>The Italian Itinerant</i> and <i>The Swiss Goatherd</i> we +find a thermometer or barometer called +</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i6">The well-wrought scale<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose sentient tube instructs to time<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A purpose to a fickle clime.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">Still worse in the <i>Eclipse of the Sun</i>, 1821:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">High on her speculative tower<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stood Science, waiting for the hour<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When Sol was destined to endure<br /></span> +<span class="i1">That darkening.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">So in <i>The Excursion</i>,</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The cold March wind raised in her tender throat<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Viewless obstructions.<br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_47_47" id="Footnote_47_47"></a><a href="#FNanchor_47_47"><span class="label">[47]</span></a> <i>Prelude</i>, Book VI.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_48_48" id="Footnote_48_48"></a><a href="#FNanchor_48_48"><span class="label">[48]</span></a> Nowhere is this displayed with more comic self-complacency +than when he thought it needful to rewrite the +ballad of Helen of Kirconnel,—a poem hardly to be +matched in any language for swiftness of movement and +savage sincerity of feeling. Its shuddering compression +is masterly. Compare: +</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Curst be the heart that thought the thought,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And curst the hand that fired the shot,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When in my arms burd Helen dropt,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That died to succour me!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O, think ye not my heart was sair<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When my love dropt down and spake na mair?<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">Compare this with,—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Proud Gordon cannot bear the thoughts<br /></span> +<span class="i1">That through his brain are travelling,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, starting up, to Bruce’s heart<br /></span> +<span class="i1">He launched a deadly javelin:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fair Ellen saw it when it came,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, <i>stepping forth to meet the same</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Did with her body cover<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Youth, her chosen lover.<br /></span></div> + +<p class="dotted2"> </p> + +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And Bruce (<i>as soon as he had slain</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>The Gordon</i>) sailed away to Spain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And fought with rage incessant<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Against the Moorish Crescent.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>These are surely the versos of an attorney’s clerk ‘penning +a stanza when he should engross’. It will be noticed +that Wordsworth here also departs from his earlier theory +of the language of poetry by substituting a javelin for +a bullet as less modern and familiar. Had he written</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And Gordon never gave a hint,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But, having somewhat picked his flint,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Let fly the fatal bullet<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That killed that lovely pullet,<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">it would hardly have seemed more like a parody than the +rest. He shows the same insensibility in a note upon the +<i>Ancient Mariner</i> in the second edition of the <i>Lyrical +Ballads</i>: ‘The poem of my friend has indeed great defects; +first, that the principal person has no distinct character, +either in his profession of mariner, or as a human being who, +having been long under the control of supernatural impressions, +might be supposed himself to partake of something +supernatural; secondly, that he does not act, but is +continually acted upon; thirdly, that the events, having +no necessary connexion, do not produce each other; and +lastly, that the imagery is somewhat laboriously accumulated.’ +Here is an indictment, to be sure, and drawn, +plainly enough, by the attorney’s clerk aforenamed. One +would think that the strange charm of Coleridge’s most +truly original poems lay in this very emancipation from +the laws of cause and effect.</p> +</div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_49_49" id="Footnote_49_49"></a><a href="#FNanchor_49_49"><span class="label">[49]</span></a> +</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A hundred times when, roving high and low,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I have been harassed with the toil of verse,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Much pains and little progress, and at once<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some lovely Image in the song rose up,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Full-formed, like Venus rising from the sea.<br /></span> +<span class="i13"><i>Prelude</i>, Book IV.<br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_50_50" id="Footnote_50_50"></a><a href="#FNanchor_50_50"><span class="label">[50]</span></a> His best poetry was written when he was under the +immediate influence of Coleridge. Coleridge seems to have +felt this, for it is evidently to Wordsworth that he alludes +when he speaks of ‘those who have been so well pleased +that I should, year after year, flow with a hundred nameless +rills into <i>their</i> main stream’ (<i>Letters, Conversations, and +Recollections of S. T. C.</i>, vol. i, pp. 5-6). Wordsworth +found fault with the repetition of the concluding sound of +the participles in Shakespeare’s line about bees: +</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The singing masons building roofs of gold.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="noin">This, he said, was a line that Milton never would have +written. Keats thought, on the other hand, that the +repetition was in harmony with the continued note of +the singers’ (Leigh Hunt’s <i>Autobiography</i>). Wordsworth +writes to Crabb Robinson in 1837, ‘My ear is susceptible +to the clashing of sounds almost to disease.’ One cannot +help thinking that his training in these niceties was begun +by Coleridge.</p> +</div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_51_51" id="Footnote_51_51"></a><a href="#FNanchor_51_51"><span class="label">[51]</span></a> In the Preface to his translation of the <i>Orlando Furioso</i>.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_52_52" id="Footnote_52_52"></a><a href="#FNanchor_52_52"><span class="label">[52]</span></a> In <i>Resolution and Independence</i>.</p></div> +</div> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of English Critical Essays, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ENGLISH CRITICAL ESSAYS *** + +***** This file should be named 31283-h.htm or 31283-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/1/2/8/31283/ + +Produced by Marilynda Fraser-Cunliffe, Irma Spehar and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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