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diff --git a/31283.txt b/31283.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6e49f86 --- /dev/null +++ b/31283.txt @@ -0,0 +1,18099 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of English Critical Essays, by Various + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. 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: ASCII + +*** 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 + + + + + + + The World's Classics + + + CCVI + + ENGLISH CRITICAL ESSAYS + NINETEENTH CENTURY + + + OXFORD + UNIVERSITY PRESS + LONDON: AMEN HOUSE, E.C. 4 + EDINBURGH GLASGOW LEIPZIG + COPENHAGEN NEW YORK TORONTO + MELBOURNE CAPETOWN BOMBAY + CALCUTTA MADRAS SHANGHAI + HUMPHREY MILFORD + PUBLISHER TO THE + UNIVERSITY + + + + + ENGLISH CRITICAL ESSAYS + NINETEENTH CENTURY + + + SELECTED AND EDITED BY + EDMUND D. JONES + + + OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS + LONDON: HUMPHREY MILFORD + + +_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._ + + + PRINTED IN ENGLAND AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS OXFORD + BY JOHN JOHNSON PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY + + + + +TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE + +Legend for reading accented characters: + + [)a]--a with a breve above + [)e]--e with a breve above + [)i]--i with a breve above + [)o]--o with a breve above + [)u]--u with a breve above + [=e]--e with a macron above + [=u]--u with a macron above + + + + +PREFACE + + +The 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 _Lyrical Ballads_ 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. + +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. + +The extracts from the _Biographia Literaria_ are placed next to the +Wordsworthian doctrines which they criticize; otherwise the +arrangement of the essays is chronological. + +American criticism is represented--inadequately, but, it is hoped, not +unworthily--by the last two essays. + +In the preparation of this volume I have received much valuable help +from Mr. J. C. Smith, which I now gratefully acknowledge. + + EDMUND D. JONES. + + + + +CONTENTS + + + PAGE +WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, 1770-1850 + Poetry and Poetic Diction. (1800) 1 + +SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE, 1772-1834 + Wordsworth's Theory of Diction. (1817) 40 + Metrical Composition. (1817) 57 + +WILLIAM BLAKE, 1757-1827 + The Canterbury Pilgrims. (1809) 85 + +CHARLES LAMB, 1775-1834 + On the Tragedies of Shakespeare, Considered with Reference + to their Fitness for Stage Representation. (1811) 95 + +PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, 1792-1822 + A Defence of Poetry. (1821) 120 + +WILLIAM HAZLITT, 1778-1830 + My First Acquaintance with Poets. (1823) 164 + +JOHN KEBLE, 1792-1866 + Sacred Poetry. (1825) 191 + +JOHN HENRY NEWMAN, 1801-1890 + Poetry with reference to Aristotle's Poetics. (1829) 223 + +THOMAS CARLYLE, 1795-1881 + The Hero as Poet. Dante; Shakespeare. (1840) 254 + +JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT, 1784-1859 + An Answer to the Question: What is Poetry? (1844) 300 + +MATTHEW ARNOLD, 1822-1888 + The Choice of Subjects in Poetry. (1853) 356 + +JOHN RUSKIN, 1819-1900 + Of the Pathetic Fallacy. (1856) 378 + +JOHN STUART MILL, 1806-1873 + Thoughts on Poetry and its Varieties. (1833, revised 1859) 398 + +WALTER BAGEHOT, 1826-1877 + Wordsworth, Tennyson, and Browning; or, Pure, Ornate and + Grotesque Art in English Poetry. (1864) 430 + +WALTER HORATIO PATER, 1839-1894 + Coleridge's Writings. (1866) 492 + +RALPH WALDO EMERSON, 1803-1882 + Shakespeare; or, the Poet. (1850) 535 + +JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL, 1819-1891 + Wordsworth. (1875) 558 + + + + +WILLIAM WORDSWORTH + +1770-1850 + +POETRY AND POETIC DICTION + +[Preface to the Second Edition of _Lyrical Ballads_, 1800] + + +The 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. + +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. + + * * * * * + +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 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 _reasoning_ 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. + +It is supposed, that by the act of writing in verse an Author makes a +formal engagement that 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 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. + +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 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.[1] + + [1] 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. + +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 +_purpose_. Not that I always 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 _purpose_. 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. + +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 the action and situation, and not the +action and situation to the feeling. + +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 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. + +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 _style_, 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 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 feelings of disgust are connected +with them as it is scarcely possible by any art of association to +overpower. + +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. + + In vain to me the smiling mornings shine, + And reddening Phoebus lifts his golden fire: + The birds in vain their amorous descant join, + Or cheerful fields resume their green attire. + These ears, alas! for other notes repine; + _A different object do these eyes require; + My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine; + And in my breast the imperfect joys expire;_ + Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer, + And new-born pleasure brings to happier men; + The fields to all their wonted tribute bear; + To warm their little loves the birds complain. + _I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear, + And weep the more because I weep in vain_. + +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. + +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 +_essential_ 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, not necessarily differing even in degree; Poetry[2] 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. + + [2] 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 _strict_ 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. + +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 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. + +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, 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. + +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, arise in him +without immediate external excitement. + +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. + +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 _his_ fancy or imagination can suggest, will be +to be compared with those which are the emanations of reality and +truth. + +But it may be said by those who do not object 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 _taste_ 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 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. + +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 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. + +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 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 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. + +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. + +It is not, then, in the dramatic parts of composition 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 _proved_ 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, 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 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; 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. + +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, 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 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 _chiefly_ to attempt, at +present, was to justify myself for having written under the impression +of this belief. + +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 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 _Clarissa Harlowe_, or the _Gamester_; 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. + +If I had undertaken a SYSTEMATIC defence of 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. + +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 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 +_necessary_ 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 will be +read a hundred times where the prose is read once. + +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 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. + +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:-- + + I put my hat upon my head + And walked into the Strand, + And there I met another man + Whose hat was in his hand. + +Immediately under these lines let us place one of the most +justly-admired stanzas of the 'Babes in the Wood.' + + These pretty Babes with hand in hand + Went wandering up and down; + But never more they saw the Man + Approaching from the Town. + +In both these stanzas the words, and the order of the words, in no +respect differ from the most 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 _matter_ +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 _lead_ 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? + +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 him not suffer such +conjectures to interfere with his pleasure. + +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 _accurate_ taste +in poetry, and in all the other arts, as Sir Joshua Reynolds has +observed, is an _acquired_ 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. + +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; 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, and likewise important in +the multiplicity and quality of its moral relations. + +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. + + +APPENDIX + +ON POETIC DICTION + +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. + +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 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 _any situation_. 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. + +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 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 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. + +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 +_balked_ of a peculiar enjoyment which poetry can and ought to bestow. + +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 _poetic diction_ 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. &c. 1 Corinthians, chap. xiii. +By way of immediate example take the following of Dr. Johnson:-- + + Turn on the prudent Ant thy heedless eyes, + Observe her labours, Sluggard, and be wise; + No stern command, no monitory voice, + Prescribes her duties, or directs her choice; + Yet, timely provident, she hastes away + To snatch the blessings of a plenteous day; + When fruitful Summer loads the teeming plain, + She crops the harvest, and she stores the grain. + How long shall sloth usurp thy useless hours, + Unnerve thy vigour, and enchain thy powers? + While artful shades thy downy couch enclose, + And soft solicitation courts repose, + Amidst the drowsy charms of dull delight, + Year chases year with unremitted flight, + Till Want now following, fraudulent and slow, + Shall spring to seize thee, like an ambush'd foe. + +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. + +One more quotation, and I have done. It is from Cowper's _Verses +supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk_: + + Religion! what treasure untold + Resides in that heavenly word! + More precious than silver and gold, + Or all that this earth can afford. + But the sound of the church-going bell + These valleys and rocks never heard, + Ne'er sighed at the sound of a knell, + Or smiled when a sabbath appeared. + Ye winds, that have made me your sport, + Convey to this desolate shore + Some cordial endearing report + Of a land I must visit no more. + My Friends, do they now and then send + A wish or a thought after me? + O tell me I yet have a friend, + Though a friend I am never to see. + +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 _imagination and sentiment_, for of +these 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. + + + + +SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE + +1772-1834 + +WORDSWORTH'S THEORY OF DICTION + +[_Biographia Literaria_, chap. xvii, 1817] + + +As 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 _dramatic_ 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 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. + +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 _as_ 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 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.' + +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 _Brothers_, +_Michael_, _Ruth_, the _Mad Mother_, &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 the same +results in every state of life, whether in town or country. As the two +principal I rank that INDEPENDENCE, 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, EDUCATION, +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'. + +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 becomes selfish, sensual, gross, and +hard-hearted. Let the management of the POOR LAWS 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. + +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 +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. + +The characters of the vicar and the shepherd-mariner in the poem of +_The Brothers_, that of the shepherd of Green-head Ghyll in the +_Michael_, 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: + + An old man stout of heart, and strong of limb: + His bodily frame had been from youth to age + Of an unusual strength: his mind was keen, + Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs, + And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt + And watchful more than ordinary men. + Hence he had learned the meaning of all winds, + Of blasts of every tone; and oftentimes + When others heeded not, he heard the South + Make subterraneous music, like the noise + Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills. + The shepherd, at such warning, of his flock + Bethought him, and he to himself would say, + The winds are now devising work for me! + And truly at all times the storm, that drives + The traveller to a shelter, summon'd him + Up to the mountains. He had been alone + Amid the heart of many thousand mists, + That came to him and left him on the heights. + So liv'd he, until his eightieth year was pass'd. + And grossly that man errs, who should suppose + That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks, + Were things indifferent to the shepherd's thoughts. + Fields, where with chearful spirits he had breath'd + The common air; the hills, which he so oft + Had climb'd with vigorous steps; which had impress'd + So many incidents upon his mind + Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear; + Which, like a book, preserved the memory + Of the dumb animals, whom he had sav'd, + Had fed or shelter'd, linking to such acts, + So grateful in themselves, the certainty + Of honourable gain; these fields, these hills + Which were his living being, even more + Than his own blood--what could they less? had laid + Strong hold on his affections, were to him + A pleasureable feeling of blind love. + The pleasure which there is in life itself. + +On the other hand, in the poems which are pitched at a lower note, as +the _Harry Gill_, _Idiot Boy_, 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 _The Idiot Boy_, 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 +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. + +In _The Thorn_, 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 _Romeo and Juliet_ 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 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;[3] the seven +last lines of the tenth;[4] and 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. + + [3] + + I've measured it from side to side; + 'Tis three feet long, and two feet wide. + + [4] + + Nay, rack your brain--'tis all in vain, + I'll tell you every thing I know; + But to the Thorn, and to the Pond + Which is a little step beyond, + I wish that you would go: + Perhaps, when you are at the place, + You something of her tale may trace. + + I'll give you the best help I can: + Before you up the mountain go, + Up to the dreary mountain-top, + I'll tell you all I know. + 'Tis now some two-and-twenty years + Since she (her name is Martha Ray) + Gave, with a maiden's true good will, + Her company to Stephen Hill; + And she was blithe and gay, + And she was happy, happy still + Whene'er she thought of Stephen Hill. + + And they had fix'd the wedding-day, + The morning that must wed them both; + But Stephen to another maid + Had sworn another oath; + And, with this other maid, to church + Unthinking Stephen went-- + Poor Martha! on that woeful day + A pang of pitiless dismay + Into her soul was sent; + A fire was kindled in her breast, + Which might not burn itself to rest. + + They say, full six months after this, + While yet the summer leaves were green, + She to the mountain-top would go, + And there was often seen. + 'Tis said a child was in her womb, + As now to any eye was plain; + She was with child, and she was mad; + Yet often she was sober sad + From her exceeding pain. + Oh me! ten thousand times I'd rather + That he had died, that cruel father! + + * * * * * + * * * * * + * * * * * + * * * * * + + Last Christmas when we talked of this, + Old farmer Simpson did maintain, + That in her womb the infant wrought + About its mother's heart, and brought + Her senses back again: + And, when at last her time drew near, + Her looks were calm, her senses clear. + + No more I know, I wish I did, + And I would tell it all to you: + For what became of this poor child + There's none that ever knew: + And if a child was born or no, + There's no one that could ever tell; + And if 'twas born alive or dead, + There's no one knows, as I have said: + But some remember well, + That Martha Ray about this time + Would up the mountain often climb. + +If then I am compelled to doubt the theory, by which the choice of +characters was to be directed, not only _a priori_, 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 +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. + +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 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 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. + +Here let me be permitted to remind the reader, that the positions, +which I controvert, are contained in the sentences--'_a selection of +the_ REAL _language of men_';--'_the language of these men_' (i. e. +men in low and rustic life) '_I propose to myself to imitate, and, as +far as is possible, to adopt the very language of men._' '_Between the +language of prose and that of metrical composition, there neither is, +nor can be, any essential difference._' It is against these +exclusively that my opposition is directed. + +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 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 _lingua communis_. +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 _pro +bono publico_. Anterior to cultivation the _lingua communis_ of every +country, as Dante has well observed, exists everywhere in parts, and +nowhere as a whole. + +Neither is the case rendered at all more tenable by the addition of +the words, _in a state of excitement_. 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 +_Macbeth_, or _Henry VIII_. 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. _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._ + + +METRICAL COMPOSITION + +[_Biographia Literaria_, chap. xviii, 1817] + +I conclude, 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. + +Now I will take the first stanza, on which I have chanced to open, in +the _Lyrical Ballads_. It is one the most simple and the least +peculiar in its language. + + In distant countries have I been, + And yet I have not often seen + A healthy man, a man full grown, + Weep in the public roads, alone. + But such a one, on English ground, + And in the broad highway, I met; + Along the broad highway he came, + His cheeks with tears were wet: + Sturdy he seem'd, though he was sad; + And in his arms a lamb he had. + +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 _The Thorn_: + + At all times of the day and night + This wretched woman thither goes, + And she is known to every star, + And every wind that blows: + And there, beside the thorn, she sits, + When the blue day-light's in the skies: + And when the whirlwind's on the hill, + Or frosty air is keen and still; + And to herself she cries, + Oh misery! Oh misery! + Oh woe is me! Oh misery! + +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 MILTON, 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, + + The Vision and the Faculty Divine. + + * * * * * + +One point then alone remains, but that the most important; its +examination having been, indeed, my chief inducement for the preceding +inquisition. '_There neither is nor can be any essential difference +between the language of prose and metrical composition._' 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 expected to distinguish prose from ordinary conversation. + +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 +'_essential difference_' 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. + +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 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:-- + + In vain to me the smiling mornings shine, + And reddening Phoebus lifts his golden fire; + The birds in vain their amorous descant join, + Or cheerful fields resume their green attire. + These ears, alas! for other notes repine; + _A different object do these eyes require; + My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine; + And in my breast the imperfect joys expire._ + Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer, + And newborn pleasure brings to happier men; + The fields to all their wonted tribute bear, + To warm their little loves the birds complain. + _I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear, + And weep the more because I weep in vain_, + +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.' + +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 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) _figures of speech_, 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. + +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 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, +_compact_ 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 POLIXENES, in the _Winter's Tale_, to PERDITA'S neglect of +the streaked gilly-flowers, because she had heard it said: + + There is an art which, in their piedness, shares + With great creating nature. + _Pol._ Say there be; + Yet nature is made better by no mean, + But nature makes that mean; so, ev'n that art, + Which, you say, adds to nature, is an art, + That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry + _A gentler scion to the wildest stock;_ + And make conceive a bark of ruder kind + By bud of nobler race. This is an art, + Which does mend nature--change it rather; but + The art itself is nature. + +Secondly, I argue from the EFFECTS 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. + +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 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: + + Tell me, thou son of great Cadwallader! + Hast sent the hare? or hast thou swallowed her? + +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. + +The reference to _The Children in the Wood_ 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 _Piers Plowman_, or at the end, as +in rhymes), possessed an independent value as assisting the +recollection, and consequently the preservation, of _any_ series of +truths or incidents. But I am not convinced by the collation of facts, +that _The Children in the Wood_ 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 old a date, and many as widely popular. _Tom Hickathrift_, _Jack +the Giant-killer_, _Goody Two-shoes_, and _Little Red Riding-hood_ 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 _Goody Two-shoes_ in the church is perfectly susceptible +of metrical narration; and, among the [Greek: Thaumata thaumastotata] +even of the present age, I do not recollect a more astonishing image +than that of the '_whole rookery, that flew out of the giant's +beard_', scared by the tremendous voice, with which this monster +answered the challenge of the heroic _Tom Hickathrift_! + +If from these we turn to compositions universally, and independently +of all early associations, beloved and admired, would _The Maria_, +_The Monk_, or _The Poor Man's Ass_ 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 _Anecdote for Fathers_, _Simon Lee_, _Alice Fell_, _The Beggars_, +and _The Sailor's Mother_, 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. + +Metre in itself is simply a stimulant of the attention, and therefore +excites the question: Why is 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 _The Sailor's Mother_, 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? + + And, thus continuing, she said, + I had a son, who many a day + Sailed on the seas; but he is dead; + In Denmark he was cast away; + And I have travelled far as Hull, to see + What clothes he might have left, or other property. + + The bird and cage they both were his: + 'Twas my son's bird; and neat and trim + He kept it: many voyages + This singing-bird hath gone with him; + When last he sailed he left the bird behind; + As it might be, perhaps, from bodings of his mind. + + He to a fellow-lodger's care + Had left it, to be watched and fed, + Till he came back again; and there + I found it when my son was dead; + And now, God help me for my little wit! + I trail it with me, Sir! he took so much delight in it. + +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 + + The simplest, and the most familiar things + Gain a strange power of spreading awe around them), + +I would ask the poet whether he would not have felt an abrupt downfall +in these verses from the preceding stanza? + + The ancient spirit is not dead; + Old times, thought I, are breathing there; + Proud was I that my country bred + Such strength, a dignity so fair: + She begged an alms, like one in poor estate; + I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate. + +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. + +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, 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 _mordaunt_ between it and the superadded +metre. Now poetry, Mr. Wordsworth truly affirms, does always imply +PASSION: 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 DONNE or DRYDEN 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. + +Fourthly, and as intimately connected with this, if not the same +argument in a more general form, 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. + +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. + +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. + + _A different object do these eyes require;_ + My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine; + _And in my breast the imperfect joys expire._ + +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 '_morning_'. (For we will set aside, at +present, the consideration, that the particular word '_smiling_' is +hackneyed and (as it involves a sort of personification) not quite +congruous with the common and material attribute of _shining_.) 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, '_Come boys! the rosy +morning calls you up_', 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 not so much proof against all authority, as dead to it. + +The second line, + + And reddening Phoebus lifts his golden fire;-- + +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? + +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 undistinguished from +prose, and the language of ordinary life? Or that it is vicious, and +that the stanzas are blots in the _Faerie Queene_? + + By this the northern wagoner had set + His sevenfold teme behind the steadfast starre, + That was in ocean waves yet never wet, + But firme is fixt, and sendeth light from farre + To all that in the wild deep wandering are: + And chearful chanticleer with his note shrill + Had warned once that Phoebus' fiery carre + In haste was climbing up the easterne hill, + Full envious that night so long his roome did fill. + + Book I, Can. 2, St. 2. + + At last the golden orientall gate + Of greatest heaven gan to open fayre, + And Phoebus fresh, as brydegrome to his mate, + Came dauncing forth, shaking his deawie hayre, + And hurl'd his glist'ring beams through gloomy ayre: + Which when the wakeful elfe perceived, streightway + He started up, and did him selfe prepayre + In sun-bright armes and battailous array; + For with that pagan proud he combat will that day. + + Book I, Can. 5, St. 2. + +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 + + I put my hat upon my head + And walk'd into the Strand; + And there I met another man, + Whose hat was in his hand. + +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 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 _Civil Wars_ 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): + + And to the end we may with better ease + Discern the true discourse, vouchsafe to show + What were the times foregoing near to these, + That these we may with better profit know. + Tell how the world fell into this disease; + And how so great distemperature did grow; + So shall we see with what degrees it came; + How things at full do soon wax out of frame. + + Ten kings had from the Norman conqu'ror reign'd + With intermixt and variable fate, + When England to her greatest height attain'd + Of power, dominion, glory, wealth, and state; + After it had with much ado sustain'd + The violence of princes, with debate + For titles and the often mutinies + Of nobles for their ancient liberties. + + For first, the Norman, conqu'ring all by might, + By might was forc'd to keep what he had got; + Mixing our customs and the form of right + With foreign constitutions he had brought; + Mast'ring the mighty, humbling the poorer wight, + By all severest means that could be wrought; + And, making the succession doubtful, rent + His new-got state, and left it turbulent. + + Book I, St. vii, viii, and ix. + +Will it be contended on the one side, that these 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 +'_well-languaged Daniel_'; 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 _Epistles_ and in +his _Hymen's Triumph_, 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 +_Dramatic Specimens_, &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. + +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 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[5] for no assignable cause or 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. + + [5] 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:-- + + To you a good morning, good Sir! I wish. + You, Sir! I thank: to you the same wish I. + + 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 _The Sailor's Mother_, I can recollect but one instance: + viz. a short passage of four or five lines in _The Brothers_, + 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, _a circumstance of which they + took no heed_: but one of them, going by chance into the + house, which at this time was James's house, learnt _there_, + that nobody had seen him all that day.' The only change which + has been made is in the position of the little word _there_ + in two instances, the position in the original being clearly + such as is not adopted in ordinary conversation. The other + words printed in _italics_ 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 _Vicar_. Yet if any ear _could_ suspect, that these + sentences were ever printed as metre, on those very words + alone could the suspicion have been grounded. + +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 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 TASTE. 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 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 [Greek: +morphosis], not [Greek: poiesis]. The rules of the IMAGINATION 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 _Progress of the Soul_. + + Thee, eye of heaven! this great soul envies not; + By thy male force is all, we have, begot. + In the first East thou now beginn'st to shine, + Suck'st early balm and island spices there, + And wilt anon in thy loose-rein'd career + At Tagus, Po, Seine, Thames, and Danow dine, + And see at night this western world of mine: + Yet hast thou not more nations seen than she, + Who before thee one day began to be, + And, thy frail light being quench'd, shall long, long outlive thee! + +Or the next stanza but one: + + Great destiny, the commissary of God, + That hast mark'd out a path and period + For ev'ry thing! Who, where we offspring took, + Our way and ends see'st at one instant: thou + Knot of all causes! Thou, whose changeless brow + Ne'er smiles nor frowns! O! vouchsafe thou to look, + And show my story in thy eternal book, &c. + +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 + + INOCULATION, heavenly maid! descend! + +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 _Pindaric Odes, written in imitation +of the style and manner of the odes of Pindar_. 'If (says Cowley) a +man should undertake to translate Pindar, word for word, it would be +thought that one madman had translated 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. + + Queen of all harmonious things, + Dancing words and speaking strings, + What God, what hero, wilt thou sing? + What happy man to equal glories bring? + Begin, begin thy noble choice, + And let the hills around reflect the image of thy voice. + Pisa does to Jove belong, + Jove and Pisa claim thy song. + The fair first-fruits of war, th' Olympic games, + Alcides offer'd up to Jove; + Alcides too thy strings may move! + But, oh! what man to join with these can worthy prove? + Join Theron boldly to their sacred names; + Theron the next honour claims; + Theron to no man gives place, + Is first in Pisa's and in Virtue's race; + Theron there, and he alone, + Ev'n his own swift forefathers has outgone. + +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: + + Ye harp-controling hymns! (or) ye hymns the sovereigns of harps! + What God? what Hero? + What Man shall we celebrate? + Truly Pisa indeed is of Jove, + But the Olympiad (or the Olympic games) did Hercules establish, + The first-fruits of the spoils of war. + But Theron for the four-horsed car, + That bore victory to him, + It behoves us now to voice aloud: + The Just, the Hospitable, + The Bulwark of Agrigentum, + Of renowned fathers + The Flower, even him + Who preserves his native city erect and safe. + +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 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 ONE country +nor of ONE age. + + + + +WILLIAM BLAKE + +1757-1827 + +THE CANTERBURY PILGRIMS (1809) + +SIR GEFFREY CHAUCER AND THE NINE-AND-TWENTY PILGRIMS ON THEIR JOURNEY +TO CANTERBURY[6] + + [6] From _A Descriptive Catalogue of Pictures_. + + +The 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: + + Of small hounds had she that she fed + With roast flesh, milk, and wastel bread. + +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: + + And ever he rode hinderest of the rout. + +These last are issuing from the gateway of the Inn 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. + +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.' + +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. + +Of Chaucer's characters, as described in his _Canterbury Tales_, 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 +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. + +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. + +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: + + And in his hand he bare a mighty bow. + +Chaucer describes here a mighty man, one who in war is the worthy +attendant on noble heroes. + +The Prioress follows these with her female Chaplain: + + Another Nonne also with her had she, + That was her Chaplaine, and Priests three. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +The Friar is a character of a mixed kind: + + A friar there was, a wanton and a merry; + +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, with constitutional gaiety enough to make him a +master of all the pleasures of the world: + + His neck was white as the flour de lis, + Thereto strong he was as a champioun. + +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. + +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: + + 'Ho,' quoth the Knyght, 'good Sir, no more of this; + That ye have said is right ynough, I wis, + And mokell more; for little heaviness + Is right enough for much folk, as I guesse. + I say, for me, it is a great disease, + Whereas men have been in wealth and ease, + To heare of their sudden fall, alas! + And the contrary is joy and solas.' + +The Monk's definition of tragedy in the proem to his tale is worth +repeating: + + Tragedie is to tell a certain story, + As old books us maken memory, + Of hem that stood in great prosperity, + And be fallen out of high degree, + Into miserie, and ended wretchedly. + +Though a man of luxury, pride and pleasure, he is a master of art and +learning, though affecting to 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. + +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. + +By way of illustration I instance Shakespeare's Witches in _Macbeth_. +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. + +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. + +His companion the Sompnour is also a Devil of the first magnitude, +grand, terrific, rich, and 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? + + In daunger had he at his own gise, + The young girls of his diocese, + And he knew well their counsel, &c. + +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. + +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. + +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 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. + +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: + + It snewed in his house of meat and drink. + +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: + + He would thresh, and thereto dike and delve, + For Christe's sake, for every poore wight, + Withouten hire, if it lay in his might. + +Visions of these eternal principles or characters of human life appear +to poets in all ages; the 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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + + Full nine and twenty in a company. + +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 I daresay that Chaucer +wrote 'A Webbe Dyer', that is a Cloth Dyer: + + A Webbe Dyer and a Tapiser. + +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: + + All were yclothed in o liverie. + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHARLES LAMB + +1775-1834 + +ON THE TRAGEDIES OF SHAKESPEARE, + +CONSIDERED WITH REFERENCE TO THEIR FITNESS FOR STAGE REPRESENTATION +(1811) + + +Taking 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: + + To paint fair Nature, by divine command, + Her magic pencil in his glowing hand, + A Shakespeare rose: then, to expand his fame + Wide o'er this breathing world, a Garrick came. + Though sunk in death the forms the Poet drew, + The Actor's genius bade them breathe anew; + Though, like the bard himself, in night they lay, + Immortal Garrick call'd them back to day: + And till Eternity with power sublime + Shall mark the mortal hour of hoary Time, + Shakespeare and Garrick like twin-stars shall shine, + And earth irradiate with a beam divine. + +It would be an insult to my readers' understandings 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 _mind congenial with the +poet's_: 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;[7] 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 _when_ and the _why_ and the _how far_ 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 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 _what an +author is_ 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. + + [7] It is observable that we fall into this confusion only in + _dramatic_ 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 _Paradise + Lost_ 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. + +Never let me be so ungrateful as to forget the very high degree of +satisfaction which I received 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. + +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 _spouted_, withers and blows upon a +fine passage, may be seen in those speeches from _Henry the Fifth_, +&c. which are current in the mouths of school-boys from their being to +be found in _Enfield Speakers_, and such kind of books. I confess +myself utterly unable to appreciate that celebrated soliloquy in +_Hamlet_, 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. + +It may seem a paradox, but I cannot help being of opinion that the +plays of Shakespeare are less 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. + +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 _speaking_, 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 _in that +form of composition_ by any gift short of intuition. We do here as we +do with novels written in the _epistolary form_. How many +improprieties, perfect solecisms in letter-writing, do we put up with +in _Clarissa_ and other books, for the sake of the delight which that +form upon the whole gives us. + +But the practice of stage representation reduces 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 + + As beseem'd + Fair couple link'd in happy nuptial league + Alone: + +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. + +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, 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 _words_ +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 _ore rotundo_, 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. _He must be +thinking all the while of his appearance, because he knows that all +the while the spectators are judging of it._ And this is the way to +represent the shy, negligent, retiring Hamlet. + +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 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 _Hamlet_ 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. 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. + +It is common for people to talk of Shakespeare's plays being _so +natural_; 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 _a trifling +peccadillo_, the murder of an uncle or so, that is all, and so comes +to an untimely end, which is _so moving_; 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, 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 _that +symbol of the emotion which passes current at the theatre for it_, 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. + +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. + +To return to Hamlet.--Among the distinguishing features of that +wonderful character, one of the most interesting (yet painful) is that +soreness of 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 _forgive afterwards_, and explain by the +whole of his character, but _at the time_ 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. + +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 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 _supererogatory love_, (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.' + +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, _they being in themselves essentially so different from +all others_, I must conclude that there is something in the nature of +acting which levels all distinctions. And in fact, who does not speak +indifferently of the _Gamester_ and of _Macbeth_ 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: + + Oh for my sake do you with Fortune chide, + The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds, + That did not better for my life provide + Than public means which public custom breeds-- + Thence comes it that my name receives a brand; + And almost thence my nature is subdued + To what it works in, like the dyer's hand-- + +Or that other confession: + + Alas! 'tis true, I have gone here and there, + And made myself a motley to thy view, + Gor'd mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear-- + +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 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: + + Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, + Featur'd like him, like him with friends possest; + Desiring _this man's art, and that man's scope_. + +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 + + With their darkness durst affront his light, + +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 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. + +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? + +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 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 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. + +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 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 _heavens themselves_, 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. + +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 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 _a coal-black Moor_--(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.[8] What we see upon a +stage is body 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. + + [8] 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. + +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 +_Macbeth_, 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. 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.' + +Much has been said, and deservedly, in reprobation of the vile mixture +which Dryden has thrown into the _Tempest_: 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 Ferdinand and Miranda. But is the _Tempest_ 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 _hateful incredible_, 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;[9] or by the aid of 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, + + Time would run back and fetch the age of gold, + And speckled vanity + Would sicken soon and die, + And leprous Sin would melt from earthly mould; + Yea Hell itself would pass away, + And leave its dolorous mansions to the peering day. + +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. + + [9] 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. + +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 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. + +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. Mrs. S. never got more fame by anything than by the +manner in which she dismisses the guests in the banquet-scene in +_Macbeth_: 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. + +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. + + + + +PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY + +1792-1822 + +A DEFENCE OF POETRY (1821) + + +According 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 [Greek: to poiein], 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 +[Greek: to logizein], 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. + +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, 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. + +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 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';[10] and he considers the 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. + + [10] _De Augment. Scient._, cap. i, lib. iii. + +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 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 _Job_, and Dante's _Paradise_, 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. + +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 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. + +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. + +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. 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. + +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 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.[11] 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. + + [11] See the _Filum Labyrinthi_, and the Essay on Death + particularly. + +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 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. + +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. + +Having determined what is poetry, and who are poets, let us proceed to +estimate its effects upon society. + +Poetry is ever accompanied with pleasure: all 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 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. + +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 +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 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. + +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 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. + +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 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 _King Lear_, universal, ideal, and sublime. It is perhaps the +intervention of this principle which determines the balance in favour +of _King Lear_ against the _Oedipus Tyrannus_ or the _Agamemnon_, 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. _King Lear_, 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 _Autos_, 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 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. + +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. + +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 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. + +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 _Cato_ 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 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. + +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 +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. + +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 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 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. + +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 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 +_quia carent vate sacro_. 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. + +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 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. + +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 + + The crow makes wing to the rooky wood, + Good things of day begin to droop and drowse, + And night's black agents to their preys do rouse. + +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, +nourishing its everlasting course with strength and swiftness. + +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 +_creating_ 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. + +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 _Republic_, as the theoretical rule of the mode in which the +materials of pleasure 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. + +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 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 fu il libro, e chi lo +scrisse.' The Provencal 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 +_Vita Nuova_ 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 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. + +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 +_iustissimus unus_, 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 a chief +popular support. Nothing can exceed the energy and magnificence of the +character of Satan as expressed in _Paradise Lost_. 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 _Divina +Commedia_ and _Paradise Lost_ 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. + +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 _Aeneid_, still less can it be +conceded to the _Orlando Furioso_, the _Gerusalemme Liberata_, the +_Lusiad_, or the _Faerie Queene_. + +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 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. + +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. + +But let us not be betrayed from a defence into 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. + +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. + +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 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. + +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 +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. + +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. + +The exertions of Locke, Hume, Gibbon, Voltaire, Rousseau,[12] 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 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. + + [12] Although Rousseau has been thus classed, he was + essentially a poet. The others, even Voltaire, were mere + reasoners. + +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 dare +not_ wait upon _I would_, 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 +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. + +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. + +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; 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 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 +_Paradise Lost_ 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 +_Orlando Furioso_. 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. + +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 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. + +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 the world, +and lays bare the naked and sleeping beauty, which is the spirit of +its forms. + +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: _Non +merita nome di creatore, se non Iddio ed il Poeta_. + +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 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. + +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 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. + +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. + +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 +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. + +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. + +The second part[13] 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 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. + + [13] This was never written. + + + + +WILLIAM HAZLITT + +1778-1830 + +MY FIRST ACQUAINTANCE WITH POETS (1823) + + +My 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 _proud +Salopians_ 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 + + High-born Hoel's harp or soft Llewelyn's lay! + +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, + + With Styx nine times round them,' + +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. + +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 _Agamemnon_ of Aeschylus, placed at 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. + +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. +_Il y a des impressions que ni le temps ni les circonstances peuvent +effacer. Dusse-je vivre des siecles entiers, le doux temps de ma +jeunesse ne peut renaitre pour moi, ni s'effacer jamais dans ma +memoire._ 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, HIMSELF, ALONE.' 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 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. + + Such were the notes our once-lov'd poet sung. + +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 _good cause_; +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 The face of nature had not then the brand of JUS DIVINUM on +it: + + Like to that sanguine flower inscrib'd with woe. + +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-- + + As are the children of yon azure sheen. + +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 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 _Christ crucified_, and Coleridge was at that time one of +those! + +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 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 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! + +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![14] 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 _Vindiciae +Gallicae_ 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 +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[15] (this was caprice 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 _with_ him, and he said, he thought himself in +more danger of being struck _by_ 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 _sensation_, Sir? +What do you mean by an _idea_?' 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_l._ 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 +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, _Mr. Coleridge, Nether-Stowey, Somersetshire_; +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 _Cassandra_) 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 + + ----Sounding on his way. + + [14] 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. + + [15] 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. + +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 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--_Credat +Judaeus Apella!_). 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 _choke-pears_, his _Treatise on Human +Nature_, to which the _Essays_, 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 _Essay on Vision_ 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 _Analogy_, but of his +_Sermons at the Rolls' Chapel_, of which I had never heard. Coleridge +somehow always contrived to prefer the _unknown_ to the _known_. In +this instance he was right. The _Analogy_ is a tissue of sophistry, of +wire-drawn, theological special-pleading; the _Sermons_ (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 _Natural Disinterestedness of the Human Mind_)--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 _Sonnet +to the Road between Wem and Shrewsbury_, 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 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. + +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 was to +visit Coleridge in the Spring._ 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 +_Ode on the Departing Year_, and I applied it, _con amore_, 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! + +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 _Paul and Virginia_. 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 _Poems on the Naming of +Places_ from the local inscriptions of the same kind in _Paul and +Virginia_. 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 _he_ 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 on the banks of its muddy river, +returned to the inn, and read _Camilla_. 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! + +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 _nothing +was given for nothing_. 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 _Lyrical Ballads_, which were +still in manuscript, or in the form of _Sibylline Leaves_. 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 + + ----hear the loud stag speak. + +In the outset of life (and particularly at this 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 _lamb's-wool_, 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 _has +been_! + +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 _Betty Foy_. I was not critically or +sceptically inclined. I saw touches of truth and nature, and took the +rest for granted. But in the _Thorn_, the _Mad Mother_, and the +_Complaint of a Poor Indian Woman_, I felt that deeper power and +pathos which have been since acknowledged, + + In spite of pride, in erring reason's spite, + +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 effect that arises from the turning up of the fresh soil, or of +the first welcome breath of Spring, + + While yet the trembling year is unconfirmed. + +Coleridge and myself walked back to Stowey that evening, and his voice +sounded high + + Of Providence, foreknowledge, will, and fate, + Fix'd fate, free-will, foreknowledge absolute, + +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 _matter-of-fact-ness_, 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 _costume_ 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. 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 +_Entrance of Christ into Jerusalem_, 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 _burr_, 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 _Castle Spectre_ by Monk +Lewis, while at Bristol, and described it very well. He said 'it +fitted the taste of the audience like a glove.' This _ad captandum_ +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 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 _chaunt_ 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 _dramatic_, the other more +_lyrical_. 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 round us, while we quaffed our _flip_. +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 _embrowned_ 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 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 +_Ancient Mariner_. 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 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 _Death of Abel_, 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 _Georgics_, 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 _Seasons_, lying in a +window-seat, on which Coleridge exclaimed, '_That_ 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 _Lyrical Ballads_ 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 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 _Caleb Williams_.[16] 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 _nature_ towards one another.' +This expression, 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 +_likeness_ 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. + + [16] 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. + +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 _Remorse_; 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,-- + + Oh memory! shield me from the world's poor strife, + And give those scenes thine everlasting life. + +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 _bon-mot_ 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--_Man as he was, or man as he is to be_. +'Give me', says Lamb, 'man as he is _not_ to be.' This saying was the +beginning of a friendship between us, which I believe still +continues.--Enough of this for the present. + + But there is matter for another rhyme, + And I to this may add a second tale. + + + + +JOHN KEBLE + +1792-1866 + +SACRED POETRY (1825) + +_The Star in the East; with other Poems._ By Josiah Conder. London. +1824. + + +There 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 _sacred_ 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 _practical_ 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. + +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. 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. + +_Most_ of them, we say, because the first poem in the volume, _The +Star in the East_, 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. + + O to have heard th' unearthly symphonies, + Which o'er the starlight peace of Syrian skies + Came floating like a dream, that blessed night + When angel songs were heard by sinful men, + Hymning Messiah's advent! O to have watch'd + The night with those poor shepherds, whom, when first + The glory of the Lord shed sudden day-- + Day without dawn, starting from midnight, day + Brighter than morning--on those lonely hills + Strange fear surpris'd--fear lost in wondering joy, + When from th' angelic multitude swell'd forth + The many-voiced consonance of praise:-- + Glory in th' highest to God, and upon earth + Peace, towards men good will. But once before, + In such glad strains of joyous fellowship, + The silent earth was greeted by the heavens, + When at its first foundation they looked down + From their bright orbs, those heavenly ministries, + Hailing the new-born world with bursts of joy. + +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 + + As much have I of worldly good + As e'er my master had: + I diet on as dainty food, + And am as richly clad, + Tho' plain my garb, though scant my board, + As Mary's Son and Nature's Lord. + + The manger was his infant bed, + His home, the mountain-cave, + He had not where to lay his head, + He borrow'd even his grave. + Earth yielded him no resting spot,-- + Her Maker, but she knew him not. + + As much the world's good will I bear, + Its favours and applause, + As He, whose blessed name I bear,-- + Hated without a cause, + Despis'd, rejected, mock'd by pride, + Betray'd, forsaken, crucified. + + Why should I court my Master's foe? + Why should I fear its frown? + Why should I seek for rest below, + Or sigh for brief renown?-- + A pilgrim to a better land, + An heir of joys at GOD's right hand? + +Or the following sweet lines on Home, which occur among the Domestic +poems: + + That is not home, where day by day + I wear the busy hours away. + That is not home, where lonely night + Prepares me for the toils of light-- + 'Tis hope, and joy, and memory, give + A home in which the heart can live-- + These walls no lingering hopes endear, + No fond remembrance chains me here, + Cheerless I heave the lonely sigh-- + Eliza, canst thou tell me why? + 'Tis where thou art is home to me, + And home without thee cannot be. + + There are who strangely love to roam, + And find in wildest haunts their home; + And some in halls of lordly state, + Who yet are homeless, desolate. + The sailor's home is on the main, + The warrior's, on the tented plain, + The maiden's, in her bower of rest, + The infant's, on his mother's breast-- + But where thou art is home to me, + And home without thee cannot be. + + There is no home in halls of pride, + They are too high, and cold, and wide. + No home is by the wanderer found: + 'Tis not in place: it hath no bound. + It is a circling atmosphere + Investing all the heart holds dear;-- + A law of strange attractive force, + That holds the feelings in their course; + + It is a presence undefin'd, + O'er-shadowing the conscious mind, + Where love and duty sweetly blend + To consecrate the name of friend;-- + Where'er thou art is home to me, + And home without thee cannot be. + + My love, forgive the anxious sigh-- + I hear the moments rushing by, + And think that life is fleeting fast, + That youth with us will soon be past. + Oh! when will time, consenting, give + The home in which my heart can live? + There shall the past and future meet, + And o'er our couch, in union sweet, + Extend their cherub wings, and shower + Bright influence on the present hour, + Oh! when shall Israel's mystic guide, + The pillar'd cloud, our steps decide, + Then, resting, spread its guardian shade, + To bless the home which love hath made? + Daily, my love, shall thence arise + Our hearts' united sacrifice; + And home indeed a home will be, + Thus consecrate and shar'd with thee. + +We will add one more specimen of the same kind, which forms a natural +and pleasing appendix to the preceding lines. + + Louise! you wept, that morn of gladness + Which made your Brother blest; + And tears of half-reproachful sadness + Fell on the Bridegroom's vest: + Yet, pearly tears were those, to gem + A Sister's bridal diadem. + + No words could half so well have spoken, + What thus was deeply shown + By Nature's simplest, dearest token, + How much was then my own; + Endearing her for whom they fell, + And Thee, for having loved so well. + + But now no more--nor let a Brother, + Louise, regretful see, + That still 'tis sorrow to another, + That he should happy be. + Those were, I trust, the only tears + That day shall cost through coming years. + + Smile with us. Happy and light-hearted, + We three the time will while. + And, when sometimes a season parted, + Still think of us, and smile. + But come to us in gloomy weather; + We'll weep, when we must weep, together. + +Now, what is the reason of the great difference between these extracts +and that from the _Star in the East_?--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 _truth_ +in the _Star in the East_--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: + + ----mens onus reponit, et peregrino + Labore fessi venimus Larem ad nostrum-- + +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. + +Let us here pause a moment to explain what is 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 +_from Christian nations only_. 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. + +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. + +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 +_Nightingale_,) far nearer than we could wish, to the most vicious of +all styles, the style of Mr. Leigh Hunt and his miserable followers. + +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 _Greenland_, remind us of a person singing enchantingly by +ear, but becoming languid and powerless the moment he sits down to a +note-book. + +Such writers, it is obvious, do not sufficiently trust to the command +which the simple expression 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 _effect_. 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. + +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 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 _Task_: + + Come Ev'ning, once again, season of peace; + Return, sweet Ev'ning, and continue long! + Methinks I see thee in the streaking west + With matron-step slow-moving, while the night + Treads on thy sweeping train; one hand employ'd + In letting fall the curtain of repose + On bird and beast, the other charg'd for man + With sweet oblivion of the cares of day: + Not sumptuously adorn'd, nor needing aid, + Like homely-featur'd night, of clust'ring gems; + A star or two, just twinkling on thy brow, + Suffices thee; save that the moon is thine + No less than her's, not worn indeed on high + With ostentatious pageantry, but set + With modest grandeur in thy purple zone, + Resplendent less, but of an ampler round. + Come then, and thou shalt find thy vot'ry calm, + Or make me so. Composure is thy gift. + +And we would set over against it that purely pastoral chant: + + Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers + To deck her gay, green spreading bowers; + And now comes in my happy hours, + To wander wi' my Davie. + Meet me on the warlock knowe, + Dainty Davie, dainty Davie, + There I'll spend the day wi' you, + My ain dear dainty Davie. + + The crystal waters round us fa', + The merry birds are lovers a', + The scented breezes round us blaw, + A wandering wi' my Davie. + Meet me, &c. + + When purple morning starts the hare + To steal upon her early fare, + Then thro' the dews I will repair, + To meet my faithful Davie. + Meet me, &c. + + When day, expiring in the west, + The curtain draws o' nature's rest, + I flee to his arms I lo'e best, + And that's my ain dear Davie. + Meet me, &c. + +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. + +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 + + 'of love with silence blending, + Slow to begin, yet never ending, + Of serious faith and inward glee'. + +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 _music_--why should +there not be something analogous, a kind of plain chant, in sacred +_poetry_ 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 _indulge_ 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. +'[Greek: Entheon he poiesis]', it is true; there must be rapture and +inspiration, but these will naturally differ in their character as the +powers 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 GOD, is all dignity and calmness. + +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. + + '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.'[17] + + [17] _Life of Waller._ + +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 has endeavoured to establish it by direct +reasoning. He argues the point, first, from the nature of poetry, and +afterwards from that of devotion. + + The essence of poetry is invention; such invention as, by + producing something unexpected, surprises and delights. The + topics of devotion are few. + +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. + + There's not a bonny flower that springs + By fountain, shaw, or green; + There's not a bonnie bird that sings + But minds me of my Jean. + +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? + +Novelty, therefore, sufficient for all the purposes of poetry, we may +have on sacred subjects. Let us pass to the next objection. + + 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 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. + +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. + +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 inexhaustible, and his powers of discrimination--in other +words, of suppression and addition--are kept in continual exercise. + +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: + + 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. + +True: all perfection is implied in the name of GOD; 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 GOD'S 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. + +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 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 GOD. + + 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. + +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: + + Repentance, trembling in the presence of the Judge, is not + at leisure for cadences and epithets. + +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. + +To proceed: + + Supplication of man to man may diffuse itself through many + topics of persuasion: but supplication to God can only cry + for mercy. + +Certainly, this would be true, if the abstract nature of the Deity +were alone considered. But 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. + +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 _prose_. + +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 _a good book_, 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 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. + +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. + +Those who, in spite of such difficulties, desire in earnest to do good +by the poetical talent, which they 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-- + + Succhi amari intanto ei beve, + E dall' inganno sua vita riceve-- + +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. + +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. + +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 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. + +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. + +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 _Faerie Queene_ 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. + +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? + +To _himself_, 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 _seductive_ 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 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. + +Then as to the benefit which the _readers_ of the _Faerie Queene_ 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 _Faerie Queene_; 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. + +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 might +seem trivial; its thoughts and language, on all occasions, taking a +uniform and almost involuntary direction towards the best and highest +things. + +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 Belphoebe. + + Her birth was of the womb of morning dew, + And her conception of the joyous prime, + And all her whole creation did her show + Pure and unspotted from all loathly crime + That is ingenerate in fleshly slime. + So was this Virgin born, so was she bred, + So was she trained up from time to time, + In all chaste virtue and true bounti-hed, + Till to her due perfection she was ripened. + +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. + +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 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 _Worthy Communicant_ 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. + +Spenser then was essentially a _sacred_ poet; but 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. + +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 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. + +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 +_intellectual_ pride, and as the leading fault of the generation with +which he acted was unquestionably _spiritual_ pride, so the main +defects of his poetry may probably be attributed to the same causes. + +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. + + Such pleasure she reserved, + Adam relating; she sole auditress.-- + +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? + +What again can be said for the reproachful and 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 _Paradise Lost_, +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. + +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 _three_ +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, and has inserted into the mouth of an angel, +a kind of apology for it: + + Though what if earth + Be but the shadow of heav'n, and things therein + Each to other like, more than on earth is thought? + +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. + +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, +_catholic_ 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. + +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 name of Puritanism, and +the other to suspect every thing poetical of being contrary to +morality and religion. + +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. + +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 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. + +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. + +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. + +To Spenser, therefore, upon the whole, the English reader must revert, +as being, pre-eminently, the 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: + + That with the glory of so goodly sight, + The hearts of men, which fondly here admire + Fair-seeming shows, and feed on vain delight, + Transported with celestial desire + Of those fair forms, may lift themselves up higher, + And learn to love, with zealous humble duty, + Th' eternal fountain of that heavenly beauty. + + + + +JOHN HENRY NEWMAN + +1801-1890 + +POETRY + +WITH REFERENCE TO ARISTOTLE'S POETICS (1829). + +_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._ Second Edition. Cambridge. 1827. + + +This 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, 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 _Dissertation on the Epistles of +Phalaris_ and from Schlegel's work on Dramatic Literature; the more +important parts of Twining's Translation of Aristotle's _Poetics_, and +critical remarks, by Dawes, Porson, Elmsley, Tate, and the writers in +the _Museum Criticum_. + +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 [Greek: ou me] or +[Greek: alla gar]; 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 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. + +But, dismissing a train of thought which would soon lead us very far +from the range of subjects which the _Theatre of the Greeks_ +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 _Greek +Theatre_,) 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. + +Aristotle considers the excellence of a tragedy to depend upon its +_plot_--and, since a tragedy, as such, is obviously the exhibition of +an _action_, 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 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 ideal 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. + +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 +_Oedipus at Colonus_ is a mere series of incidents, and the _Ajax_ a +union of two separate tales; while in the _Philoctetes_, which is +apparently busy, the circumstances of the action are but slightly +connected with the _denouement_. 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 _Oedipus +Coloneus_ nor the _Philoctetes_, 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 +_Philoctetes_, 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 _Prometheus_ 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 _Thebae_ are almost independent 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 +_Electra_; the soliloquies of _Medea_; the picturesque situation of +Ion, the minister of the Pythian temple; the opening scene of the +_Orestes_; and the dialogues between Phaedra and her attendant in the +_Hippolytus_, and the old man and Antigone in the _Phoenissae_;--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 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. + +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 _Agamemnon_, the _Oedipus_, +and the _Bacchae_, 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. + +Of these the action of the _Oedipus Tyrannus_ 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 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. + +The _Agamemnon_ 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 _Oedipus_. 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 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 _Oedipus_. + +The action of the _Bacchae_ 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, _quem deus vult perdere, prius +dementat_. 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 him only with matter for a stupid and perplexed +astonishment. + + [Greek: kai tauros hemin prosthen hegeisthai dokeis, + kai so kerate krati prospephykenai. + all' e pot' estha ther; tetaurosai gar oun.][18] + +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. + + [18] + + A Bull, thou seem'st to lead us; on thy head + Horns have grown forth: wast heretofore a beast? + For such thy semblance now. + +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 +_Oedipus_, which, in spite of its many beauties, has not even a share +of the richness and sublimity of either? + +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, 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.[19] 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 of +life--[Greek: symbainei theorountas manthanein kai syllogizesthai, ti +hekaston.][20] + + [19] The sudden inspiration, e. g. of the blind Oedipus, in + the second play bearing his name, by which he is enabled, + [Greek: athiktos hegeteros] ['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 _Tyrannus_. The latter excites an interest which scarcely + lasts beyond the first reading--the former _decies repetita + placebit_. + + [20] In seeing the picture one is at the same time + learning,--gathering the meaning of things. + +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. + +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. _Fidelity_ is the primary +merit of biography and history; the essence of poetry is _fiction_. +_Poesis nihil aliud est_ (says Bacon) _quam historiae imitatio ad +placitum_. 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 +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. + +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. + +We shall presently show the applicability of our 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 _Iliad_, or +of the nurse of Orestes in the _Choephoroe_, or perhaps of the +grave-diggers in _Hamlet_, 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 +_incidental_ 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 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. + +We will notice _descriptive poetry_ 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 _known_ phenomena in a new connexion or +medium. In _L'Allegro_ and _Il Penseroso_ the poetical magician +invests the commonest scenes of a country life with the hues, first of +a mirthful, then of a pensive mind.[21] Pastoral poetry is a +description of rustics, agriculture, 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 _shepherds_, they have given +us pictures of _gentlemen_ and _beaux_. Their composition may be +poetry, but it is not pastoral poetry. + + [21] 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:-- + + 'How quiet shows the woodland scene! + Each flower and tree, its duty done, + Reposing in decay serene, + _Like weary men when age is won_,' &c. + +The difference between poetical and historical _narrative_ 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, _poetizes_. His facts are no longer +_actual_ but _ideal_--a tale _founded on_ facts is a tale _generalized +from_ facts. The authors of _Peveril of the Peak_, and of _Brambletye +House_, 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 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 +_perfection_ 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. _Manoeuvring_ is perfect in its way--the plot and +characters are natural, without being too real to be pleasing. + +_Character_ 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 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'. + +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. 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 is thrown over the conclusion of the +_Roderick_, it is from the peculiarities of the hero's previous +history. + +Opinions, feelings, manners, and customs, are made poetical by the +delicacy or splendour with which they are expressed. This is seen in +the _ode_, _elegy_, _sonnet_, and _ballad_; in which a single idea +perhaps, or familiar occurrence, is invested by the poet with pathos +or dignity. The ballad of _Old Robin Gray_ will serve, for an +instance, out of a multitude; again, Lord Byron's _Hebrew Melody_, +beginning 'Were my bosom as false', &c.; or Cowper's _Lines on his +Mother's Picture_; or Milman's 'Funeral Hymn' in the _Martyr of +Antioch_; or Milton's _Sonnet on his Blindness_; or Bernard Barton's +_Dream_. As picturesque specimens, we may name Campbell's _Battle of +the Baltic_; or Joanna Baillie's _Chough and Crow_; and for the more +exalted and splendid style, Gray's _Bard_; or Milton's _Hymn on the +Nativity_; 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. + +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 _Night Thoughts_, and +Byron's _Childe Harold_.[22] There is much bad taste, at present, in +the judgement passed on compositions of this kind. It is the fault of +the day 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. '_Sic dicet +ille ut verset saepe multis modis eandem et unam rem, ut haereat in +eadem commoreturque sententia._' 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 _Pleasures of Hope_ 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 +_Childe Harold_, 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 _they_ +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. Juvenal is, perhaps, the only ancient author who +habitually substitutes declamation for poetry.[23] + + [22] We would here mention Rogers's _Italy_, if such a + cursory notice could convey our high opinion of its merit. + + [23] The difference between oratory and poetry is well + illustrated by a passage in a recent tragedy. + + _Col._ Joined! by what tie? + + _Rien._ By hatred-- + By danger--the two hands that tightest grasp + Each other--the two cords that soonest knit + A fast and stubborn tie; your true love knot + Is nothing to it. Faugh! the supple touch + Of pliant interest, or the dust of time, + Or the pin-point of temper, loose or rot + Or snap love's silken band. Fear and old hate, + They are sure weavers--they work for the storm, + The whirlwind, and the rocking surge; their knot + Endures till death. + + 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. + +The _philosophy of mind_ 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 +_Hamlet_, _Macbeth_, _Richard_, and _Othello_, 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 _Tales of the Hall_. 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 +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 _Kenilworth_, of knights in _Ivanhoe_, and +of enthusiasts in _Old Mortality_ 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 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. + +These illustrations of Aristotle's doctrine may suffice. + +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. + +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 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.[24] + + [24] A living prelate, in his Academical Prelections, even + suggests the converse of our position--'_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._' + +Of course, then, we do not mean to imply that a poet must necessarily +_display_ virtuous and religious feeling;--we are not speaking of the +actual _material_ of poetry, but of its _sources_. 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 +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 [Greek: +ethos], 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 _Alexander's Feast_ 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 a process of +clever reasoning erected on an untrue foundation--the one is a +fallacy, the other is out of taste. Lord Byron's _Manfred_ 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. + +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 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. + +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. + +Dexterity in composition, or _eloquence_ 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. _Poetical_ 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 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. + +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 _for its own sake_ 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, 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. + + + + +THOMAS CARLYLE + +1795-1881 + +THE HERO AS POET. DANTE; SHAKESPEARE (1840) + + +The 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. + +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, that the +different _sphere_ 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 _all_ 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 _he_ could not have made, in the supreme degree. + +True, there are aptitudes of Nature too. Nature 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 _latter_ 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 _this_ matter, shall permit and bid is, as we said, +the most important fact about the world.-- + + * * * * * + +Poet and Prophet differ greatly in our loose modern notions of them. +In some old languages, again, the titles are synonymous; _Vates_ 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 the great +secret?' asks one.--'The _open_ 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 _vesture_, the embodiment that renders it +visible. This divine mystery _is_ 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 +_speak_ 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! + +But now, I say, whoever may forget this divine mystery, the _Vates_, +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 _him_, 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 things. A man, once more, in earnest with the Universe, +though all others were but toying with it. He is a _Vates_, first of +all, in virtue of being sincere. So far Poet and Prophet, +participators in the 'open secret,' are one. + +With respect to their distinction again: The _Vates_ Prophet, we might +say, has seized that sacred mystery rather on the moral side, as Good +and Evil, Duty and Prohibition; the _Vates_ Poet on what the Germans +call the aesthetic 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 +_eye_ 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 _true_ Beautiful; which however, I have +said somewhere, 'differs from the _false_, as Heaven does from +Vauxhall!' So much for the distinction and identity of Poet and +Prophet.-- + +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 _read_ 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 _Hamlet_ 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 _so_ 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 _so_ 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 _for ever_;--a day +comes when he too is not! + +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 German +Critics, some of which are not very intelligible at first. They say, +for example, that the Poet has an _infinitude_ in him; communicates an +_Unendlichkeit_, 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 _metrical_, 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 +_musical_, 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 _musical_ 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 _melody_ 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! + +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 _tune_ to which the people there _sing_ what they have to say! +Accent is a kind of chanting; all men have accent of their +own,--though they only _notice_ 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 +_musical Thought_. The Poet is he who _thinks_ 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 _being_ everywhere music, if you +can only reach it. + +The _Vates_ Poet, with his melodious Apocalypse of Nature, seems to +hold a poor rank among us, in comparison with the _Vates_ 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 _same_ altogether peculiar admiration for the +Heroic Gift, by what name soever called, that there at any time was. + +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 _higher_; 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 _him_: yet is +he not obeyed, _worshipped_ 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 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 _things_, 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! + +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, _canonized_, 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 _are_ 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. + + * * * * * + +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. +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 +_surprise_, 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'. + +The little that we know of Dante's Life corresponds 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 _chiaroscuro_ 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. 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. + +We will not complain of Dante's miseries: had all gone right with him +as he wished it, he might have been Prior, Podesta, 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 _Divina Commedia_ 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 _him_ the choice of +his happiness! He knew not, more than we do, what was really happy, +what was really miserable. + +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 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, _nunquam revertar_.' + +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, _Come e duro calle_.' 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 (_nebulones +ac histriones_) 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, _Like to +Like_;'--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 him now; for his sore miseries there was no +solace here. + +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? ETERNITY: 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 _Malebolge_ Pool, that it all lay there with +its gloomy circles, with its _alti guai_, 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 _Divine Comedy_, the most remarkable +of all modern Books, is the result. + +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, +_Se tu segui tua stella_,'--so could the Hero, in his forsakenness, in +his extreme need, still say to himself: '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: _Hic claudor Dantes patriis extorris +ab oris_. 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.' + + * * * * * + +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 _old_ Poems, Homer's +and the rest, are authentically Songs. I would say, in strictness, +that all right Poems are; that whatsoever is not _sung_ 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 _thought_ the man had, if he had +any: why should he twist it into jingle, if he _could_ speak it out +plainly? It is only 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 _is_ 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 _can_ 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. + +I give Dante my highest praise when I say of his _Divine Comedy_ that +it is, in all senses, genuinely a Song. In the very sound of it there +is a _canto fermo_; it proceeds as by a chant. The language, his +simple _terza rima_, doubtless helped him in this. One reads along +naturally with a sort of _lilt_. 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 _deep_ 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, _Inferno_, _Purgatorio_, +_Paradiso_, 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 +_sincerest_ 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, '_Eccovi l' +uom ch' e stato all' Inferno_, 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 _divine_ 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 _effort_, +in fact, as of a captive struggling to free himself: that is Thought. +In all ways we are 'to become perfect through _suffering_.'--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 _done_. + +Perhaps one would say, _intensity_, with the much that depends on it, +is the prevailing character of Dante's genius. Dante does not come +before us 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: _red_ 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 +_cotto aspetto_, 'face _baked_', 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, through Eternity. And how Farinata rises; and how +Cavalcante falls--at hearing of his Son, and the past tense '_fue_!' +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. + +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, _sympathized_ with it,--had sympathy +in him to bestow on objects. He must have been _sincere_ 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 _sees_ 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 _likeness_, not the false superficial one, of the +thing he has got to work in. And how much of _morality_ is in the kind +of insight we get of anything; 'the eye seeing in all things what it +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. + +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: _della bella +persona, che mi fu tolta_; and how, even in the Pit of woe, it is a +solace that _he_ will never part from her! Saddest tragedy in these +_alti guai_. And the racking winds, in that _aer bruno_, 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 +_Divine Comedy's_ 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, 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 _Paradiso_; +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. + +For the _intense_ 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 _inverse_ or _converse_ of his love? '_A Dio +spiacenti, ed a' nemici sui_, Hateful to God and to the enemies of +God:' lofty scorn, unappeasable silent reprobation and aversion; '_Non +ragionam di lor_, We will not speak of _them_, look only and pass.' Or +think of this: 'They have not the _hope_ to die, _Non han speranza di +morte_.' 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 _die_; '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. + +I do not agree with much modern criticism, in greatly preferring the +_Inferno_ to the two other parts of the Divine _Commedia_. Such +preference belongs, I imagine, to our general Byronism of taste, and +is like to be a transient feeling. The _Purgatorio_ and _Paradiso_, +especially the former, one would almost say, is even more excellent +than it. It is a noble thing that _Purgatorio_, '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 _tremolar dell' onde_, +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. + +But indeed the Three compartments mutually support one another, are +indispensable to one another. The _Paradiso_, a kind of inarticulate +music to me, is the redeeming side of the _Inferno_; the _Inferno_ +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 _sent_ 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 _were_ 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 _preter_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. + +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 _preferability_ of one to the other, but +by incompatibility absolute and infinite; that the one is excellent +and high as 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 _first_ 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!-- + + * * * * * + +And so in this Dante, as we said, had ten silent centuries, in a very +strange way, found a voice. The _Divina Commedia_ is of Dante's +writing; yet in truth _it_ 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 _his_ 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. + +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 _idea_ made _real_ 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 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 _is_, veritably present face to face with every open soul of +us; and Greece, where is _it_? 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 _words_ it spoke, is not. + +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 _Song_, and sung +forth fitly somewhat therefrom, has worked in the _depths_ of our +existence; feeding through long times the life-_roots_ 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. + +But, at any rate, it is not by what is called their effect on the +world by what _we_ can judge of their effect there, that a man and his +work are measured. Effect? Influence? Utility? Let a man _do_ 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; 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,--_he_ was but a loud-sounding +inanity and futility; at bottom, he _was_ not at all. Let us honour +the great empire of _Silence_, once more! The boundless treasury which +we do _not_ 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.-- -- + + * * * * * + +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 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. + +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!-- + +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. + +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 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 _Novum Organum_. 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, _we_ 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 _seeing_ 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 the man. Which circumstance is vital and shall stand prominent; +which unessential, fit to be suppressed; where is the true +_beginning_, the true sequence and ending? To find out this, you task +the whole force of insight that is in the man. He must _understand_ +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, _Fiat lux_, Let there be +light; and out of chaos make a world? Precisely as there, is _light_ +in himself, will he accomplish this. + +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 _seeing_ the thing +sufficiently? The _word_ that will describe the thing, follows of +itself from such clear intense sight of the thing. And is not +Shakespeare's _morality_, 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 _twisted_, poor convex-concave mirror, reflecting all objects with +its own convexities and concavities; a perfectly _level_ 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 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. _Novum +Organum_, 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 _saw_ 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.' + +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 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, _See_. If +you cannot do that, it is of no use to keep stringing rhymes together, +jingling sensibilities against each other, and _name_ 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 _not a dunce_?' 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. + +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, +radically falsified thereby. We ought to know withal, and to keep for +ever in mind, that these divisions are at bottom but _names_; 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 _side_ 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 _one_; and +preaches the same Self abroad in all these ways. + +Without hands a man might have feet, and could still walk: but, +consider it,--without morality, intellect were impossible for him; a +thoroughly immoral _man_ could not know anything at all! To know a +thing, what we can call knowing, a man must first _love_ the thing, +sympathize with it: that is, be _virtuously_ 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 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 +_morality_, 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. + +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.' This +well deserves meditating. It is Nature's highest award to a true +simple great soul, that he get thus to be _a part of herself_. Such a +man's works, whatsoever he with utmost conscious exertion and +forethought shall accomplish, grow up withal _un_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 +_roots_, like sap and forces working underground! Speech is great; but +Silence is greater. + +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 _Sonnets_ 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 mirthfulness, his genuine +overflowing love of laughter! You would say, in no point does he +_exaggerate_ 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 _can_ laugh, what we call laughing, will laugh at these +things. It is some poor character only _desiring_ 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. + + * * * * * + +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 _Hamlet_, in _Wilhelm +Meister_, is! A thing which might, one day, be done. August Wilhelm +Schlegel has a remark on his Historical Plays, _Henry Fifth_ and 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, _epic_;--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! + +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 out of Heaven; bursts of radiance, +illuminating the very heart of the thing: you say, 'That is _true_, +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. +_Disjecta membra_ are all that we find of any Poet, or of any man. + + * * * * * + +Whoever looks intelligently at this Shakespeare may recognize that he +too was a _Prophet_, 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; _un_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 _true_ 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 +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. + +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 _conscious_ 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 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 _sincere_ as they; reaches deep down like them, to the +universal and perennial. But as for Mahomet, I think it had been +better for him _not_ to be so conscious! Alas, poor Mahomet; all that +he was _conscious_ 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 _thought_ to be +great, but by actions, by feelings, by a history which _were_ 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 _in_articulate deeps. + + * * * * * + +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 +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! + +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 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; _in_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. + +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 _one_: Italy produced its +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 +_Hero-Poet_. + + + + +JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT + +1784-1859 + +AN ANSWER TO THE QUESTION + +WHAT IS POETRY? (1844) + + +Poetry, 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. + +Poetry is a passion,[25] because it seeks the deepest impressions; and +because it must undergo, in order to convey, them. + + [25] _Passio_, suffering in a good sense,--ardent subjection + of one's-self to emotion. + +It is a passion for truth, because without truth the impression would +be false or defective. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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, feeling, expression, imagination, action, character, and +continuity, all in the largest amount and highest degree, is the +greatest poet. + +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. + +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 + + The plant and flower of _light_, + +says Ben Jonson; and poetry then shows us the beauty of the flower in +all its mystery and splendour. + +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 _but_ +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. + +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 +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 _Sir Eger, Sir Graham and Sir Gray-Steel_ (see it in +Ellis's _Specimens_, or Laing's _Early Metrical Tales_), a knight +thinks himself disgraced in the eyes of his mistress:-- + + Sir Eger said, 'If it be so, + Then wot I well I must forgo + Love-liking, and manhood, all clean!' + _The water rush'd out of his een!_ + +Sir Gray-Steel is killed: + + Gray-Steel into his death thus thraws[26] + He _walters[27] and the grass up draws;_ + + * * * * * + + _A little while then lay he still + (Friends that him saw, liked full ill) + And bled into his armour bright._ + + [26] throes? + + [27] welters,--throws himself about. + +The abode of Chaucer's _Reeve_, or Steward, in the _Canterbury Tales_, +is painted in two lines, which nobody ever wished longer: + + His wonning[28] was full fair upon an heath, + With greeny trees yshadowed was his place. + + [28] dwelling. + +Every one knows the words of Lear, 'most _matter-of-fact_, most +melancholy.' + + Pray, do not mock me; + I am a very foolish fond old man, + Fourscore and upwards: + Not an hour more, nor less; and, to deal plainly + I fear I am not in my perfect mind. + +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. + +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. + + With that she dash'd her on the lips, + _So dyed double red: + Hard was the heart that gave the blow, + Soft were those lips that bled._ + +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 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 _Macbeth_, 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 _people_ 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,-- + + So the two brothers and their _murder'd_ man + Rode towards fair Florence;-- + +sometimes in the attribution of a certain representative quality which +makes one circumstance stand for others; as in Milton's grey-fly +winding its '_sultry_ 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 _Lycidas_, or the Greek 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-- + + Parea che l'erba le fiorisse intorno, + _E d'amor ragionasse quella riva!_ + + _Orlando Innamorato_, Canto iii. + +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 _Macbeth_ and the May-day +night of _Faust_;--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 _Christabel_, +where the unsuspecting object of the witch's malignity is bidden to go +to bed: + + Quoth Christabel, So let it be! + And as the lady bade, did she. + Her gentle limbs did she undress, + _And lay down in her loveliness;--_ + +a perfect verse surely, both for feeling and music. The very +smoothness and gentleness of the limbs is in the series of the letter +_l's_. + +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 +the _Friar of Orders Grey_, out of Beaumont and Fletcher: + + Weep no more, lady, weep no more, + Thy sorrow is in vain; + _For violets pluck'd the sweetest showers + Will ne'er make grow again._ + +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 _Adonais_: + + Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass, + Stains the white radiance of eternity. + +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. + +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 _Peter Wilkins_; and in point of +treatment, the Mammon and Jealousy of 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 +_Christabel_, 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. + + I look'd again; and as the eye makes out, + By little and little, what the mist conceal'd + In which, till clearing up, the sky was steep'd; + So, looming through the gross and darksome air, + As we drew nigh, those mighty bulks grew plain, + And error quitted me, and terror join'd: + For in like manner as all round its height + Montereggione crowns itself with towers, + So tower'd above the circuit of that pit, + Though but half out of it, and half within, + The horrible giants that fought Jove, and still + Are threaten'd when he thunders. As we near'd + The foremost, I discern'd his mighty face, + His shoulders, breast, and more than half his trunk, + With both the arms down hanging by the sides. + His face appear'd to me, in length and breadth, + Huge as St. Peter's pinnacle at Rome, + And of a like proportion all his bones. + He open'd, as we went, his dreadful mouth, + Fit for no sweeter psalmody; and shouted + After us, in the words of some strange tongue, + Rafel ma-ee amech zabee almee!-- + 'Dull wretch!' my leader cried, 'keep to thine horn, + And so vent better whatsoever rage + Or other passion stuff thee. Feel thy throat + And find the chain upon thee, thou confusion! + Lo! what a hoop is clench'd about thy gorge.' + Then turning to myself, he said, 'His howl + Is its own mockery. This is Nimrod, he + Through whose ill thought it was that humankind + Were tongue-confounded. Pass him, and say nought: + For as he speaketh language known of none, + So none can speak save jargon to himself.' + + _Inferno_, Canto xxxi, ver. 34. + +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 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 _he_ 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 _Gondibert_, 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 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 _Faerie Queene_; and let the reader of +Italian open the _Orlando Furioso_ 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 + + So horsly and so quick of eye, + +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. 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, + + _Sleeping against the sun upon a day,_ + +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 _Rape of the Lock_ (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 _Orlando Furioso_ (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 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, _the face of +the head becomes pale, the eyes turn in their sockets_, and the +lifeless pursuer tumbles from his horse. + + Then grew the visage pale, and deadly wet; + The eyes turn'd in their sockets, drearily; + And all things show'd the villain's sun was set. + His trunk that was in chase, fell from its horse, + And giving the last shudder, was a corse. + +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, +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 _beyond_ 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. + +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 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. + + But up Achilles rose, the lov'd of heaven; + And Pallas on his mighty shoulders cast + The shield of Jove; and round about his head + She put the glory of a golden mist, + From which there burnt a fiery-flaming light. + And as, when smoke goes heavenward from a town, + In some far island which its foes besiege, + Who all day long with dreadful martialness + Have pour'd from their own town; soon as the sun + Has set, thick lifted fires are visible, + Which, rushing upward, make a light in the sky, + And let the neighbours know, who may perhaps + Bring help across the sea; so from the head + Of great Achilles went up an effulgence. + + Upon the trench he stood, without the wall, + But mix'd not with the Greeks, for he rever'd + His mother's word; and so, thus standing there, + He shouted; and Minerva, to his shout, + Added a dreadful cry; and there arose + Among the Trojans an unspeakable tumult. + And as the clear voice of a trumpet, blown + Against a town by spirit-withering foes, + So sprang the clear voice of Aeacides. + And when they heard the brazen cry, their hearts + All leap'd within them; and the proud-maned horses + Ran with the chariots round, for they foresaw + Calamity; and the charioteers were smitten, + When they beheld the ever-active fire + Upon the dreadful head of the great-minded one + Burning; for bright-eyed Pallas made it burn. + Thrice o'er the trench divine Achilles shouted; + And thrice the Trojans and their great allies + Roll'd back; and twelve of all their noblest men + Then perish'd, crush'd by their own arms and chariots. + + _Iliad_, xviii. 203. + +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. + +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 _chin_'. 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. + + So saying, Mercury vanished up to heaven: + And Priam then alighted from his chariot, + Leaving Idaeus with it, who remain'd + Holding the mules and horses; and the old man + Went straight indoors, where the belov'd of Jove + Achilles sat, and found him. In the room + Were others, but apart; and two alone, + The hero Automedon, and Alcimus, + A branch of Mars, stood by him. They had been + At meals, and had not yet remov'd the board. + Great Priam came, without their seeing him, + And kneeling down, he clasp'd Achilles' knees, + And kiss'd those terrible, homicidal hands, + Which had deprived him of so many sons. + And as a man who is press'd heavily + For having slain another, flies away + To foreign lands, and comes into the house + Of some great man, and is beheld with wonder, + So did Achilles wonder to see Priam; + And the rest wonder'd, looking at each other. + But Priam, praying to him, spoke these words:-- + 'God-like Achilles, think of thine own father! + To the same age have we both come, the same + Weak pass; and though the neighbouring chiefs may vex + Him also, and his borders find no help, + Yet when he hears that thou art still alive, + He gladdens inwardly, and daily hopes + To see his dear son coming back from Troy. + But I, bereav'd old Priam! I had once + Brave sons in Troy, and now I cannot say + That one is left me. Fifty children had I, + When the Greeks came; nineteen were of one womb; + The rest my women bore me in my house. + The knees of many of these fierce Mars has loosen'd; + And he who had no peer, Troy's prop and theirs, + Him hast thou kill'd now, fighting for his country, + Hector; and for his sake am I come here + To ransom him, bringing a countless ransom. + But thou, Achilles, fear the gods, and think + Of thine own father, and have mercy on me: + For I am much more wretched, and have borne + What never mortal bore, I think on earth, + To lift unto my lips the hand of him + Who slew my boys.' + + He ceased; and there arose + Sharp longing in Achilles for his father; + And taking Priam by the hand, he gently + Put him away; for both shed tears to think + Of other times; the one most bitter ones + For Hector, and with wilful wretchedness + Lay right before Achilles: and the other, + For his own father now, and now his friend; + And the whole house might hear them as they moan'd. + But when divine Achilles had refresh'd + His soul with tears, and sharp desire had left + His heart and limbs, he got up from his throne, + And rais'd the old man by the hand, and took + Pity on his grey head and his grey chin. + + _Iliad_, xxiv. 468. + +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, _if +he had thought of it_. 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; 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. + +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 _Cato_ is full of them. + + Passion unpitied and successless love + _Plant daggers in my breast._ + + I've sounded my Numidians, man by man, + And find them _ripe for a revolt_. + + The virtuous Marcia _towers above her sex_. + +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 _Mariamne_ of Fenton: + + Mariamne, _with superior charms_, + _Triumphs o'er reason_: in her look she _bears_ + A paradise of ever-blooming sweets; + Fair as the first idea beauty _prints_ + In the young lover's soul; a winning grace + Guides every gesture, and obsequious love + _Attends_ on all her steps. + +'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. + +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. + + --Rouse yourself; and the weak wanton Cupid + Shall from your neck unloose his amorous fold, + _And, like a dew-drop from the lion's mane, + Be shook to air._ + + _Troilus and Cressida_, Act iii, sc. 3. + +That is imagination;--the strong mind sympathizing with the strong +beast, and the weak love identified with the weak dew-drop. + + Oh!--and I forsooth + In love! I that have been love's whip I + _A very beadle to a humorous sigh!--_ + A domineering pedant o'er the boy,-- + This whimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy, + This senior-junior, giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid, + _Regent of love-rhymes, lord of folded arms, + The anointed sovereign of sighs and groans_, &c. + + _Love's Labour's Lost_, Act iii, sc. 1. + +That is fancy;--a combination of images not in their nature connected, +or brought together by the feeling, but by the will and pleasure; and +having just enough hold of analogy to betray it into the hands of its +smiling subjector. + + Silent icicles + _Quietly shining to the quiet moon._ + + Coleridge's _Frost at Midnight_. + +That, again, is imagination;--analogical sympathy; and exquisite of +its kind it is. + + 'You are now sailed _into the north of my lady's opinion_; + where you will hang _like an icicle on a Dutchman's beard_, + unless you do redeem it by some laudable attempt.' + + _Twelfth Night_, Act iii, sc. 2. + +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! + +Imagination belongs to Tragedy, or the serious muse; Fancy to the +comic. _Macbeth_, _Lear_, _Paradise Lost_, the poem of Dante, are full +of imagination: the _Midsummer Night's Dream_ and the _Rape of the +Lock_, of fancy: _Romeo and Juliet_, the _Tempest_, the _Faerie +Queene_, and the _Orlando Furioso_, 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 +([Greek: Phantasma], appearance, _phantom_), has rarely that freedom +from visibility which is one of the highest privileges of +imagination. Viola, in _Twelfth Night_, speaking of some beautiful +music, says: + + It gives a very echo to the seat + Where Love is throned. + +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. + +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 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 _Midsummer-Night's Dream_] will be found in the +present volume.[29] See also his famous description of Queen Mab and +her equipage, in _Romeo and Juliet_: + + Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners' legs; + The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers: + Her traces of the smallest spider's web; + Her collars of the moonshine's watery beams, &c. + + [29] Leigh Hunt's _Imagination and Fancy, or Selections from + the English Poets_, 1844. + +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 _Nymphidia_: + + This palace standeth in the air, + By necromancy placed there, + That it no tempest needs to fear, + Which way soe'er it blow it: + And somewhat southward tow'rd the noon, + Whence lies a way up to the moon, + And thence the fairy can as soon + Pass to the earth below it. + The walls of spiders' legs are made, + Well morticed and finely laid: + He was the master of his trade + It curiously that builded: + _The windows of the eyes of cats:_ + +(because they see best at night) + + And for the roof instead of slats + Is cover'd with the skins of bats, + _With moonshine that are gilded._ + +Here also is a fairy bed, very delicate, from the same poet's _Muse's +Elysium_: + + Of leaves of roses, _white and red_, + Shall be the covering of the bed; + The curtains, vallens, tester all, + Shall be the flower imperial; + And for the fringe it all along + _With azure hare-bells shall be hung. + Of lilies shall the pillows be, + With down stuft of the butterfly._ + +Of fancy, so full of gusto as to border on imagination, Sir John +Suckling, in his _Ballad on a Wedding_, has given some of the most +playful and charming specimens in the language. They glance like +twinkles of the eye, or cherries bedewed: + + _Her feet beneath her petticoat, + Like little mice stole in and out, + As if they fear'd the light:_ + But oh! she dances such a way! + _No sun upon an Easter day_ + Is half so fine a sight. + +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: + + Her lips were red, _and one was thin_ + _Compared with that was next her chin, + Some bee had stung it newly._ + +Every reader has stolen a kiss at that lip, gay or grave. + +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 _song_, 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 '_measureful_ content'; 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, + + To witch the world with wondrous horsemanship. + +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 _Death of Abel_ a poem? or Hervey's _Meditations_? +The _Pilgrim's Progress_ 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 +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 _Telemachus_ 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. + +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, +_variety_, and _oneness_;--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. _Strength_ is +the muscle of verse, and shows itself in the number and force of the +marked syllables; as, + + Sonorous metal blowing martial sounds. + + _Paradise Lost._ + + Behemoth, biggest born of earth, upheav'd + His vastness. + + _Id._ + + Blow winds and crack your cheeks! rage! blow! + You cat[)a]r[)a]cts and hurricanoes, spout, + Till you have drench'd our steeples, drown'd the cocks! + You sulphurous and thought-executing fires, + Vaunt couriers of oak-cleaving thunderbolts, + Singe my white head! and thou, all-shaking thunder, + Strike flat the thick rotundity o' the world! + + _Lear._ + +Unexpected locations of the accent double this 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: + + Then in the keyhole turns + The intr[)i]c[)a]te wards, and every bolt and bar + Unfastens.--On [)a] s[)u]dd[)e]n open fly + W[)i]th [)i]mpetuous recoil and jarring sound + The infernal doors, and on their hinges grate + Harsh thunder. + + _Paradise Lost_, Book II. + + Abom[)i]n[)a]bl[)e]--unutt[)e]r[)a]bl[)e]--and worse + Than fables yet have feigned. + + _Id._ + + Wall[)o]w[)i]ng [)u]nwi[)e]ldy--[)e]normous in their gait. + + _Id._ + +Of unusual passionate accent, there is an exquisite specimen in the +_Faerie Queene_, where Una is lamenting her desertion by the Red-Cross +Knight: + + But he, my lion, and my noble lord, + How does he find in cruel heart to hate + Her that him lov'd, and ever most ador'd + _As the god of my life?_[30] Why hath he me abhorr'd? + + [30] 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 _as the_, and a passionate + emphasis and passing stop on the word _god_; and so of the + next three words. + +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 latter's,--which +is a perfect outrage of strength in the sound of the words: + + Only the firmest and the _constant'st_ hearts + God sets to act the _stout'st_ and hardest parts. + +_Stout'st_ and _constant'st_ for 'stoutest' and 'most constant'! It is +as bad as the intentional crabbedness of the line in _Hudibras_: + + He that hangs or _beats out's_ brains, + The devil's in him if _he_ feigns. + +_Beats out's brains_, for 'beats out his brains'. Of heaviness, +Davenant's _Gondibert_ is a formidable specimen, almost throughout: + + With silence (order's help, and mark of care) + They chide that noise which heedless youth affect; + Still course for use, for health they cleanness wear, + And save in well-fix'd arms, all niceness check'd. + They thought, those that, unarm'd, expos'd frail life, + But naked nature valiantly betray'd; + Who was, though naked, safe, till pride made strife, + But made defence must use, now danger's made. + +And so he goes digging and lumbering on, like a heavy preacher +thumping the pulpit in italics, and spoiling many ingenious +reflections. + +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 Congreve, +intended to be particularly fine, contains an instance: + + And lo! Silence himself is here; + Methinks I see the midnight god appear. + In all his downy pomp array'd, + Behold the reverend shade. + _An ancient sigh he sits upon!!!_ + Whose memory of sound is long since gone, + _And purposely annihilated for his throne!!!_ + + _Ode on the singing of Mrs. Arabella Hunt._ + +See also the would-be enthusiasm of Addison about music: + + For ever consecrate the _day_ + To music and _Cecilia_; + Music, the greatest good that mortals know, + And all of heaven we have below, + Music can noble HINTS _impart!!!_ + +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. + +_Sweetness_, 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 _Faerie Queene_, + + And was admired much of fools, _women_, and boys-- + +altered to + + And was admired much of women, fools, and boys-- + +thus destroying the fine scornful emphasis on the 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 _Faerie Queene_, describing a shepherd brushing away the +gnats;--the open and the close _e's_ in the one, + + As gentle shepherd in sw[=e][=e]t [=e]ventide-- + +and the repetition of the word _oft_, and the fall from the vowel _a_, +into the two _u's_ in the other,-- + + She brusheth _oft_, and _oft_ doth mar their m[=u]rm[)u]rings. + +So in his description of two substances in the handling, both equally +smooth: + + _Each smoother seems than each, and each than each seems smoother._ + +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 _Day Dream_! Observe both the variety and sameness of +the vowels, and the repetition of the soft consonants: + + My eyes make pictures when they're shut:-- + I see a fountain, large and fair, + A willow and a ruin'd hut, + And _thee_ and _me_ and Mary there. + _O Mary! make thy gentle lap our pillow; + Bend o'er us, like a bower, my beautiful green willow._ + +By _Straightforwardness_ 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 _Psyche_, Venus gives +the sisters of the heroine an answer, of which the following is the +_entire_ substance, literally, in so many words. The author had +nothing better for her to say: + + 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. + +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. + + With kindness I your prayers receive, + And to your hopes success will give. + I have, with anger, seen mankind adore + Your sister's beauty and her scorn deplore; + Which they shall do no more. + For their idolatry I'll so resent, + As shall your wishes to the full content!! + +This is just as if a man were to allow that there was no poetry in the +words, 'How do you find yourself?' 'Very well, I thank you'; but to +hold them inspired, if altered into + + Yourself how do you find? + Very well, you I thank. + +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: + + A man so various, that he seemed to be + Not one, but all mankind's epitome: + Stiff in opinions, _always in the wrong_, + _Was everything by starts, and nothing long;_ + But in the course of one revolving moon + Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon: + Then all for women, rhyming, dancing, drinking, + _Besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinking._ + _Blest madman!_ who could every hour employ + _With something new to wish or to enjoy!_ + Railing and praising were his usual themes; + And both, to show his judgement, in extremes: + So over violent, or over civil, + _That every man with him was god or devil._ + In squandering wealth was his peculiar art; + _Nothing went unrewarded, but desert._ + Beggar'd by fools, whom still he found too late, + _He had his jest, and they had his estate._ + +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 _might_--the mere +sign of a tense--in his pretended ridicule of the monkish practice of +rising to sing psalms in the night. + + And much they griev'd to see so nigh their hall + The bird that warn'd St. Peter of his fall; + That he should raise his mitred crest on high, + And clap his wings and call his family + To sacred rites; and vex th' ethereal powers + With midnight matins at uncivil hours; + Nay more, his quiet neighbours should molest + _Just in the sweetness of their morning rest._ + +(What a line full of 'another doze' is that!) + + _Beast of a bird!_ supinely, when he _might_ + Lie snug and sleep, to rise before the light! + What if his dull forefathers used that cry? + Could he not let a bad example die? + +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 +confusion of triviality with propriety, and is usually the result of +indolence. + +_Unsuperfluousness_ 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 +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 _thoughts_, 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. + +_Variety_ 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 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 _less_ 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 exquisite poet of the _Rape of +the Lock_,--exquisite in his wit and fancy, though not in his numbers. +The reader will observe that it is literally _see-saw_, 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: + + On her white breast--a sparkling cross she wore, + Which Jews might kiss--and infidels adore; + Her lively looks--a sprightly mind disclose, + Quick as her eyes--and as unfix'd as those; + Favours to none--to all she smiles extends, + Oft she rejects--but never once offends; + Bright as the sun--her eyes the gazers strike, + And like the sun--they shine on all alike; + Yet graceful ease--and sweetness void of pride, + Might hide her faults--if belles had faults to hide; + If to her share--some female errors fall, + Look on her face--and you'll forget them all. + +Compare with this the description of Iphigenia in one of Dryden's +stories from Boccaccio: + + It happen'd--on a summer's holiday, } + That to the greenwood shade--he took his way, } + For Cymon shunn'd the church--and used not much to pray. } + His quarter-staff--which he could ne'er forsake, + Hung half before--and half behind his back; + He trudg'd along--not knowing what he sought, + And whistled as he went--for want of thought. + + By chance conducted--or by thirst constrain'd, + The deep recesses of a grove he gain'd:-- + Where--in a plain defended by a wood, } + Crept through the matted grass--a crystal flood, } + By which--an alabaster fountain stood; } + And on the margent of the fount was laid-- + Attended by her slaves--a sleeping maid; + Like Dian and her nymphs--when, tir'd with sport, + To rest by cool Eurotas they resort.-- + The dame herself--the goddess well express'd, + Not more distinguished by her purple vest-- + Than by the charming features of the face-- + And e'en in slumber--a superior grace: + Her comely limbs--compos'd with decent care, } + Her body shaded--by a light cymar, } + Her bosom to the view--was only bare; } + Where two beginning paps were scarcely spied-- + For yet their places were but signified.-- + The fanning wind upon her bosom blows-- } + To meet the fanning wind--the bosom rose; } + The fanning wind--and purling stream--continue her repose. } + +For a further variety take, from the same author's _Theodore and +Honoria_, 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: + + Whilst listening to the murmuring leaves he stood-- + More than a mile immers'd within the wood-- + At once the wind was laid.|--The whispering sound + Was dumb.|--A rising earthquake rock'd the ground. + With deeper brown the grove was overspread-- } + A sudden horror seiz'd his giddy head-- } + And his ears tinkled--and his colour fled. } + + Nature was in alarm.--Some danger nigh + Seem'd threaten'd--though unseen to mortal eye. + Unus'd to fear--he summon'd all his soul, + And stood collected in himself--and whole: + Not long.-- + +But for a crowning specimen of variety of pause and accent, apart from +emotion, nothing can surpass the account, in _Paradise Lost_, of the +Devil's search for an accomplice: + + There was a place, + Now not--though Sin--not Time--first wrought the change, + Where Tigris--at the foot of Paradise, + Into a gulf--shot under ground--till part + Rose up a fountain by the Tree of Life. + _In_ with the river sunk--and _with_ it _rose_ + Satan--involv'd in rising mist--then sought + Where to lie hid.--Sea he had search'd--and land + From Eden over Pontus--and the pool + Maeotis--_up_ beyond the river _Ob_; + Downward as far antarctic;--and in length + West from Orontes--to the ocean barr'd + At Darien--thence to the land where flows + Ganges and Indus.--Thus the orb he roam'd + With narrow search;--and with inspection deep + Consider'd every creature--which of all + Most opportune might serve his wiles--and found + The serpent--subtlest beast of all the field. + +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: + + _In_ with the river sunk, &c. + +and + + _Up_ beyond the river _Ob_. + +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. + +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 _namby-pamby_, that it had become a jest +as early as the time of Shakespeare, who 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,-- + + The wind was high, the window shakes; + With sudden start the miser wakes; + Along the silent room he stalks, + +(A miser never 'stalks'; but a rhyme was desired for 'walks') + + Looks back, and trembles as he walks: + Each lock and every bolt he tries, + In every creek and corner pries; + Then opes the chest with treasure stor'd, + And stands in rapture o'er his hoard; + +('Hoard' and 'treasure stor'd' are just made for one another) + + But now, with sudden qualms possess'd, + He wrings his hands, he beats his breast; + By conscience stung, he wildly stares, + And thus his guilty soul declares. + +And so he denounces his gold, as miser never denounced it; and sighs, +because + + Virtue resides on earth no more! + +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 to mind the liberties allowed its old musical +professors the minstrels, and dividing it by _time_ instead of +_syllables_;--by the _beat of four_ 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. + + 'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock, + And the owls have awaken'd the crowing cock; + Tu-whit!--Tu-whoo! + And hark, again! the crowing cock, + _How drowsily he crew._ + Sir Leoline, the baron rich, + Hath a toothless mastiff bitch; + From her kennel beneath the rock + She maketh answer to the clock, + _Four f[)o]r th[)e] quart[)e]rs [)a]nd twelve f[)o]r th[)e] hour,_ + Ever and aye, by shine and shower, + Sixteen short howls, not over loud: + Some say, she sees my lady's shroud. + + _Is the night chilly and dark? + The night is chilly, but not dark._ + The thin grey cloud is spread on high, + It covers, but not hides, the sky. + The moon is behind, and at the full, + And yet she looks both small and dull. + The night is chilly, the cloud is grey; + +(These are not superfluities, but mysterious returns of importunate +feeling) + + _'Tis a month before the month of May, + And the spring comes slowly up this way._ + The lovely lady, Christabel, + Whom her father loves so well, + What makes her in the wood so late, + A furlong from the castle-gate? + + She had dreams all yesternight + Of her own betrothed knight; + And she [)i]n th[)e] midnight wood will pray + For the weal [)o]f h[)e]r lover that's far away. + + She stole along, she nothing spoke, + The sighs she heav'd were soft and low, + And nought was green upon the oak, + But moss and rarest mistletoe; + She kneels beneath the huge oak tree, + And in silence prayeth she. + + The lady sprang up suddenly, + The lovely lady, Christabel! + It moan'd as near as near can be, + But what it is, she cannot tell. + On the other side it seems to be + Of th[)e] huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree. + + The night is chill, the forest bare; + Is it the wind that moaneth bleak? + +(This 'bleak moaning' is a witch's) + + There is not wind enough in the air + To move away the ringlet curl + From the lovely lady's cheek-- + There is not wind enough to twirl + _The one red leaf, the last [)o]f [)i]ts clan, + That danc[)e]s [)a]s oft[)e]n [)a]s dance it can, + Hang[)i]ng s[)o] light and hang[)i]ng s[)o] high, + On th[)e] topmost twig th[)a]t lo[)o]ks up [)a]t th[)e] sky._ + + Hush, beating heart of Christabel! + Jesu Maria, shield her well! + She folded her arms beneath her cloak, + And stole to the other side of the oak. + What sees she there? + + There she sees a damsel bright, + Drest in a robe of silken white, + That shadowy in the moonlight shone: + The neck that made that white robe wan, + Her stately neck and arms were bare: + Her blue-vein'd feet unsandall'd were; + And wildly glitter'd, here and there, + The gems entangled in her hair. + I guess 'twas _frightful_ there to see + _A lady so richly clad as she-- + Beautiful exceedingly._ + +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 +_the whole is one and of the same character_, the single and sweet +unconsciousness of the heroine making all the rest seem more +conscious, and ghastly, and expectant. It is thus that _versification +itself becomes part of the sentiment of a poem_, 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. + +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, 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. + + Large was his bounty and his soul sincere, + Heav'n did a recompense as largely send; + He gave to misery all he had, _a tear_; + He gain'd from heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) _a friend_. + + Gray's _Elegy_. + + The fops are proud of scandal; for they cry + At every lewd, low character, 'That's _I_'. + + Dryden's _Prologue to the Pilgrim_. + + What makes all doctrines plain and clear? + _About two hundred pounds a-year._ + And that which was proved true before, + Prove false again? _Two hundred more._ + + _Hudibras._ + + Compound for sins they are _inclin'd to_, + By damning those they have _no mind to_. + + _Id._ + + ----Stor'd with deletery _med'cines_, + Which whosoever took is _dead since_. + + _Id._ + +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: + + Win + The women, and make them draw in + The men, as Indians with a _female_ + Tame elephant inveigle _the_ male. + + _Hudibras._ + + He made an instrument to know + If the moon shines at full or no; + That would, as soon as e'er she _shone, straight_ + Whether 'twere day or night _demonstrate_; + Tell what her diameter to an _inch is_, + And prove that she's not made of _green cheese_. + + _Id._ + +Pronounce it, by all means, _grinches_, to make the joke more wilful. +The happiest triple rhyme, perhaps, that ever was written, is in _Don +Juan_: + + But oh! ye lords of ladies _intellectual_, + Inform us truly,--haven't they _hen-peck'd you all_? + +The sweepingness of the assumption completes the flowing breadth of +effect. + +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. + + --Let our trumpets sound, + And cleave both air and ground + With beating of our drums. + Let every lyre be strung, + Harp, lute, theorbo, _sprung_ + _With touch of dainty thumbs_. + +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,--Moliere. + +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 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. + +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 (_Venus and Adonis_, +and the _Rape of Lucrece_), 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 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 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 +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 _tell a story_ 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 _Faerie Queene_ 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, 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 _Elegy_, in the enchanted gardens of +Ariosto and Spenser, or the very pot-herbs of the _Schoolmistress_ 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. + +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 _Remarks on Paradise +Lost_ by Richardson. + +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 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 "_own exceeding great +reward_"; 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.' + +'Poetry', says Shelley, '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 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.' + +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 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. + +'And a button-maker, after all, invented it!' cries our friend. + +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 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. + + + + +MATTHEW ARNOLD + +1822-1888 + +THE CHOICE OF SUBJECTS IN POETRY + +[Preface to 'Poems', 1853] + + +In 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. + +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. 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. + +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 +_not_ 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. + +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 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.' + +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. + +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. + +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. + +And why, it may be asked, have I entered into 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. + +'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 _therefore_ +both of interest and novelty.' + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 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 _Hermann and Dorothea_, _Childe Harold_, +_Jocelyn_, _The Excursion_, leave the reader cold in comparison with +the effect produced upon him by the latter books of the Iliad, by the +_Orestea_, 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. + +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. + +The date of an action, then, signifies nothing: the action itself, its +selection and construction, 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 _grand style_: 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 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. + +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 _Persae_ 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 _Persae_, stood higher in his +estimation accordingly. The Greeks 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 +_pragmatic_ 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.' + +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. + +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 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. + +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. _Faust_ itself, in which +something of the kind is attempted, wonderful passages as it contains, +and in spite of the unsurpassed beauty of the scenes which relate to +Margaret, _Faust_ 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'. + +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. + +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 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 _as a poet_; what distinguishes the artist from the mere +amateur, says Goethe, is _Architectonice_ 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, 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--_il dit tout ce qu'il veut, mais malheureusement il n'a rien a +dire_. + +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 +_Isabella, or the Pot of Basil_, by Keats. I choose this rather than +the _Endymion_, because the latter work (which a modern critic has +classed with the _Faerie Queene_!), 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 _Isabella_, 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 _Decameron_: +he will then feel how pregnant and interesting the same action has +become in the hands of a great artist, who above all things +delineates his object; who subordinates expression to that which it is +designed to express. + +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, +_King Lear_ 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 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. + +What then, it will be asked, are the ancients to be our sole models? +the ancients with their comparatively 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 _Antigone_ 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. + +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--[Greek: +chalepon], as Pittacus said, [Greek: chalepon esthlon emmenai]--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 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. + +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, 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. + +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. _Non me tua fervida terrent Dicta; Dii me +terrent, et Jupiter hostis._ + +Two kinds of _dilettanti_, 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 _dilettanti_: 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 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. + + +ADVERTISEMENT TO THE SECOND EDITION + +(1854) + +I have 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. + +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 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. + +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. + +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 +_fantastic_, and wants _sanity_. 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. + + + + +JOHN RUSKIN + +1819-1900 + +OF THE PATHETIC FALLACY + +[_Modern Painters_, vol. iii, pt. 4, 1856] + + +Sec. 1. German 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'. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +And then they agree that the qualities of things which thus depend +upon our perception of them, 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. + +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. + +Sec. 2. Now, to get rid of all these ambiguities and troublesome words at +once, be it observed that the word 'Blue' does _not_ mean the +_sensation_ caused by a gentian on the human eye; but it means the +_power_ 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. + +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. 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. + +Sec. 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 _is_ 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 _not_ 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. + +Sec. 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 +unconnected with any real power or character in the object, and only +imputed to it by us. + +For instance-- + + The spendthrift crocus, bursting through the mould + Naked and shivering, with his cup of gold. + +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? + +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 _un_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. + +Sec. 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-- + + They rowed her in across the rolling foam-- + The cruel, crawling foam. + +The foam is not cruel, neither does it crawl. 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'. + +Sec. 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.[31] + + [31] 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 _first_-rate in their range, though + their range is different; and with poetry second-rate in + _quality_ 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 _some_ good + in what they have written: that they hope to do better in + time,' &c. _Some_ good! If there is not _all_ 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. + +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 _these_ are souls, and +_those_ are leaves; he makes no confusion of one with the other. But +when Coleridge speaks of + + The one red leaf, the last of its clan, + That dances as often as dance it can, + +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 in Hamlet,[32] addresses the +spirit with the simple, startled words:-- + + Elpenor! How camest thou under the shadowy darkness? Hast + thou come faster on foot than I in my black ship? + + [32] 'Well said, old mole! can'st work i' the ground so + fast?' + +Which Pope renders thus:-- + + O, say, what angry power Elpenor led + To glide in shades, and wander with the dead? + How could thy soul, by realms and seas disjoined, + Outfly the nimble sail, and leave the lagging wind? + +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? + +Sec. 7. For a very simple reason. They are not a _pathetic_ 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 _not_ 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.[33] + + [33] It is worth while comparing the way a similar question + is put by the exquisite sincerity of Keats:-- + + He wept, and his bright tears + Went trickling down the golden bow he held. + Thus, with half-shut, suffused eyes, he stood; + While from beneath some cumb'rous boughs hard by, + With solemn step, an awful goddess came. + And there was purport in her looks for him, + Which he with eager guess began to read: + Perplexed the while, melodiously he said, + '_How cam'st thou over the unfooted sea?_' + +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. + +Sec. 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. + +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 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 _ought_ 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. + +Sec. 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. + +Sec. 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 _alterability_. That is +to say, 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. + +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. + +Sec. 11. Now so long as we see that the _feeling_ 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 +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 _pure fact_, out of +which if any feeling comes to him or his reader, he knows it must be a +true one. + +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, + + _Whose changing mound, and foam that passed away,_ + Might mock the eye that questioned where I lay. + +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 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. + +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: + + Let no man move his bones. + + As for Samaria, her king is out off like the foam upon the water. + +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 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. + +Sec. 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: + + 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? + +Then Homer: + + So she spoke. But them, already, the life-giving earth + possessed, there in Lacedaemon, in the dear fatherland. + +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. + +Sec. 13. Take another very notable instance from Casimir de la Vigne's +terrible ballad, _La Toilette de Constance_. 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. + + Vite, Anna, vite; au miroir + Plus vite, Anna. L'heure s'avance, + Et je vais au bal ce soir + Chez l'ambassadeur de France. + + Y pensez-vous, ils sont fanes, ces noeuds, + Ils sont d'hier, mon Dieu, comme tout passe! + Que du reseau qui retient mes cheveux + Les glands d'azur retombent avec grace. + Plus haut! Plus bas! Vous ne comprenez rien! + Que sur mon front ce saphir etincelle: + Vous me piquez, maladroite. Ah, c'est bien, + Bien,--chere Anna! Je t'aime, je suis belle. + + Celui qu'en vain je voudrais oublier + (Anna, ma robe) il y sera, j'espere. + (Ah, fi! profane, est-ce la mon collier? + Quoi! ces grains d'or benits par le Saint-Pere!) + Il y sera; Dieu, s'il pressait ma main, + En y pensant, a peine je respire; + Pere Anselmo doit m'entendre demain, + Comment ferai-je, Anna, pour tout lui dire? + + Vite un coup d'oeil au miroir, + Le dernier. ----J'ai l'assurance + Qu'on va m'adorer ce soir + Chez l'ambassadeur de France. + + Pres du foyer, Constance s'admirait. + Dieu! sur sa robe il vole une etincelle! + Au feu! Courez! Quand l'espoir l'enivrait, + Tout perdre ainsi! Quoi! Mourir,--et si belle! + L'horrible feu ronge avec volupte + Ses bras, son sein, et l'entoure, et s'eleve, + Et sans pitie devore sa beaute, + Ses dix-huit ans, helas, et son doux reve! + + Adieu, bal, plaisir, amour! + On disait, Pauvre Constance! + Et on dansait, jusqu'au jour, + Chez l'ambassadeur de France. + +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. 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. + +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 _voluptuousness--without pity_. 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, + + They said, 'Poor Constance!' + +Sec. 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, 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.' + +Sec. 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. + +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: + + Where shall I find him? angels, tell me where. + You know him; he is near you; point him out. + Shall I see glories beaming from his brow, + Or trace his footsteps by the rising flowers? + +This emotion has a worthy cause, and is thus true and right. But now +hear the cold-hearted Pope say to a shepherd girl: + + Where'er you walk, cool gales shall fan the glade; + Trees, where you sit, shall crowd into a shade; + Your praise the birds shall chant in every grove, + And winds shall waft it to the powers above. + But would you sing, and rival Orpheus' strain, + The wondering forests soon should dance again; + The moving mountains hear the powerful call, + And headlong streams hang, listening, in their fall. + +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: + + Three years had Barbara in her grave been laid, + When thus his moan he made:-- + + 'Oh move, thou cottage, from behind yon oak, + Or let the ancient tree uprooted lie, + That in some other way yon smoke + May mount into the sky. + If still behind yon pine-tree's ragged bough, + Headlong, the waterfall must come, + Oh, let it, then, be dumb-- + Be anything, sweet stream, but that which thou art now.' + +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 for relief, which at the same +moment it partly knows to be impossible, but partly believes possible, +in a vague impression that a miracle _might_ 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 _is_ possible to such +grief. To silence a stream, to move a cottage wall,--one might think +it could do as much as that! + +Sec. 16. I believe these instances are enough to illustrate the main +point I insist upon respecting the pathetic fallacy,--that so far as +it _is_ 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 _some_ +degree of weakness in the character. + +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: + + If through the garden's flowery tribes I stray, + Where bloom the jasmines that could once allure, + 'Hope not to find delight in us,' they say, + 'For we are spotless, Jessy; we are pure.' + +Compare with this some of the words of Ellen: + + 'Ah, why,' said Ellen, sighing to herself, + 'Why do not words, and kiss, and solemn pledge, + And nature, that is kind in woman's breast, + And reason, that in man is wise and good, + And fear of Him who is a righteous Judge,-- + Why do not these prevail for human life, + To keep two hearts together, that began + Their springtime with one love, and that have need + Of mutual pity and forgiveness, sweet + To grant, or be received; while that poor bird-- + O, come and hear him! Thou who hast to me + Been faithless, hear him;--though a lowly creature, + One of God's simple children, that yet know not + The Universal Parent, _how_ he sings! + As if he wished the firmament of heaven + Should listen, and give back to him the voice + Of his triumphant constancy and love. + The proclamation that he makes, how far + His darkness doth transcend our fickle light.' + +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. + +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.[34] + + [34] I cannot quit this subject without giving two more + instances, both exquisite, of the pathetic fallacy, which I + have just come upon, in _Maud_: + + For a great speculation had fail'd; + And ever he mutter'd and madden'd, and ever wann'd with despair; + And out he walk'd, when the wind like a broken worldling wail'd, + And the _flying gold of the ruin'd woodlands drove, thro' + the air_. + + There has fallen a splendid tear + From the passion-flower at the gate. + _The red rose cries, 'She is near, she is near!' + And the white rose weeps, 'She is late.' + The larkspur listens, 'I hear, I hear!' + And the lily whispers, 'I wait.'_ + +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. + + + + +JOHN STUART MILL + +1806-1873 + +THOUGHTS ON POETRY AND ITS VARIETIES (1859) + + +I + +It 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. + +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 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. + +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. + +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 to the +understanding, the other by offering interesting objects of +contemplation to the sensibilities. + +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. + +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. + +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 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, 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. + +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 _men_. + +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 +_Torquato Tasso_; 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. + +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, 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. + +Thus far our progress towards a clear view of the 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 _Corn-Law Rhymes_, and other poems of still greater merit. +'Poetry', says he, 'is impassioned truth.' The other is by a writer in +_Blackwood's Magazine_, 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 and +description, while it is still farther from having been satisfactorily +cleared up than either of the others. + +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 _heard_, poetry is _over_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. + +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 _be_ poetry, being written under such influences, is less +probable; not, however, impossible; but no otherwise possible than if +he can 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. + +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. + +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. + +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' +_heard_? We imagine it _over_heard. + +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 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 _Tancredi_, or the duet 'Ebben per mia +memoria', in _La Gazza Ladra_, 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 _Fidelio_-- + + Komm, Hoffnung, lass das letzte Stern + Der Muede nicht erbleichen; + +in which Madame Schroeder 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. + +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. + +In the arts which speak to the eye, the same distinctions will be +found to hold, not only between poetry and oratory, but between +poetry, oratory, narrative, and simple imitation or description. + +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. + +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. + +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 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 _grouping_ 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. + +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, 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. + + +II + +_Nascitur Poeta_ 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. + +We are not now intending to remark upon the grosser misapplications of +this ancient maxim, which have engendered so many races of +poetasters. 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 _become_ 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. + +Nevertheless, it seems undeniable in point of fact, and consistent +with the principles of a sound metaphysics, that there are poetic +_natures_. 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. + +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 _is_ 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 considered to confer that +title. But _ought_ 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. + +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 _ignes fatui_ 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. + +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 _universal_ laws of human nature, have strangely +neglected the analysis of its _diversities_. 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: _dodge_ 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. + +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 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 _feeling_, not as in other natures to a dominant +_thought_, for their unity and consistency of character, for what +distinguishes them from incoherencies. + +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, 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. + +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 _exemplar_, 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 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. + +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 _possessed_ 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 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. + +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 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 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. + +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. + +If, then, the maxim _Nascitur poeta_ 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 +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 _is_ +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. + +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? + +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. + +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; _then_ 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, 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.[35] + + [35] 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, _all_ 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. + +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 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'. + +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 +_must_ 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 _Cenci_, 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. + +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 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 _motives_ 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. + +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 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 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. + + + + +WALTER BAGEHOT + +1826-1877 + +WORDSWORTH, TENNYSON, AND BROWNING + +OR + +PURE, ORNATE, AND GROTESQUE ART IN ENGLISH POETRY (1864) + +_Enoch Arden, &c._ By Alfred Tennyson, D.C.L., Poet Laureate. + +_Dramatis Personae._ By Robert Browning. + + +We 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. + +Neither English poetry nor English criticism have ever recovered the +_eruption_ 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 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 _Giaour_ or the _Corsair_ (and it is +suitable to his age, and he should not be reproached for it), but the +_real_ 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 _Saturday Review_ would +say that 'they doubted if he _was_ 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 _read_ 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 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 _duty_ 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 +_amusements_ 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. + +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 _a_ 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 +_Edinburgh Review_ penetrated among the young, and into places of +female resort where it does not go now. As people ask, 'Have you read +_Henry Dunbar_? and what do you think of it?' so they then asked, +'Have you read the _Giaour_? 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 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 _permanent_ part of the poetry of +his time--for Shelley and for Wordsworth--Lord Jeffrey had but one +word. He said[36] 'It won't do'. And it will not do to amuse a +drawing-room. + + [36] The first words in Lord Jeffrey's celebrated review of + the _Excursion_ were, 'This will never do.' + +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 _faith_ 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. + +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 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. + +There should be a word in the language of literary art to express what +the word 'picturesque' expresses for the fine arts. _Picturesque_ +means fit to be put into a picture; we want a word _literatesque_, +'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 _he_ 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 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. + +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. _Landscapes_, 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 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, _be +the river to us_: 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 _after_ 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 _disjecta membra_, 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 _type_--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. + +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 _the man_;' 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. _He_ is not there. An accumulation of features +like his are painted, but his essence is not painted; an +approximation more or less excellent is given, but the characteristic +expression, the _typical_ form, of the man is withheld. + +Literature--the painting of words--has the same quality but wants the +analogous word. The word '_literatesque_,' would mean, if we possessed +it, that perfect combination in the _subject-matter_ of literature, +which suits the _art_ 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 _hitched_ on to nothing, and we could not classify +them; but when we see the _type_ 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 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, '_Now_ we know the sort of thing'. The sketch +has _hit_ 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. + +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 _ideas_--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 _types_; 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 _literatesque_ man, +the _literatesque_ 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 perfect; but there, at least, he will find +_something_, some hint, some intimation, some suggestion; whereas, in +the stagnant home of his own thoughts he will find nothing pure, +nothing _as it is_, nothing which does not bear his own mark, which is +not somehow altered by a mixture with himself. + +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 +_outrages_ of the _Robbers_, partly because of the philosophy of Kant. +Schiller's 'Essay on _Grace and Dignity_', 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: + +'We reached his house; the talk induced me to go in. I then expounded +to him, with as much vivacity as possible, the _Metamorphosis of +Plants_, 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 +_Dignity and Grace_, 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." + +'Schiller had much more prudence and dexterity of management than I; +he was also thinking of his periodical the _Horen_, 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: _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._ 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!' + +With Goethe's natural history, or with Kant's 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 _type_ 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. + +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 +_as_ 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 _in_ them, but not _peculiar_ +to them,--what is generic, not what is special and individual. Gray's +_Elegy_ describes a mood which Gray felt more than 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 _contemplative_--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: + + +I + +TO A FRIEND + + When we were idlers with the loitering rills, + The need of human love we little noted: + Our love was nature; and the peace that floated + On the white mist, and dwelt upon the hills, + To sweet accord subdued our wayward wills: + One soul was ours, one mind, one heart devoted, + That, wisely doating, ask'd not why it doated, + And ours the unknown joy, which knowing kills. + But now I find, how dear thou wert to me; + That man is more than half of nature's treasure, + Of that fair Beauty which no eye can see, + Of that sweet music which no ear can measure; + And now the streams may sing for others' pleasure, + The hills sleep on in their eternity. + + +II + +TO THE SAME + + In the great city we are met again, + Where many souls there are, that breathe and die, + Scarce knowing more of nature's potency, + Than what they learn from heat, or cold, or rain; + The sad vicissitude of weary pain;-- + For busy man is lord of ear and eye, + And what hath nature, but the vast, void sky, + And the thronged river toiling to the main? + Oh! say not so, for she shall have her part + In every smile, in every tear that falls, + And she shall hide her in the secret heart, + Where love persuades, and sterner duty calls: + But worse it were than death, or sorrow's smart, + To live without a friend within these walls. + + +III + +TO THE SAME + + We parted on the mountains, as two streams + From one clear spring pursue their several ways; + And thy fleet course hath been through many a maze, + In foreign lands, where silvery Padus gleams + To that delicious sky, whose glowing beams + Brightened the tresses that old Poets praise; + Where Petrarch's patient love, and artful lays, + And Ariosto's song of many themes, + Moved the soft air. But I, a lazy brook, + As close pent up within my native dell, + Have crept along from nook to shady nook, + Where flowrets blow, and whispering Naiads dwell. + Yet now we meet, that parted were so wide, + O'er rough and smooth to travel side by side. + +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. + +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 _great actions_. 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 _Elegy_ 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 _not_ 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 _reductio ad absurdum_--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 _Empedocles_--a poem +undoubtedly containing defects and even excesses, but containing also +these lines: + + And yet what days were those, Parmenides! + When we were young, when we could number friends + In all the Italian cities like ourselves, + When with elated hearts we join'd your train, + Ye Sun-born virgins! on the road of Truth. + Then we could still enjoy, then neither thought + Nor outward things were clos'd and dead to us, + But we receiv'd the shock of mighty thoughts + On simple minds with a pure natural joy; + And if the sacred load oppress'd our brain, + We had the power to feel the pressure eas'd. + The brow unbound, the thoughts flow free again, + In the delightful commerce of the world. + We had not lost our balance then, nor grown + Thought's slaves and dead to every natural joy. + The smallest thing could give us pleasure then-- + The sports of the country people; + A flute note from the woods; + Sunset over the sea: + Seed-time and harvest; + The reapers in the corn; + The vinedresser in his vineyard; + The village-girl at her wheel. + Fullness of life and power of feeling, ye + Are for the happy, for the souls at ease, + Who dwell on a firm basis of content. + But he who has outliv'd his prosperous days, + But he, whose youth fell on a different world + From that on which his exil'd age is thrown; + Whose mind was fed on other food, was train'd + By other rules than are in vogue to-day; + Whose habit of thought is fix'd, who will not change, + But in a world he loves not must subsist + In ceaseless opposition, be the guard + Of his own breast, fetter'd to what he guards, + That the world win no mastery over him; + Who has no friend, no fellow left, not one; + Who has no minute's breathing space allow'd + To nurse his dwindling faculty of joy:-- + Joy and the outward world must die to him + As they are dead to me. + +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. + +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 _Oedipus at Colonus_ +_is_ poetry: every one is agreed that the wonderful appearance of Mrs. +Veal is _not_ poetry. But the exact line which separates grave novels +in verse like _Aylmer's Field_ or _Enoch Arden_, from grave novels not +in verse like _Silas Marner_ or _Adam Bede_, 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 +_all work_ in early ages; it is only later ages which write in what +_they_ 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 _more concise_, for long-continued rhythm tends to jade +the mind, just as brief rhythm tends to attract the attention. Poetry +should be memorable and emphatic, intense, and _soon over_. + +The great divisions of poetry, and of all other literary art, arise +from the different modes in which these _types_--these characteristic +men, these characteristic feelings--may be variously described. There +are three principal modes which we shall attempt to describe--the +_pure_, which is sometimes, but not very wisely, called the classical; +the _ornate_, which is also unwisely called romantic; and the +_grotesque_, 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. + +The definition of _pure_ 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 _no more_ than that amount. The _type_ 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 _fixings_--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 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 _art_ 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. + +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 _sentiment_; 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 by the +strenuous purity with which he depicts character. + +A wit once said, that '_pretty_ women had more features than +_beautiful_ 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 _grown +together_, 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'. + +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 _luminous_ examples; the compactness of the sonnet +and the gravity of the sentiment, hedging in the thoughts, +restraining the fancy, and helping to maintain a singleness of +expression: + + +THE TROSACHS. + + There's not a nook within this solemn Pass, + But were an apt Confessional for one + Taught by his summer spent; his autumn gone, + That Life is but a tale of morning grass + Withered at eve. From scenes of art which chase + That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes + Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities, + Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass + Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy guest, + If from a golden perch of aspen spray + (October's workmanship to rival May) + The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast + That moral teaches by a heaven-taught lay, + Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest! + + +COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, 1802 + + Earth has not anything to show more fair: + Dull would he be of soul who could pass by + A sight so touching in its majesty: + This city now doth, like a garment, wear + The beauty of the morning; silent, bare. + Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie + Open unto the fields and to the sky; + All bright and open in the smokeless air. + Never did sun more beautifully steep + In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; + Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! + The river glideth at his own sweet will: + Dear God! The very houses seem asleep; + And all that mighty heart is lying still! + +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, yet not a single expression +rivets the attention. If, indeed, we take out the phrase-- + + The city now doth like a garment wear + The beauty of the morning, + +and the description of the brilliant yellow of autumn-- + + October's workmanship to rival May, + +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 _must_ recall--the exact phrase, the +_very_ sentiment he wished. + +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 _brawl_ +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 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 _theme_ of +_Paradise Lost_ 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. _Paradise Lost_, 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 _arguable_ case at least. There was something arbitrary in the +promotion; there were little symptoms of a job; in _Paradise Lost_ 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 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 + + the fiercest spirit + That fought in Heaven, now fiercer by despair, + +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, + + deep on his front engraven + Deliberation sat and Public care, + +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 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: + + He ended frowning, and his look denounced + Desp'rate revenge, and battle dangerous + To less than Gods. On th' other side up rose + Belial, in act more graceful and humane: + A fairer person lost not Heaven; he seem'd + For dignity composed and high exploit: + But all was false and hollow, though his tongue + Dropt manna, and could make the worse appear + The better reason, to perplex and dash + Maturest counsels: for his thoughts were low; + To vice industrious, but to nobler deeds + Tim'rous and slothful: yet he pleased the ear, + And with persuasive accent thus began: + +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 _take_ it, he +must carefully apologise for _giving_ 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: + + I should be much for open war, O Peers! + As not behind in hate, if what was urged + Main reason to persuade immediate war, + Did not dissuade me most, and seem to cast + Ominous conjecture on the whole success: + When he who most excels in fact of arms, + In what he counsels and in what excels + Mistrustful, grounds his courage on despair, + And utter dissolution, as the scope + Of all his aim, after some dire revenge. + First, what revenge? The tow'rs of Heav'n are fill'd + With armed watch, that render all access + Impregnable; oft on the bord'ring deep + Encamp their legions, or with obscure wing + Scout far and wide into the realm of night, + Scorning surprise. Or could we break our way + By force, and at our heels all hell should rise + With blackest insurrection, to confound + Heav'n's purest light, yet our great Enemy, + All incorruptible, would on his throne + Sit unpolluted, and th' ethereal mould + Incapable of stain would soon expel + Her mischief, and purge oft the baser fire + Victorious. Thus repulsed, our final hope + Is flat despair. We must exasperate + Th' Almighty Victor to spend all his rage, + And that must end us: that must be our cure, + To be no more? Sad cure; for who would lose, + Though full of pain, this intellectual being, + Those thoughts that wander through eternity, + To perish rather, swallow'd up and lost + In the wide womb of uncreated night, + Devoid of sense and motion? And who knows, + Let this be good, whether our angry Foe + Can give it, or will ever? How he can + Is doubtful; that he never will is sure. + Will he, so wise, let loose at once his ire + Belike through impotence, or unaware, + To give his enemies their wish, and end + Them in his anger, whom his anger saves + To punish endless? Wherefore cease we then? + Say they who counsel war, we are decreed, + Reserved, and destined, to eternal woe; + Whatever doing, what can we suffer more, + What can we suffer worse? Is this then worst, + Thus sitting, thus consulting, thus in arms? + + * * * * * + +And so on. + +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. Its +sensibleness is effectually explained, and its tameness as much as +possible disguised. + +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 _typical_ +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 _classical_ +triumph, the highest achievement of the pure _style_ 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. + +It is not unremarkable that we should find in Milton and in _Paradise +Lost_ 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 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 _spontaneity_, and a sense of +effort. It has been happily said that Plato's words must have _grown_ +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. _Flexibility_ 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 _is_ an additional labour if you +write verses in a morning, to spend the rest of the day in _choosing_, +or making those verses fewer. But a perfect artist in the pure style +is as effortless and as natural as in any style, perhaps is more so. +Take the well-known lines: + + There was a little lawny islet + By anemone and violet, + Like mosaic, paven: + And its roof was flowers and leaves + Which the summer's breath enweaves, + Where nor sun, nor showers, nor breeze, + Pierce the pines and tallest trees, + Each a gem engraven;-- + Girt by many an azure wave + With which the clouds and mountains pave + A lake's blue chasm. + +Shelley had many merits and many defects. This is not the place for a +complete or indeed for _any_ 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. + +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 _bear_. 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 endure, but with the richest and most involved clothing +that it will admit. + +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. + +The description of the tropical island on which the sailor is thrown, +is an absolute model of adorned art: + + The mountain wooded to the peak, the lawns + And winding glades high up like ways to Heaven, + The slender coco's drooping crown of plumes, + The lightning flash of insect and of bird, + The lustre of the long convolvuluses + That coil'd around the stately stems, and ran + Ev'n to the limit of the land, the glows + And glories of the broad belt of the world, + All these he saw; but what he fain had seen + He could not see, the kindly human face, + Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but heard + The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean-fowl, + The league-long roller thundering on the reef, + The moving whisper of huge trees that branch'd + And blossom'd in the zenith, or the sweep + Of some precipitous rivulet to the wave, + As down the shore he ranged, or all day long + Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge, + A shipwreck'd sailor, waiting for a sail: + No sail from day to day, but every day + The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts + Among the palms and ferns and precipices; + The blaze upon the waters to the east; + The blaze upon his island overhead; + The blaze upon the waters to the west; + Then the great stars that globed themselves in Heaven, + The hollower-bellowing ocean, and again + The scarlet shafts of sunrise--but no sail. + +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: + + While Enoch was abroad on wrathful seas, + Or often journeying landward; for in truth + Enoch's white horse, and Enoch's ocean spoil + In ocean-smelling osier, and his face, + Rough-redden'd with a thousand winter gales, + Not only to the market-cross were known, + But in the leafy lanes behind the down, + Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp, + And peacock yew-tree of the lonely Hall, + Whose Friday fare was Enoch's ministering. + +So much has not often been made of selling fish. + +The essence of ornate art is in this manner to accumulate round the +typical object, everything which can be said about it, every +associated thought that can be connected with it without impairing the +essence of the delineation. + +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 _something else_. 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!' + +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 brawl of the +shore as for the _limited_ 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. + +Ornate art is to pure art what a painted statue is to an unpainted. It +is impossible to deny that a touch of colour _does_ bring out certain +parts, does convey certain expressions, does heighten certain +features, but it leaves on the work as a whole, 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 _rouge_ of +ornate literature excites our eye, it also impairs our confidence. + +Mr. Arnold has justly observed that this self-justifying, +self-_proving_ 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, 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 _party_ 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 _en masse_, 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 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 _multitude_ 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 _commanded_ 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 +_spring_, 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 _in_ Shakespeare, although there is a +great deal else also. + +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? + +The reason is this: literary art, as we just now explained, is +concerned with literatesque characters in literatesque situations; and +the _best_ art is concerned with the _most_ literatesque characters in +the _most_ 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. _Any_ literatesque character may be described in literature under +_any_ circumstances which exhibit its literatesqueness. + +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. 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. + +'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.' + +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 _Enoch Arden_ 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, 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. + +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 _not_ 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 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 +_Robinson Crusoe_, 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. + +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 ailments, the rough devices, the low +superstitions, which really would have been the _first_ things, the +favourite and principal occupations of his mind. Just so when he gets +home he _may_ have had such fine sentiments, though it is odd, and he +_may_ 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. + +Another prominent element in _Enoch Arden_ is yet more suitable to, +yet more requires the aid of, ornate art. Mr. Tennyson undertook to +deal with _half belief_. 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 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: + + When Heaven sends sorrow, + Warnings go first, + Lest it should burst + With stunning might + On souls too bright + To fear the morrow. + + Can science bear us + To the hid springs + Of human things? + Why may not dream, + Or thought's day-gleam, + Startle, yet cheer us? + + Are such thoughts fetters, + While faith disowns + Dread of earth's tones, + Recks but Heaven's call, + And on the wall, + Reads but Heaven's letters? + +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. + +Nor is this all, or even the principal lesson, which _Enoch Arden_ may +suggest to us, of the use of ornate art. That art is the appropriate +art for an _unpleasing type_. 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 _not_ 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 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. + +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 _Hamlet_ had depended on +the ethical 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 _millionaires_ 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. + +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 +to what will not stand the bare truth. And just so does romantic art. + +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, _in difficulties_. 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. + +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 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 _mind_. 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 _is_: 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 _demi-monde_. 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. + +If we wanted to illustrate the nature of grotesque 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 _mind in difficulties_--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. + + 'Will sprawl, now that the heat of day is best, + Flat on his belly in the pit's much mire, + With elbows wide, fists clenched to prop his chin; + And, while he kicks both feet in the cool slush, + And feels about his spine small eft-things course, + Run in and out each arm, and make him laugh; + And while above his head a pompion-plant, + Coating the cave-top as a brow its eye, + Creeps down to touch and tickle hair and beard, + And now a flower drops with a bee inside, + And now a fruit to snap at, catch and crunch: + +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: + + Setebos, Setebos, and Setebos! + 'Thinketh, He dwelleth i' the cold o' the moon. + + 'Thinketh He made it, with the sun to match, + But not the stars: the stars came otherwise; + Only made clouds, winds, meteors, such as that: + Also this isle, what lives, and grows thereon, + And snaky sea which rounds and ends the same. + + 'Thinketh, it came of being ill at ease: + He hated that He cannot change His cold, + Nor cure its ache. 'Hath spied an icy fish + That longed to 'scape the rock-stream where she lived, + And thaw herself within the lukewarm brine + O' the lazy sea her stream thrusts far amid, + A crystal spike 'twixt two warm walls of wave; + Only she ever sickened, found repulse + At the other kind of water, not her life, + (Green-dense and dim-delicious, bred o' the sun) + Flounced back from bliss she was not born to breathe, + And in her old bounds buried her despair, + Hating and loving warmth alike: so He. + + 'Thinketh, He made thereat the sun, this isle, + Trees and the fowls here, beast and creeping thing. + Yon otter, sleek-wet, black, lithe as a leech; + Yon auk, one fire-eye, in a ball of foam, + That floats and feeds; a certain badger brown + He hath watched hunt with that slant white-wedge eye + By moonlight; and the pie with the long tongue + That pricks deep into oakwarts for a worm, + And says a plain word when she finds her prize, + But will not eat the ants; the ants themselves + That build a wall of seeds and settled stalks + About their hole--He made all these and more, + Made all we see, and us, in spite: how else? + +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 _success_ of grotesque art, but the +_nature_ 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 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. + +We are not judging Mr. Browning simply from a hasty recent production. +All poets are liable to misconceptions, and if such a piece as +_Caliban upon Setebos_ 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 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: + + Fee, faw, fum! bubble and squeak! + Blessedest Thursday's the fat of the week, + Rumble and tumble, sleek and rough, + Stinking and savoury, smug and gruff, + Take the church-road, for the bell's due chime + Gives us the summons--'t is sermon-time. + + Boh, here's Barnabas! Job, that's you? + Up stumps Solomon--bustling too? + Shame, man! greedy beyond your years + To handsel the bishop's shaving-shears? + Fair play's a jewel! leave friends in the lurch? + Stand on a line ere you start for the church. + + Higgledy, piggledy, packed we lie, + Rats in a hamper, swine in a stye, + Wasps in a bottle, frogs in a sieve, + Worms in a carcase, fleas in a sleeve. + Hist! square shoulders, settle your thumbs + And buzz for the bishop--here he comes. + +And after similar nice remarks for a church, the edified congregation +concludes: + + But now, while the scapegoats leave our flock, + And the rest sit silent and count the clock, + Since forced to muse the appointed time + On these precious facts and truths sublime,-- + Let us fitly employ it, under our breath, + In saying Ben Ezra's Song of Death. + + For Rabbi Ben Ezra, the night he died, + Called sons and sons' sons to his side, + And spoke, 'This world has been harsh and strange; + Something is wrong: there needeth a change. + But what, or where? at the last, or first? + In one point only we sinned, at worst. + + 'The Lord will have mercy on Jacob yet, + And again in his border see Israel set. + When Judah beholds Jerusalem, + The stranger-seed shall be joined to them: + To Jacob's House shall the Gentiles cleave, + So the Prophet saith and his sons believe. + + 'Ay, the children of the chosen race + Shall carry and bring them to their place: + In the land of the Lord shall lead the same, + Bondsmen and handmaids. Who shall blame + When the slaves enslave, the oppressed ones o'er + The oppressor triumph for evermore? + + 'God spoke, and gave us the word to keep, + Bade never fold the hands nor sleep + 'Mid a faithless world,--at watch and ward, + Till Christ at the end relieve our guard. + By His servant Moses the watch was set: + Though near upon cock-crow, we keep it yet. + + 'Thou! if Thou wast He, who at mid-watch came, + By the starlight, naming a dubious Name! + And if, too heavy with sleep--too rash + With fear--O Thou, if that martyr-gash + Fell on Thee coming to take Thine own, + And we gave the Cross, when we owed the Throne-- + + 'Thou art the Judge. We are bruised thus. + But, the judgement over, join sides with us! + Thine too is the cause! and not more Thine + Than ours, is the work of these dogs and swine, + Whose life laughs through and spits at their creed, + Who maintain Thee in word, and defy Thee in deed! + + 'We withstood Christ then? be mindful how + At least we withstand Barabbas now! + Was our outrage sore? But the worst we spared, + To have called these--Christians, had we dared! + Let defiance to them pay mistrust of Thee, + And Rome make amends for Calvary! + + 'By the torture, prolonged from age to age, + By the infamy, Israel's heritage, + By the Ghetto's plague, by the garb's disgrace, + By the badge of shame, by the felon's place, + By the branding-tool, the bloody whip, + And the summons to Christian fellowship,-- + + 'We boast our proof that at least the Jew + Would wrest Christ's name from the Devil's crew. + Thy face took never so deep a shade + But we fought them in it, God our aid! + A trophy to bear, as we march, Thy band, + South, East, and on to the Pleasant Land!' + +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 _buried_ 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 these occasions and in these poems he +has failed in fascinating men and women of sane taste. + +We say 'sane' because there is a most formidable and estimable +_insane_ 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 +_will_ 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. + +Mr. Browning possibly, and some of the worst of Mr. Browning's +admirers certainly, will say that 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 _is_ good wine--there _are_ +pretty women--there _are_ comfortable benefices--there _is_ 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 _see_ his religion, he +must nave an 'object-lesson' in believing. He must have a creed that +will _take_, 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', the high 'instincts', +the 'first affections', the 'shadowy recollections', + + Which, do they what they may, + Are yet the fountain-light of all our day-- + Are yet a master-light of all our seeing; + +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 '_My wife_ does not hear it'. + +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 _bourgeois_ nature in _difficulties_; in the utmost +difficulty, in contact with magic and the supernatural. He has made of +it something homely, comic, true; reminding us of what _bourgeois_ +nature really is. By showing us the type under abnormal conditions, +he reminds us of the type under its best and most satisfactory +conditions-- + + Hamelin Town's in Brunswick, + By famous Hanover city; + The river Weser, deep and wide, + Washes its walls on the southern side; + A pleasanter spot you never spied; + But, when begins my ditty, + Almost five hundred years ago, + To see the townsfolk suffer so + From vermin was a pity. + + Rats! + They fought the dogs, and killed the cats, + And bit the babies in the cradles, + And ate the cheeses out of the vats, + And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles, + Split open the kegs of salted sprats, + Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, + And even spoiled the women's chats + By drowning their speaking + With shrieking and squeaking + In fifty different sharps and flats. + + At last the people in a body + To the Town Hall came flocking: + ''Tis clear', cried they, 'our Mayor's a noddy; + And as for our Corporation--shocking + To think we buy gowns lined with ermine + For dolts that can't or won't determine + What's best to rid us of our vermin! + You hope, because you're old and obese, + To find in the furry civic robe ease? + Rouse up, Sirs! Give your brains a racking + To find the remedy we're lacking, + Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!' + At this the Mayor and Corporation + Quaked with a mighty consternation. + +A person of musical abilities proposes to extricate the civic +dignitaries from the difficulty, and they promise him a thousand +guilders if he does. + + Into the street the Piper stept, + Smiling first a little smile, + As if he knew what magic slept + In his quiet pipe the while; + Then, like a musical adept, + To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, + And green and blue his sharp eye twinkled + Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled; + And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered + You heard as if an army muttered; + And the muttering grew to a grumbling; + And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling; + And out of the houses the rats came tumbling. + Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, + Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats, + Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, + Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, + Cooking tails and pricking whiskers, + Families by tens and dozens, + Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives-- + Followed the Piper for their lives. + From street to street he piped advancing, + And step for step they followed dancing, + Until they came to the river Weser, + Wherein all plunged and perished! + --Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar, + Swam across and lived to carry + (As he, the manuscript he cherished) + To Rat-land home his commentary: + Which was, 'At the first shrill notes of the pipe, + I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, + And putting apples, wondrous ripe, + Into a cider-press's gripe: + And a moving away of pickle-tub boards, + And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards, + And a drawing the corks of train-oil flasks, + And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks: + And it seemed as if a voice + (Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery + Is breathed) called out, "Oh rats, rejoice! + The world is grown to one vast drysaltery! + So, munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, + Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!" + And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, + All ready staved, like a great sun shone + Glorious scarce an inch before me, + Just as methought it said, "Come, bore me!" + --I found the Weser rolling o'er me.' + You should have heard the Hamelin people + Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple. + 'Go', cried the Mayor, 'and get long poles, + Poke out the nests and block up the holes! + Consult with carpenters and builders, + And leave in our town not even a trace + Of the rats!'--when suddenly, up the face + Of the Piper perked in the market-place, + With a 'First, if you please, my thousand guilders!' + A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue; + So did the Corporation too. + For council dinners made rare havoc + With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock; + And half the money would replenish + Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish. + To pay this sum to a wandering fellow + With a gipsy coat of red and yellow! + 'Beside,' quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink, + 'Our business was done at the river's brink; + We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, + And what's dead can't come to life, I think. + So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink + From the duty of giving you something for drink, + And a matter of money to put in your poke; + But as for the guilders, what we spoke + Of them, as you very well know, was in joke. + Besides, our losses have made us thrifty. + A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!' + + The piper's face fell, and he cried, + 'No trifling! I can't wait, beside! + I've promised to visit by dinner time + Bagdat, and accept the prime + Of the Head-Cook's pottage, all he's rich in, + For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen, + Of a nest of scorpions no survivor-- + With him I proved no bargain-driver, + With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver! + And folks who put me in a passion + May find me pipe to another fashion.' + + 'How?' cried the Mayor, 'd'ye think I'll brook + Being worse treated than a Cook? + Insulted by a lazy ribald + With idle pipe and vesture piebald? + You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst, + Blow your pipe there till you burst!' + + Once more he stept into the street + And to his lips again + Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane; + And ere he blew three notes (such sweet + Soft notes as yet musician's cunning + Never gave the enraptured air) + There was a rustling, that seemed like a bustling + Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling. + Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, + Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering, + And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering, + Out came the children running. + + All the little boys and girls, + With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, + And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls. + Tripping and skipping ran merrily after + The wonderful music with shouting and laughter. + + * * * * * + + And I must not omit to say + That in Transylvania there's a tribe + Of alien people that ascribe + The outlandish ways and dress + On which their neighbours lay such stress, + To their fathers and mothers having risen + Out of some subterraneous prison + Into which they were trepanned + Long time ago in a mighty band + Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land, + But how or why, they don't understand. + +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 _half_ 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 _glaring_ 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 us. These +are our curses, as other times had theirs. + + And yet + Think not the living times forget, + Ages of heroes fought and fell, + That Homer in the end might tell; + O'er grovelling generations past + Upstood the Gothic fane at last; + And countless hearts in countless years + Had wasted thoughts, and hopes, and fears, + Rude laughter and unmeaning tears; + Ere England Shakespeare saw, or Rome + The pure perfection of her dome. + Others I doubt not, if not we, + The issue of our toils shall see; + And (they forgotten and unknown) + Young children gather as their own + The harvest that the dead had sown. + + + + +WALTER HORATIO PATER + +1839-1894 + +COLERIDGE'S WRITINGS (1866) + +_Conversations, Letters, and Recollections of S. T. Coleridge._ Edited +by THOMAS ALLSOP. London. 1864. + + +Forms 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, 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. + +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 _genera_. 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. 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 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 +[Greek: ousia achromatos, aschematistos, anaphes]. 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. + +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? + +In 1798 he joined Wordsworth in the composition of a volume of +poems--the _Lyrical Ballads_. What Wordsworth then wrote is already +vibrant with that blithe _elan_ 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': + + ... My voice proclaims + How exquisitely the individual mind + (And the progressive powers perhaps no less + Of the whole species) to the external world + Is fitted:--and how exquisitely, too, + The external world is fitted to the mind: + And the creation, by no lower name + Can it be called, which they with blended might + Accomplish.[37] + + [37] Preface to the _Excursion_. + +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. + +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 +_Lines composed above Tintern_ 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 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, [Greek: aei en sphodra orexei], with its +faintness, its grieved dejection, could never have been like that. + + My genial spirits fail + And what can these avail + To lift the smothering weight from off my breast? + It were a vain endeavour, + Though I should gaze for ever + On that green light that lingers in the west: + I may not hope from outward forms to win + The passion and the life whose fountains are within. + +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 _Gott und Welt_, it becomes +something stiffer than poetry; it is tempered by the 'pale cast' of +his technical knowledge of the nature of colours, of anatomy, of the +metamorphosis of plants. + +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. + +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 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. + +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 [Greek: gnosis], 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 +_eclaircissement_ of the eighteenth century. + +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, 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 naive 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 vocabulary of such phrases, +and expects to turn the tide of human thought by fixing the sense of +such expressions as 'reason', 'understanding', 'idea'. + +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 +_tour de force_--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 _ennuyant_, depressing: the _Aids to +Reflection_, 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 _Church and State_, or in the distilled and +concentrated beauty of such a passage as this: + + 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 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. + + _Biographia Literaria._ + +'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: + + 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 _terrae filius_, 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.[38] + + [38] Biographical Supplement to _Biographia Literaria_, chap. + ii. + +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. + +This depressed boy is nevertheless, on the spiritual side, the child +of a noble house. At twenty-five he 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 _Kubla Khan_, +the first part of _Christabel_, and _The Ancient Mariner_. 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 _bizarrerie_, 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 +_rapport_, between man and nature. 'I am much better', he writes, 'and +my new and tender health is all over me like a voluptuous feeling.' + +And whatever fame, or charm, or life-inspiring 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. + +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 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.' + +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 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 _arriere +pensee_; 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, [Greek: to diorizein ouk esti ton pollon], 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 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. + +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 _tour de force_ 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 _Aids to Reflection_, or _The +Friend_:--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 absolute +formulas. The _Aids to Reflection_, or _The Friend_, 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. + +At forty-two, we find Coleridge saying in a letter: + + 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. + +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. + +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 his life. From this +time we must look for no more true literary talent in him. His style +becomes greyer and greyer, his thoughts _outre_, 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'. + +That faintness and continual dissolution had its own consumptive +refinements, and even brought, as to the 'Beautiful Soul' in _Wilhelm +Meister_, a faint religious ecstasy--that 'singing in the sails' which +is not of the breeze. Here, again, is a note of Coleridge's: + + '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.' + +What a distemper of the eye of the mind! What an almost bodily +distemper there is in that! + +Coleridge's intellectual sorrows were many; but he had one singular +intellectual happiness. 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. + +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. + +With this interest, in the _Biographia Literaria_, 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 _vivification_ of nature. Played +upon by those accidents of language, the 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 vernuenftig; was +vernuenftig 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 Boehme, there the old Greek +conception, like some seed floating in the air, has taken root and +sprung up anew. Coleridge, thrust inward upon himself, 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 [Greek: +anamnesis], 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 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. + +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, regards all association as +effected by a power within, to which he gives a fanciful Greek +name.[39] 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. + + [39] Esemplastic. + +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 _Werther_ or _Emile_, 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 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. + +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 _Hamlet_ or _Macbeth_. 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: + + 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. + +Again: + + 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. + +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. 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. + +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 _Emilie +Galotti_, 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.' + +What constitutes an artistic gift is, first of all, a natural +susceptibility to moments of strange excitement, in which the colours +freshen upon our 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 _Sordello_, with that power in the +_Sorrows of Werther_. 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. + +Coleridge has not achieved this side in an equal degree with the +other; and this want is not supplied by the _Literary Remains_, which +contain his studies 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 _Paradise Lost_: 'It has +the totality of the poem as distinguished from the _ab ovo_ birth and +parentage or straight line of history.' + +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. + +The vagueness and fluidity of Coleridge's theological opinions have +been exaggerated through an 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 _Aids +to Reflection_ 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 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. + +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: + + 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. + + _Aids to Reflection._ + +Nature, that is, works by what we may call '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. + +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 +_ennui_ in it, and what indication of the laws of the world without +it, would be afforded by its longing to break its bonds? + +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 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 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. + +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 souvenir is the ideal of a transcendental disinterestedness. +Where shall we look for this ideal? In Spinoza; or perhaps in Bentham +or in Austin. + +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. + +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, 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 _en masse_. 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: + + '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,[40] 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.' + + [40] The servant who attended Kant in his walks. + +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 _The Friend_, 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. + +Theology is a great house, scored all over with 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 +[Greek: triton eidolon], 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. + +After Coleridge's death, seven letters of his on the inspiration of +Scripture were published, under the title of _Confessions of an +Inquiring Spirit_. 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 _via +media_ 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 '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'. + +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.' + +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 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 A.D. 120. + +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. + +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 +criticism. Twenty-five years of that criticism have gone by, and have +hardly verified the anticipation. + +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. + +'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 than Childe Harold, more +than Werther, more than Rene, 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, [Greek: +tryphes, habrotetos, chlides, chariton, himerou pothou pater], 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. + + + + +RALPH WALDO EMERSON + +1803-1882 + +SHAKESPEARE; OR, THE POET. 1850. + + +Great 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. + +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 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. + +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. + +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 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 Caesar, 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. + +Shakespeare, in common with his comrades, esteemed the mass of old +plays, waste stock, in which any experiment could be freely tried. Had +the _prestige_ 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; 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. + +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 _Henry VI_, 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 leaves a single drama of his absolute invention. Malone's +sentence is an important piece of external history. In _Henry VIII_, 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. + +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; 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,-- + + Presenting Thebes' and Pelops' line, + And the tale of Troy divine. + +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 Provencal poets are his benefactors: the _Romaunt +of the Rose_ is only judicious translation from William of Lorris and +John of Meun: _Troilus and Creseide_, from Lollius of Urbino: _The +Cock and the Fox_, from the _Lais_ of Marie: _The House of Fame_, from +the French or Italian: and poor Gower he uses as if he were only a +brick-kiln or 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. + +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 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. + +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 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, AEsop'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. + +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 +_Ferrex and Porrex_, and _Gammer Gurton's Needle_, 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. + +There is somewhat touching in the madness with 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. + +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, 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. + +The Shakespeare Society have inquired in all directions, advertised +the missing facts, offered 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 +_Macbeth_, 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. + +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, no ray of relation appears +between it and the goddess-born; and it seems as if, had we dipped at +random into the _Modern Plutarch_ 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: + + What may this mean, + That thou, dead corse, again in complete steel + Revisit'st thus the glimpses of the moon? + +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 _Midsummer Night's Dream_ +admits me? Did Shakespeare confide to any notary or parish recorder, +sacristan, or surrogate, 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. + +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. + +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 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 he not outseen? What +gentleman has he not instructed in the rudeness of his behaviour? + +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 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. + +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 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. + +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. + +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 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. + +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. + +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. + +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 knows the lesson by heart. Yet +there is not a trace of egotism. + +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. + + * * * * * + +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. + +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 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 +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL + +1819-1891 + +WORDSWORTH (1875) + + +A generation 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 _odium +theologicum_ (if indeed the _aestheticum_ 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 +them, and whatever of Dr. Wattsiness there is gives us a slight shock +of disenchantment. It is something like the difference between the +_Marseillaise_ 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 Therese. 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, a 'dedicated spirit',[41] 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 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 _is_ 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,--_vien ben da lui_. + + [41] In the _Prelude_ 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: + + My heart was full; I made no vows, but vows + Were then made for me; bond unknown to me + Was given that I should be, else sinning greatly. + A dedicated Spirit.--Book IV. + + * * * * * + +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. + +The poet's early childhood was passed partly at Cockermouth, and +partly with his maternal 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. + +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.[42] His life as a schoolboy was favourable also to his +poetic development, in being identified with that of the people among +whom he 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. + + [42] _Prelude_, Book II. + +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 early as in +his fourteenth year to become a poet.[43] '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.' + + [43] + + I to the muses have been bound, + These fourteen years, by strong indentures. + + _Idiot Boy_ (1798).] + +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 _Don +Quixote_, _Gil Blas_, _Gulliver's Travels_, and the _Tale of a Tub_; +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. + +Doubtless his early orphanage was not without its effect in confirming +a character naturally impatient 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. + +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 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. + +Of his college life the chief record is to be found in _The Prelude_. +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,[44] 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 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. + + [44] _Prelude_, Book III. + +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. + +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 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. + +The change in his point of view (if change there was) certainly was +complete soon after his return from France, and was perhaps due in +part to the influence of Burke. + + While he [Burke] forewarns, denounces, launches forth, + Against all systems built on abstract rights, + Keen ridicule; the majesty proclaims + Of institutes and laws hallowed by time; + Declares the vital power of social ties + Endeared by custom; and with high disdain, + Exploding upstart theory, insists + Upon the allegiance to which men are born. + ... Could a youth, and one + In ancient story versed, whose breast had heaved + Under the weight of classic eloquence, + Sit, see, and hear, unthankful, uninspired?[45] + + [45] _Prelude_, Book VII. Written before 1805, and referring + to a still earlier date. + +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 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.' + +In December 1792 Wordsworth had returned to England, and in the +following year published _Descriptive Sketches_ and the _Evening +Walk_. He did this, as he says in one of his letters, to show that, +although he had gained no honours at the University, he _could_ 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,-- + + And, fronting the bright west, the oak entwines + Its darkening boughs and leaves in stronger lines,-- + +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.' + +It is plain that Wordsworth's memory was playing 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 _Descriptive Sketches_ (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 _Poem on Spring_, a poem in +the six-line stanza which he was particularly fond of and had composed +much in,--for example, _Ruth_.' 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 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 + + Like an army defeated + The snow hath retreated + And now doth fare ill + On the top of the bare hill, + +with Goethe's exquisite _Ueber allen Gipfeln ist Ruh_, in which the +lines (as if shaken down by a momentary breeze of emotion) drop +lingeringly one after another like blossoms upon turf. + +_The Evening Walk_ and _Descriptive Sketches_ 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 _Traveller_ and the +_Deserted Village_ 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: + + Haply that child in fearful doubt may gaze, + Passing his father's bones in future days, + Start at the reliques of that very thigh + On which so oft he prattled when a boy. + +In these poems there is plenty of that 'poetic diction' against which +Wordsworth was to lead the revolt nine years later. + + To wet the peak's impracticable sides + He opens of his feet the sanguine tides, + Weak and more weak the issuing current eyes + Lapped by the panting tongue of thirsty skies. + +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. + + Farewell! those forms that in thy noontide shade + Rest near their little plots of oaten glade, + Those steadfast eyes that beating breasts inspire + To throw the 'sultry ray' of young Desire; + Those lips whose tides of fragrance come and go + Accordant to the cheek's unquiet glow; + Those shadowy breasts in love's soft light arrayed, + And rising by the moon of passion swayed. + +The political tone is also mildened in the revision, as where he +changes 'despotcourts' into 'tyranny'. One of the alterations is +interesting. In the _Evening Walk_ he had originally written + + And bids her soldier come her wars to share + Asleep on Minden's charnel hill afar. + +An erratum at the end directs us to correct the second verse, thus: + + Asleep on Bunker's charnel hill afar. + +Wordsworth somewhere rebukes the poets for making the owl a bodeful +bird. He had himself done so in the _Evening Walk_, and corrects his +epithets to suit his later judgement, putting 'gladsome' for 'boding', +and replacing + + The tremulous sob of the complaining owl + +by + + The sportive outcry of the mocking owl. + +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. + + 'Tis storm; and hid in mist from hour to hour + All day the floods a deepening murmur pour: + The sky is veiled and every cheerful sight; + Dark is the region as with coming night; + But what a sudden burst of overpowering light! + Triumphant on the bosom of the storm, + Glances the fire-clad eagle's wheeling form; + Eastward, in long prospective glittering shine + The wood-crowned cliffs that o'er the lake recline; + Those eastern cliffs a hundred streams unfold, + At once to pillars turned that flame with gold; + Behind his sail the peasant tries to shun + The West that burns like one dilated sun, + Where in a mighty crucible expire + The mountains, glowing hot like coals of fire. + +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 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. + +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 _The +Philanthropist_, but luckily went no further with it, for the receipts +from an organ of 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 L900. 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. + +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 more in the _Descriptive Sketches_ 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 _The Borderers_ was for the most part written, +and that plan of the _Lyrical Ballads_ 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 _The +Borderers_ 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. + +The play has fine passages, but is as unreal as _Jane Eyre_. 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 _The Borderers_ in 1842, and says in a note that it 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. + +He now applied himself to the preparation of the first volume of the +_Lyrical Ballads_ for the press, and it was published toward the close +of 1798. The book, which contained also _The Ancient Mariner_ 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 _Lyrical Ballads_ was reckoned +at _zero_, 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. + +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 _Lyrical Ballads_ 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 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. + +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. + +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 charged was certainly +not due to any German influence, for it appears unmistakably in the +_Lines composed at Tintern Abbey_ 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 _Wilhelm Meister_, 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 _Thorn_, though vastly more imaginative, may have been +suggested by Buerger's _Pfarrer's Tochter von Taubenhain_. The little +grave _drei Spannen lang_, in its conscientious measurement, certainly +recalls a famous couplet in the English poem. + +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 _Lyrical Ballads_ being +exhausted, it was republished with the addition of another volume, Mr. +Longman paying L100 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 _Michael_ and _The Brothers_, as displaying +the strength and permanence among a simple and rural population of +those domestic affections which were certain to decay gradually under +the influence of manufactories and poor-houses. Mr. Fox wrote a civil +acknowledgement, saying that his favourites among the poems were +_Harry Gill_, _We are Seven_, _The Mad Mother_, and _The Idiot_, 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 _Defensio_ 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 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. + +An advertisement prefixed to the _Lyrical Ballads_, as originally +published in one volume, warned the reader that 'they were written +chiefly with a view to ascertain how far _the language of conversation +in the middle and lower classes_ 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, _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'. 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 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 _Lyrical Ballads_ 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 _best_ 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 _The Blind Highland Boy_ he had +originally the following stanzas: + + Strong is the current, but be mild, + Ye waves, and spare the helpless child! + If ye in anger fret or chafe, + A bee-hive would be ship as safe + As that in which he sails. + + But say, what was it? Thought of fear! + Well may ye tremble when ye hear! + --A household tub like one of those + Which women use to wash their clothes, + This carried the blind boy. + +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 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 + + I've measured it from side to side, + 'Tis three feet long and two feet wide. + +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. _Simon Lee_, after his latest revision, +still contains verses like these: + + And he is lean and he is sick; + His body, dwindled and awry, + Rests upon ankles swollen and thick; + His legs are thin and dry; + + * * * * * + + Few months of life he has in store, + As he to you will tell, + For still, the more he works, the more + Do his weak ankles swell,-- + +which are not only prose, but _bad_ prose, and moreover guilty of the +same fault for which Wordsworth condemned Dr. Johnson's famous parody +on the ballad-style,--that their '_matter_ 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 in +unguarded moments. We are reminded of a passage in _The Excursion_: + + List! I heard + From yon huge breast of rock _a solemn bleat_, + _Sent forth as if it were the mountain's voice_. + +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. + +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 _Lay of the Last Minstrel_, then in manuscript. The travellers +returned to Grasmere on the 25th of September. It was during this +year 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 L100, to +defray the charges of a yearly journey. + +In March 1805, the poet's brother, John, lost his life by the +shipwreck of the _Abergavenny_ 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 _The Prelude_, wrote _The Waggoner_, and +increased the number of his smaller poems enough to fill two volumes, +which were published in 1807. + +This collection, which contained some of the most beautiful of his +shorter pieces, and among others the incomparable _Odes_ 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 +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. + +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 _The Friend_, 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 _The Excursion_. Here also he wrote his _Description of the +Scenery of the Lakes_. 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, whose variety, +picturesqueness, and historical significance were enough to absorb all +the energies of his imagination. + +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 Wordsworth's income was +raised to something more than L1,000 a year. + +In 1814 he made his second tour in Scotland, visiting Yarrow in +company with the Ettrick Shepherd. During this year _The Excursion_ +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 _The White +Doe of Rylstone_ appeared, and in 1816 _A Letter to a Friend of +Burns_, 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 +_Aeneid_, a specimen of which was printed in the Cambridge +_Philological Museum_ (1832). In 1819 _Peter Bell_, 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. _The Waggoner_, printed in the same year, was less +successful. His next publication was the volume of _Sonnets on the +river Duddon_, 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 +_Ecclesiastical Sketches_. His subsequent publications were _Yarrow +Revisited_, 1835, and the tragedy of _The Borderers_, 1842. + +During all these years his fame was increasing slowly but steadily, +and his age gathered to itself 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 L300. 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. + +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 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. + +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 _Paradise Lost_. 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. + +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. + +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 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. + +Wordsworth himself departed more and more in practice, as he grew +older, from the theories which he had laid down in his prefaces;[46] +but those 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 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 _Do not step off the gravel!_ 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. + + [46] 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 + _Thanksgiving Ode_ which, if one met with it by itself, he + would think the achievement of some later copyist of Pope: + + While the _tubed engine_ [the organ] feels the inspiring blast. + + And in _The Italian Itinerant_ and _The Swiss Goatherd_ we + find a thermometer or barometer called + + The well-wrought scale + Whose sentient tube instructs to time + A purpose to a fickle clime. + + Still worse in the _Eclipse of the Sun_, 1821: + + High on her speculative tower + Stood Science, waiting for the hour + When Sol was destined to endure + That darkening. + + So in _The Excursion_, + + The cold March wind raised in her tender throat + Viewless obstructions. + +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 _great_ 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 _Open sesame!_ while +they would stand firm against the reading of the whole body of +philosophy. In point of fact, the one element of greatness which _The +Excursion_ possesses indisputably is heaviness. It 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. + +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: + + In fine, + I was a better judge of thoughts than words, + Misled in estimating words, not only + By common inexperience of youth, + But by the trade in classic niceties, + The dangerous craft of culling term and phrase + From languages that want the living voice + To carry meaning to the natural heart; + To tell us what is passion, what is truth, + What reason, what simplicity and sense.[47] + + [47] _Prelude_, Book VI. + +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 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. + +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 _The +Prelude_ and _The Excursion_ 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 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! + +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 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 _The Excursion_ 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 almost awful tone, +thrilling us into dim consciousness of a forgotten divinity. + +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.[48] We cannot help +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? 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.[49] 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 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 _Laodamia_, 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 _The Excursion_ 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 +_callida junctura_. The stream of narration is sluggish, if varied by +times with pleasing reflections (_viridesque placido aequore sylvas_); +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 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 _not_, 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 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.[50] 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'.[51] + + [48] 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: + + Curst be the heart that thought the thought, + And curst the hand that fired the shot, + When in my arms burd Helen dropt, + That died to succour me! + O, think ye not my heart was sair + When my love dropt down and spake na mair? + + Compare this with,-- + + Proud Gordon cannot bear the thoughts + That through his brain are travelling, + And, starting up, to Bruce's heart + He launched a deadly javelin: + Fair Ellen saw it when it came, + And, _stepping forth to meet the same_, + Did with her body cover + The Youth, her chosen lover. + + * * * * * + + And Bruce (_as soon as he had slain_ + _The Gordon_) sailed away to Spain, + And fought with rage incessant + Against the Moorish Crescent. + + 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 + + And Gordon never gave a hint, + But, having somewhat picked his flint, + Let fly the fatal bullet + That killed that lovely pullet, + + it would hardly have seemed more like a parody than the rest. + He shows the same insensibility in a note upon the _Ancient + Mariner_ in the second edition of the _Lyrical Ballads_: '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. + + [49] + + A hundred times when, roving high and low, + I have been harassed with the toil of verse, + Much pains and little progress, and at once + Some lovely Image in the song rose up, + Full-formed, like Venus rising from the sea. + + _Prelude_, Book IV. + + [50] 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 _their_ main stream' (_Letters, Conversations, and + Recollections of S. T. C._, vol. i, pp. 5-6). Wordsworth + found fault with the repetition of the concluding sound of + the participles in Shakespeare's line about bees: + + The singing masons building roofs of gold. + + 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 _Autobiography_). 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. + + [51] In the Preface to his translation of the _Orlando + Furioso_. + +Chief Justice Marshall once blandly interrupted a junior counsel who +was arguing certain obvious points of law at needless length, by +saying, 'Brother Jones, there are _some_ 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 _Peter Bell_, +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: + + Is it a fiend that to a stake + Of fire his desperate self is tethering? + Or stubborn spirit doomed to yell, + In solitary ward or cell, + Ten thousand miles from all his brethren? + +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 _Peter Bell_ we find: + + _Now_--like a tempest-shattered bark + That overwhelmed and prostrate lies, + And in a moment to the verge + Is lifted of a foaming surge-- + Full suddenly the Ass doth rise! + +And one cannot help thinking that the similes of the huge stone, the +sea-beast, and the cloud, noble as they are in themselves, are +somewhat too lofty for the service to which they are put.[52] + + [52] In _Resolution and Independence_. + +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. _The Waggoner_ involuntarily +suggests a comparison with _Tam O'Shanter_, infinitely to its own +disadvantage. _Peter Bell_, 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. _The White Doe_, 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 + + Happy tone + Of meditation slipping in between + The beauty coming and the beauty gone. + +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, _are_ 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 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 _The Excursion_, 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. + +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 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, +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 _The Excursion_ we should remember how few +long poems will bear consecutive reading. For my part I know of but +one,--the _Odyssey_. + +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 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 + + Renowned Chaucer lie a thought more nigh + To rare Beaumont, and learned Beaumont lie + A little nearer Spenser; + +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. + + + + + +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.txt or 31283.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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