I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed--and gazed--but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.
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 endeavor 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 are
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 defense 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 react 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
defense; 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 modem 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 dishonorable accusations which can be brought
against an author; namely, that of an indolence which prevents him from
endeavoring 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
coloring 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 appears 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 honor
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.
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 dishonorable to the writer's own
character than false refinement or arbitrary innovation, though I should
contend at the same time 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 continence 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 connection
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
know 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 endeavor 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 endeavor made in these volumes to counteract it; and,
reflecting upon the magnitude of the general evil, I should be oppressed with
no dishonorable 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 endeavored utterly to reject them as a mechanical
device of style, or as a family language which writers in meter 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 endeavored
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 meter, 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 meter, 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 difef rent 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 connection 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 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.
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 meter 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 splendor 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 labor 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 judgments 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 judgments 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 ate 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 endeavors 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 acknowledgment of the beauty
of the universe, an acknowledgment 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 reacting
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
labor 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 defense 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 favorite 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 labors 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 anyone 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 endeavor 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; anp 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 colored 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 meter, 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 meter;
for, as it may be proper to remind the reader, the distinction of meter 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 meter 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 coexists
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 meter, and that it is injudicious to write in meter,
unless it be accompanied with the other artificial distinctions of style with
which meter 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 meter with certain appropriate colors of style in
order to the accomplishment of its appropriate end, and who also, in my opinion,
greatly underrate the power of meter 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 coexistence 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 meter
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 meter 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 reperusal of the distressful parts
of Clarissa Barlowe,
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 meter has been grossly injudicious) in the
feelings of pleasure which the reader has been accustomed to connect with meter
in general, and in the feeling, whether cheerful or melancholy, which he has
been accustomed to connect with that particular movement of meter, 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 defense
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
are perceived, depend our taste and our moral feelings. It would not be a
useless employment to apply this principle to the consideration of meter, and
to show that meter 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
tranquility: the emotion is contemplated till, by a species of reaction, the
tranquility 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 meter 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 meter,
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 passion.
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
endeavored 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 connections 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 he 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 justly admired stanzas of the Babes in the woods
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 those 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, theStrandand
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 meter, 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 judgment 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
judgment, 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 judgment 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 endeavored 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 honorable 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 pennanently,
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 will be worth attaining: and upon the
decision of these two questions will test my claim to the approbation of the
public.
The chief features of romantic criticism may be summarised as follows:
1.Romantic criticism ignores rules whether of Aristotle or Horace or of the French and emphasises that works of literature are to be judged on the basis of the impression they produce, and not with reference to any rules. It is impressionistic and individualistic, and freedom of inquiry is its keynote.
2.It is concerned with the fundamentals, such as the nature of poetry, and its functions, and not merely with the problems of style, diction or literary genres. It is neither legislative nor judicial. It is concerned mainly with the theory of poetry, and the process of poetic creation.
3.Emphasis is laid on imagination and emotion and not on reason and good sense. Poetic enthusiasm is no longer looked down upon, as by the Neo-classicists.
4.New definitions of poetry are attempted. Poetry is no longer considered as mere imitation or invention but becomes the expression of emotion and imagination. Inspiration and intuition rather than adherence to rules are regarded as the true bases of creation.
5.Pleasure than instruction becomes the end or function of poetry. If poetry instructs, it does so only through pleasure. Poetry should transport and make people 'nobler' and 'better' through such transport. Its appeal should be to the heart and not to the head.
6.Imagination is emphasised both as the basis of creation and of judgement. It is imagination which leads to the production of great works of art. Shakespeare is great because his works are the production of imagination. Pope is not great as he is deficient in this respect. The critic also must primarily be gifted with imagination; only then can be appreciate the beauty of work of art.
7.Views of Poetic diction and versification undergo a radical change. Simplicity is emphasised both in theme and treatment.
8.Romantic criticism is creative. It is as much the result of imagination as works of literature. Critics express their views after entering imaginatively into the thoughts and feelings of the writers whose works they may be examining.
9.The far reaching influence of Wordsworth and Coleridge.
