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 FROM. 
 
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 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
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Cornell University Library 
 PN511 .M39 
 
 Wordsworth. Shelley Keats and other es 
 
 olin 
 
 3 1924 030 977 031 
 
 WORDSWORTH, SHELLEY, KEATS, 
 
 OTHER ESSAYS. 
 
WORDSWORTH, SHELLEY, KEATS, 
 
 OTHER ESSAYS. 
 
 DAVID MASSON, M.A., LL.D., 
 
 Frojessor oj Rhetoric and English Literature in the Universiti/ of Edinburgh. 
 
 MACMILLAN AND C 0.'^' ' ' ' 
 
 Ni ,1 Y 
 
 1874. 
 
 f (Ml . KY 
 
 [The Right of Translation and Reproduction is reserved.] 
 
IEIX\ 
 
 UNiVERSiTY| 
 
PREFATORY NOTE. 
 
 The first, second, fifth, and sixth of the Essays in- 
 cluded in the present volume are reprinted from 
 a volume published by the Author in 1856 under 
 the title Essays Biographical and Critical : chiefly on 
 English Poets. The Essays on Shelley and Keats 
 are now added. Two similar volumes of revised 
 Essays wiU follow; the next of which will be 
 Chatterton: A Story of the Year 1770. 
 
 Edinbtjkgh : 
 
 April 1874. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 I. 
 
 PAOB. 
 WORDSWOETH '. . . . . 1 
 
 II. 
 SCOTTISH INFLUENCE IN BRITISH LITEUATnEE 7S 
 
 III. 
 THE LIFE AND POETET OF SHELLBT 105 
 
 IV. 
 THE LIFE AND POETET OF KEATS 143 
 
 V. 
 
 THEOEIES OF POETET 193 
 
 VI. 
 HiOSB AST) VBESE : DB QDINCET 255 
 
I. 
 
 WOEDSWOUTH. 
 
 
ESSAYS. 
 I. 
 
 WOSmWOBTH.' 
 
 Another great spirit has recently gone from the midst 
 of lis. It is now three months since the nation heard, 
 with a deep though quiet sadness, that an aged man of 
 venerable mien, who for fifty years had borne worthily 
 the name of English poet, had at length disappeared 
 from those scenes of lake and mountain where, in 
 stately care of his own worth, he had fixed his recluse 
 abode, and passed forward, one star the more, into the 
 stiU unfeatured future, whither all that lives is rolling, 
 and whither, as he well knew and believed, the 
 Shakespeares and Miltons, whom men count dead, had 
 but as yesterday transferred their kindred radiance. 
 When the news spread, it seemed as if our island were 
 
 ^ North British Review, August 1850.—" The Poetical Worts of 
 ■William Wordsworth, D.C.L., Poet Laureate, &c." London, 1849. 
 
 B 2 
 
WORDSWORTH. 
 
 suddenly a man the poorer, as if some pillar or other 
 notable object, long conspicuous on its broad surface, 
 had suddenly fallen down. It is right, then, that we 
 should detain our thoughts for a little in the vicinity 
 of this event ; that, the worldly course of such a man 
 having now been ended, we should stand for a little 
 around his grave, and think solemnly of what he was. 
 Neither few nor unimportant, we may be sure, are the 
 reflections that should suggest themselves over the 
 grave of William Wordsworth. 
 
 Of the various mysteries that the human mind can 
 contemplate none is more baffling, and at the same time 
 more charming to the understanding, than the nature of 
 that law which determines the differences of power and 
 mental manifestation between age and age. That all 
 history is an evolution, that each generation inherits 
 all that had been accumulated by its predecessor, and 
 bequeathes in turn all that itself contains to its 
 successor, is an idea to which, in one form or another, 
 science binds us down. But, native as this idea now is 
 in all cultivated minds, with how many facts, and with 
 what a large proportion of our daily speech, does it not 
 still stand in apparent contradiction ! Looking back 
 upon the past career of our race, does not the eye single 
 out, as by instinct, certain epochs that are epochs of 
 virtue and glory, and others that are epochs of frivolity 
 
WORDSWORTH. 
 
 and sbame 1 Do we not speak of the age of Pericles 
 in Greece, of the Augustan age in Eome, of the out- 
 burst of chivalry in modern Europe, of the noble era 
 of Elizabeth in England, and of the sad decrepitude 
 that followed it ? And is there not a certain justice 
 of perception in this mode of speaking ? Does it not 
 seem as if all ages were not equally favoured from on 
 high, gifts both moral and intellectual being vouch- 
 safed to one that are all but withheld from another ? 
 As with individual men, so with nations and with 
 humanity at large, may not the hour of highest spi- 
 ritual elevation and sternest moral resolve be nearest 
 the hour of most absolute obliviousness and most pro- 
 found degradation? Has not humanity also its moods 
 — now brutal and full-acorned, large in physical device, 
 and pregnant with the wit of unconcern ; again, 
 touched to higher things, tearful for very goodness, 
 turning an upward eye to the stars, and shivering to 
 its smallest nerve with the power and the sense of 
 beauty 1 In rude and superficial expression of which 
 fact, have not our literary men coined the common- 
 place that a critical and sceptical age always follows 
 an age of heroism and creative genius ? 
 
 These, we say, are queries which, though they may 
 not be answered to their depths, it is still useful to put 
 and ponder. One remark only will we venture in con- 
 nexion with them. According to one theory, it is a 
 
WORDSWORTH. 
 
 sufficient explanatioa of these moral and intellectual 
 changes in the spirit of nations to suppose that they 
 take place by a law of mere contagion or propagation 
 from individual to individual. One man of powerful 
 and original nature, or of unusually accurate percep- 
 tions, makes his appearance in some central, or, it may 
 be, sequestered spot; he gains admirers or makes 
 converts ; disciples gather round him, or try to form an 
 opinion of him from a distance ; they, again, in their 
 turn, affect others ; till, at last, as the gloom of the 
 largest church is slowly changed into brilliance by the 
 successive lighting of all its lamps, so a whole country 
 may, district by district, succumb to the peculiarity 
 of a new influence ! Now, this is perfectly true ; and 
 it would be indeed difficult to estimate the amazing 
 efficacy of such a law of incessant diffusion from point 
 to point over a surface. But this mode of represent- 
 ing the fact under notice does not convey the whole 
 truth. Concerning even the silent pestilences, we have 
 been recently taught that they do not wholly depend 
 on transmission from individual to individual, but are 
 rather distinct derangements in the body of the earth 
 itself, tremors among its electricities and imponderables, 
 alterations of the sum-total of those material conditions 
 wherewith human life has been associated. In like 
 manner, as it appears to us, must those streaming pro- 
 cesses of sympathy and contagion whereby a moral or 
 
WORDSWORTH. 
 
 inteUeetual change is diffused over a conmnmity be 
 regarded as but the superficial indications of a deep 
 contemporaneous agitation pervading the whole frame 
 of Nature. From the mineral core of this vast world, 
 outwards to the last thoughts, impulses, and conclusions ' 
 of us its human inhabitants, there runs, as science 
 teaches, a mystic law of intercourse and af&nity, 
 pledging its parts to act in concert. The moral and 
 intellectual revolutions of our world, its wars, its new 
 philosophies, its outbursts of creative genius, its 
 profligate sinkings, and its noble recoveries, all must 
 rest, under the decree of supreme wisdom, on a con- 
 current basis of physical undulations and vicissitudes. 
 When, therefore, a man starts up in any locality, 
 charged with a new spirit or a new desire, there, be 
 sure, the ground around him is similarly affected. 
 New intellectual dispositions are like atmospheres ; 
 they overhang whole countries at once. It is not 
 necessarily by communication or plagiarism that the 
 thought excogitated to-day in London breaks out to- 
 morrow in Edinburgh, or that persons in Gottingen and 
 Oxford are found speculating at the same time in the 
 same direction. In our own island, for example, it is 
 a fact capable of experimental verification, that what- 
 ever is being thought at any one time in any one spot, 
 is, with a very small amount of difference, being 
 independently thought at the same time in fifty other 
 
WOBDSWORTH. 
 
 places at all distances from each other. And yet it is 
 equally true that in every moral or spiritual revolu- 
 tion there is always a leader, a forerunner, a man of 
 originality, in whose individual bosom the movement 
 seems to have been rehearsed and epitomized, and that 
 in the beginning of every such revolution the power of 
 contagion from man to man, and the machinery of the 
 clique, school, or phalanx, must come into play. 
 
 These remarks are not too remote or abstract for 
 the present occasion. The nineteenth century is a 
 sufficiently large portion of historic time, England is 
 a sufficiently large portion of the historic earth, and 
 the poetical literature of England, or of any other 
 nation, is a sufficiently important element in that 
 nation's existence, to justify our viewing that remark- , 
 able phenomenon, the Revival of English Poetry in the 
 Nineteenth Century, in the light of the most extreme 
 general conceptions that can be brought to bear upon 
 it. Against the preceding observations, therefore, as 
 against what seems an appropriate background, let 
 us try to bring out the main features of the pheno- 
 menon itself, so far, at least, as these can be exhibited 
 with reference to the life and writings of its most 
 "representative man." And first of Wordsworth re- 
 garded histprically. 
 
 From Dryden till about fifty years ago {i.e. till about 
 
WORDSWORTH. 
 
 1800), say our authorities in literary history, was aa 
 era of poetical sterility ia England. "When Coleridge 
 gave lectures in London on the English poets, he 
 divided them into three lists or sections — the first, 
 including all the poets from Chaucer to Dryden; the 
 second, all those from Dryden inclusively to the close 
 of the eighteenth century; and the third, all those of 
 his own generation. The view presented hy him of 
 the characters of these three periods, relatively to each 
 other, was essentially that conveyed in the strange 
 theory of alternate ebb and flow, alternate immission 
 and withdrawal of power, as regulating the progress 
 of the universe. In other words, the first period was 
 a period of strength, youth, and outburst; the second 
 was a period of cleverness, conceit, and poverty ; and 
 the third was a period of revival. For, the poetic 
 spirit being one constant thing, a certain specific and 
 invariable quality or state of the human soul, not 
 capable of change from century to century, but the 
 same of old, now, and for ever, it follows that the 
 history of poetry can present no other appearance than 
 that of alternate presence and absence, alternate excess 
 and deficiency, alternate extinction and renovation. 
 That is to say — accepting the poetry of Chaucer and 
 MUton as true poetry, we cannot go on to defend 
 the poetry of Pope and Johnson as true poetry of 
 a different kind, and then, coming down to our own 
 
10 W0BB8W0BTE. 
 
 age, assert that its poetry is true poetry of a different 
 kind still. Except in a very obvious sense, rendered 
 necessary by convenience, it cannot be said that there 
 are lands of poetry. The materials on which the 
 poetic sense works are constantly varying; infinite, 
 also, are the combinations of human faculty and will 
 with which this sense may be structurally associated ; 
 but the sense itself, whensoever and in whomsoever 
 it may be' found, is stUl the same old thing that 
 trembled in the heart of Homer. An age may Jiave 
 it or want it; may have more of it or less of it; 
 may have it in conjunction with this or with that 
 aggregate of other characteristics ; but cannot abandon 
 one form of it and take up another. 
 
 In these remarks we have embodied a very neces- 
 sary caution. If much good has been done by that 
 exaltation of meaning which the words Poet and Poetry 
 have received from the hands of Coleridge and others, 
 as well as by their kindred services in distinguishing 
 so constantly and so emphatically between the terms 
 reason and understanding, genius and talent, creation 
 and criticism, we are not quite sure tut that, at the 
 same time, this infusion of new conceptions into our 
 language has been productive of some mischief Agree- 
 ing, upon the whole, with the sentence of condemnation 
 which has been of late passed upon part of the poor 
 eighteenth century ; believing that it was a critical. 
 
WORDSWOBTU. 11 
 
 negative, and unpoetie age; nay, even believing (how- 
 ever the belief is to- be reconciled with the doctrine of 
 continuous historic evolution) that it was one of those 
 seasons of comparative diminution of the general vital 
 energy of our species which we have already spoken 
 of: — we still think that too sweeping a use has been 
 made of this notion and its accessories by a certain 
 class of writers. Let us illustrate our meaning by an 
 example. Keats, the poet, and James Mill, the his- 
 torian of India, were contemporaries. The one, ac- 
 cording to the language introduced by Coleridge, was 
 a man of genius ; the other was a man of talent. In 
 the soul of Keats, if ever in a buman soul at all, there 
 was a portion of the real poetic essence — the real 
 faculty divine; Mr. ilill, on the other hand, had 
 probably as little of the poet in his composition as any 
 celebrated man of bis time, but he was a man of hard 
 metal, of reaLintellectual strength, and of unyielding 
 rectitude. In certain exercises of the mind he could 
 probably have crushed Keats, who was no weakling, as 
 easily as a giant could crusb a babe. But, suppose the 
 two men to have sat together on Hampstead Heath in 
 a starry night, which of them would then have been 
 the stronger — which would have known the more 
 ecstatic pulses ? Or, to make the case still more 
 decisive, suppose the two men to have been Keats and 
 Aristotle — Keats a consiimptive poetic boy, and Aristotle 
 
13 WOEDSWOIiTH. 
 
 the iutellect of half a world. Does not such a contrast 
 bring out the real injustice that has been done to 
 many truly great and good men by the habit which, 
 since the time of Coleridge, has become general, of 
 placing all the men that belong to the so-called 
 category of genius in one united mass above all that 
 ranli only in the category of talent ? For, though we 
 may grant the reality of some such distinction as is 
 implied between the two substantives, is it not clear 
 that the general mass of mind possessed by a man 
 reputed to belong to the inferior category, and con- 
 sequently his general power to influence the soul of 
 the world, may exceed a thousand times that possessed 
 by a man of the other ? In other words, may not a 
 man rank so high in the one kind that, even though 
 the kind itself be inferior, it may be said with truth 
 that he is a hundred times greater a man than some 
 specified lower man in the other? Practically, the 
 tenor of these remarks is that we are in the present 
 day committing an injustice by following the tendency 
 of our young Coleridgians to restrict the meaning of 
 the quantitative word "greatness" within the limits 
 of the merely qualitative word " genius." And, specu- 
 latively, their tenor may be expressed in the proposition 
 that this quality or mode of mind called genius, the 
 poetic sense, creative power, and so on, may exist in 
 association with all possible varieties of intellectual 
 
WORDSWORTB. 13 
 
 or cerebral vigour, from the mediocrity of a Kirke 
 White or au Anacreon, up to the stupendousness of a 
 Shakespeare. It is thus that, while agreeing ia the 
 main with the optaion that from Dryden to the close 
 of the next hundred years was a poetic interregnum, 
 we would stni make our peace with those who would 
 fight the battle of the much-abused eighteenth century, 
 and would steer clear of the controversy whether Pope 
 was a poet. As deficiency in poetic power does not 
 imply corresponding deficiency in what may be called 
 ordinary cerebral vigour, so the eighteenth century, 
 though admitted to have been unpoetic, may have been 
 a very respectable century notwithstanding ; and, even 
 were we to exclude Pope from the class of poets (which 
 most certainly we would not do), we might stUl hold 
 him to have been a phenomenon in literature not, on 
 that account, a whit the less remarkable. A deeper 
 analysis would carry us farther into the question as 
 to the connexion between poetic power and general 
 intellect in individuals and in ages; but here we 
 must stop. 
 
 Having thus explained in what sense we understand 
 that general assertion regarding the low state of English 
 poetry in the eighteenth century (part of the seven- 
 teenth included) with which the name of Wordsworth 
 is irrevocably associated, let us attend a little to the 
 facts of the case. In what did the sterility of EngHsh 
 
14 WORDSWORTb.. 
 
 poetry in that age consist, and what words would best 
 describe it? Here Wordsworth, himself comes to our 
 aid. The following is from an Appendix to the Pre- 
 face to the second edition of his Lyrical Ballads, pub- 
 lished in 1800 : the subject under discussion is Poetic 
 Diction: — 
 
 " The earliest poets of all nations generally wrote 
 from passion excited by real events ; they wrote natu- 
 rally 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 
 with 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 fre- 
 quently applied them to feelings and thoughts with 
 which they had no natural connexion whatsoever. A 
 language was thus insensibly produced, differing mate- 
 rially 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 judgment 
 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 
 
WORDSWORTH. 15 
 
 other, and believed them both to he 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 intro- 
 duced phrases composed apparently in the spirit of the 
 original figurative language of passion, yet altogether 
 of their own invention, and characterised by various 
 degrees of wanton deviation from good sense and 
 nature. . . . Perhaps in no way, by positive example, 
 could be more easily given a notion of what I mean by 
 the phrase poetic diction than by referring to a compari- 
 son between the metrical paraphrases which we have of 
 passages in the Old and New Testament and those 
 passages as they exist in our common Translation. . . . 
 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 ; 
 3!To stem 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 ? 
 
16 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 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, pro- 
 videth her meat in the summer, and gathereth her food 
 in the harvest. How long wilt thou sleep, Sluggard ? 
 when wilt thou arise out of thy sleep 1 Yet a little 
 sleep, yet 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.' " 
 
 To sum up the views thus presented by Wordsworth 
 of the state of English poetry after Milton, it may be 
 said that at that time the nation, having lost much of 
 the genuine poetical power it had formerly possessed, 
 but still preserving a form of composition to which it 
 had been so long and so powerfully accustomed, began 
 to regard the essence of poetry as lying in metre, 
 accompanied by a certain peculiar and artificial phrase- 
 ology called poetic diction, thus begetting that exag- 
 gerated antithesis between poetry and prose with which 
 our language is still infected. Instead of regarding the 
 poetic faculty as consisting in a mode or attitude of the 
 mind, distinguishable, on the one hand, from the scientific 
 
WORDSWORTH. 
 
 mode or attitude, whose function is investigation or 
 exposition, and, on the other hand, from the oratorical 
 mode or attitude, whose function is to excite or stimulate 
 in a particular direction, they made poetry to consist 
 in a mode of language, and they estimated the value 
 of a poet according to the degree of mastery he had 
 attained in the use of this mode of language, and the 
 degree of general mental power and resource he could 
 manifest through it. Hence, in the first place, a gradual 
 increase of departure in metrical composition from the 
 idioms and combinations of words deemed appropriate 
 to prose ; and, in the second place, a gradual reduction 
 of the range of metre itself to certain fixed varieties 
 and methods of versification, which the older poets, 
 who did not so much assort their thoughts to rhymes 
 as let the thoughts flow out in their own rhythm, 
 would have disdained as much as a natural cascade 
 would disdain the assistance of pipes. But, while an 
 exaggerated antithesis was thus established between 
 prose and poetry, it by no means followed that a very 
 wide separation was drawn between the devotees of the' 
 one and those of the other. Poetry was indeed a 
 different form of diction from prose ; but then, as it 
 was not difficult for a clever man to acquire two forms 
 of diction, one might very weU be both a poet and a 
 prose-wiiter ! To pass from prose to poetry was but to 
 pass from one's town to one's country house. Hence it 
 
 C 
 
18 WOBDSWOKTH. 
 
 was that so many of the literary men of last century 
 had a reputation both in prose and in verse. General 
 mental vigour carried an author triumphantly through 
 either form of composition. Wit, sarcasm, strength, 
 manliness, whatever qualities of intellect or disposition 
 could earn respect for a writer in prose, were all capable 
 —with a little training, or a slight native impulse 
 towards the picturesque, to aid him — of being transfused 
 into metre. The best poetry of the age was, accordingly, 
 rather wit or reflection expressed in metre than real 
 poetry in the strict sense of the word. And here lies 
 the defence of the poets of that time, as well as their 
 condemnation. Of many of them it may be denied 
 that they were poets ; but of almost all of them it may 
 be asserted that they were men of general mental 
 vigour. In our disquisitions concerning them, there- 
 fore, let not this be forgotten. If Johnson was no poet, 
 he was a very ponderous and noble old sage never- 
 theless ; and even the purists that would clip the laurels 
 of Dryden and Pope must admit that now-a-days we 
 have no such manly literati as the former about 
 Leicester Square, and that the other was a diamond 
 of the first water. 
 
 But the change came at length. By the mysterious 
 operation of those laws which determine the risings 
 and the sinkings of the mental state of humanity as 
 a whole, there seemed to be effected, towards the close 
 
WOEDSWOETB. 19 
 
 of the eighteenth century, a sudden increase of the 
 vital energy of the species. Humanity assiimed a 
 higher mood ; a deep agitation, as if from a fresh 
 electric discharge out of celestial space into the solid 
 body of our planet, shook the soul of the -world, and 
 left it troubled and excited. The two most conspicuous 
 and extensive manifestations of this heightened state 
 of the "world's consciousness were — in the region of 
 speculation, the promulgation of the Transcendental 
 Philosophy in Germany, and, in the region of action, 
 the French Eevolution. But, as if the same spirit 
 which burst forth in these two great eruptions also 
 sought vent through smaller and apparently uncon- 
 nected orifices all over Europe, there were not wanting 
 other significant indications of the change that was 
 taking place. In Germany, seemingly apart from 
 the Transcendental Philosophy, though in reality de- 
 riving strength from it through a subterranean conduit, 
 a new Literature came forth, under the care first of 
 Lessing, and then of Goethe. And in our own country, 
 sprinkled over as it had been in spots by the sound 
 and fertile phUosopby of Eeid, there was a feebler 
 exhibition of the same phenomenon. Even in the age 
 of reputed degeneracy there had been men of the true 
 poetic spark. Dryden and Pope may not have kept 
 it pure, but they assuredly had it; Gray, notwith- 
 standing the dreadful disintegration to which his Elegy 
 
 c 2 
 
WORBSWOBTH 
 
 has been submitted, by modem critics, did certainly 
 possess the ear and sensibility of a poet ; Collins and 
 Goldsmith were men of musical hearts ; and Thomson, 
 Wordsworth himself being judge, was a genuine child 
 of rural nature. Nor here, whatever other names are left 
 unmentioned, let him be forgotten, the boy of Bristol, 
 the drunken choir-singer's posthumous son, who was 
 found dead in his garret in Brooke Street, Holborn, 
 on the 25th of August, 1770. But the real poetic 
 outburst came after these men had been removed from 
 the scene, and was plainly a consequence of that 
 general commotion of the earth to which we have 
 referred. Its earliest unmistakeable signs may be said 
 to have been given in the works of Cowper and Burns. 
 In the bard of Olney, invalid as he was, the new force 
 found an English mind that it could compel to speak 
 for it; and, when the swarthy Scottish ploughman 
 filled the Lowlands with his songs, it was clear that 
 the process of reformation had been completed, as 
 regarded this island, to its last spontaneous results, 
 and that every acre of the British earth had become 
 instinct and pregnant M'ith the novel fire. 
 
 Accordingly, this was the period of the birth and 
 training of new English poets. Crabbe, Scott, Words- 
 worth, Coleridge, and Southey, were children of this 
 period ; and in all of them — their peculiar differences 
 allowed for to the utmost — the new spirit was visible. 
 
WORDSWORTH. 21 
 
 It was assigned to Wordsworth, however, more than 
 to any other man, to he conscious of the fact that 
 such a new spirit had been breathed into the world 
 at all, and to conclude the process of its diffusion 
 through society by bringing into play the powers of 
 theoretical exposition through the press and personal 
 influence over distinguished contemporaries. 
 
 Born among the Cumberland hills, in the year 1770 — 
 that is, in the year of Chatterton's death — Wordsworth 
 was but eleven years younger than Burns. It is 
 pleasant to think that these two men, though they 
 never met, were near neighbours. From within half 
 a mile of Burns's house at EUisland, the Cumberland 
 mountains may be seen ; and since the days of Drayton 
 the Scottish Scruffel and the English Skiddaw liave 
 recognised each other in popular verse. Wordsworth 
 himself, on visiting the land of Burns, called this 
 fact to mind: — 
 
 " Huge Criffel's hoary top ascends. 
 By Skiddaw seen, — 
 Neighbours we were, and loving friends 
 We might have been." 
 
 When Bums died, at the age of thirty-seven, Words- 
 worth was a young man of twenty-six. He had been 
 destined for the Church, and with that view had gone 
 to St. John's College, Cambridge, and taken his degree ; 
 
2-2 WOBBSWOBTH. 
 
 but, caught as he had been from the first by the new 
 spirit of song, then hanging most powerfully, as it 
 would seem, over both shores of the Solway, he had 
 already recognised his proper office, and consecrated 
 his life to the Muses. In 1793, the year of the publi- 
 cation by Burns of the fourth edition of his Poems, 
 Wordsworth had given to the world his first produc- 
 tions — two poems in the heroic couplet, entitled, 
 respectively. An Evening Walk, addressed to a Yount/ 
 Lady, and Descriptive Sketches, tiiken during a pedes- 
 trian Tour among the Alps. These two compositions 
 are slender enough; but how powerful was the im- 
 pression that they produced on some minds by the 
 peculiarity of their style may be inferred from the 
 following testimony of another youthful poet, who, 
 coming to Cambridge immediately after Wordsworth 
 had left it, naturally took an interest in what his 
 predecessor had done. " During the last year of my 
 residence at Cambridge," says Coleridge, "I became 
 acquainted with Mr. Wordsworth's first publication, 
 entitled Descriptive Sketches ; and seldom, if ever, was 
 the emergence of an original poetic genius above the 
 literary horizon more evidently announced." It was 
 not till 1796, however, that the two poets became 
 personally known to each other. Like Coleridge, 
 Wordsworth, who had travelled, and resided in France 
 during the fervoiirs of the French Revolution, partook, 
 
WOBDSWOUTS. 23 
 
 and in no moderate degree, of the social enthusiasm 
 of the time ; and, the two aspirants having gone to 
 live together for a summer in a pleasant retreat on the 
 coast of Somersetshire, their demeanour, as Coleridge 
 informs us in his Biographia Literaria, attracted so 
 much local attention that Government was induced 
 to send a spy to watch them. The poor man, however, 
 after dogging them for some weeks in their walks, 
 acquitted them of any disloyal intention, and even 
 became ashamed of his office, feeling sure, as he said, 
 from their continual talking of one Spy-Nosy, as they 
 sat together for hours on a sandbank, behind which 
 he lay concealed, that they had detected him, and 
 were making game of him. As Wordsworth's tempo- 
 rary sympathies with the French Eevolution may be 
 supposed to have placed him in vital connexion with 
 one of the two great phenomena in which the sudden 
 access of new energy to the human race at that time 
 declared itseK, so, we may also suppose, those sea-side 
 conversations of his about Spy-Nosy with the " notice- 
 able man with large grey eyes" must have placed 
 him in sufficient connexion with the other pheno- 
 menon, the Transcendental Philosophy. Moreover, 
 in 1798, the two friends made a tour together in 
 Germany; and whatever speculative insight was 
 obtained by Coleridge during his whole life was 
 evidently communicated, if not in the form of creed. 
 
24 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 at least in the form of conception, to the less analytic 
 poet. 
 
 In 1798 Wordsworth published his Lyrical Ballads ; 
 to the second edition of which, printed in 1800, he 
 appended his first prose exposition of those principles 
 on which he professed to write, and to which Coleridge, 
 by the fact of his association with him in the publi- 
 cation (the Ancient Mariner appeared in companion- 
 ship with the Lyrical Ballads), virtually gave in his 
 adhesion. Wordsworth's next publication was in 1807, 
 when he printed in two volumes a variety of poems 
 composed in preceding years. Meanwhile he had 
 married, and had retired to his native -Lakes, to lead 
 among their cLuiet beauties the tranquil life he deemed 
 alone suitable to the poetic nature. Southey's subse- 
 quent retirement to the same part of the country, 
 and Coleridge's frequent visits to it, gave occasion 
 to the celebrated nickname of the " Lake School," 
 applied to the three poets and their followers. With the 
 exception of a few tours in Scotland and, the Conti- 
 nent, and occasional journeys to London, the whole 
 remainder of Wordsworth's long life was spent among 
 the Lakes. Here, in the enjoyment of worldly compe- 
 tence, he walked, boated, wrote, and attended church ; 
 hence from time to time he issued his new poems, or 
 collections of poems, accompanied by prefaces or disser- 
 tations intended to illustrate their peculiar character : 
 
WORDSWORTR. 25 
 
 and here, in the bosom of his admiring family, he 
 received the chance visits of such stray worshippers as 
 came privileged with letters of introduction, talking 
 with them in a cold stately way, and not nnfrequently 
 (be the truth distinctly spoken) shocking them by the 
 apparent egotism with which he referred to or quoted 
 his own poetry, the inordinate indifference he displayed 
 towards most things besides, the painful rigour with 
 which he exacted from those around him every outward 
 mark of respect and attention, and the seriousness with 
 which he would repeat the most insignificant words 
 that had been uttered in his praise. These particulars 
 regarding the man are already irrevocably before the 
 public in our books of literary gossip, and may not, 
 therefore, be wholly omitted even iu a notice dedicated 
 to the poet. But, whatever may have been his bearing 
 in the presence of other men, Wordsworth was modest 
 and cordial in his communion with Nature. And it is 
 thus that we should remember him : not as the pleasant 
 ornament of the social board, lavishing tha kind word 
 and the hearty repartee; not as the self-forgetting 
 enthusiast of the hour, burning his way through crowds, 
 and drawing adoration and love in his train ; but as he 
 was in his old age, the conscious patriarch of English 
 poesy, the grey-haired and hard-featured recluse, shun- 
 ning the haunts of men, yet with a benevolent hand 
 for the familiar woes of the neighbourhood which knew 
 
26 W0BB8W0RTH. 
 
 and honoured him, accustomed to walk alone by day 
 amid the woods, to pace muttering by the ripple of a 
 lake in the moonlight, or, standing half way up a 
 mountain, to turn his unea,rthly eye towards the heaven 
 of stars. Such he was through all the turmoil of a 
 generation into which, almost alone of his coevals, he 
 had lived to advance; and such he was till, in his 
 eighty-first year, death took him. 
 
 The nature of the revolution effected by Wordsworth 
 in the state of English poetry will be best understood 
 by attending to the exact tenor of certain propositions 
 advanced and illustrated by him in his various Prefaces 
 and Dissertations between 1800 and 1820. On these 
 propositions, as supplementary to his general critical 
 onslaught on the poetry of the previous age, he may be 
 supposed to have rested his claims to be considered not 
 only a poet, but also the father of a new poetical era. 
 
 Poetry, according to Wordsworth, " takes its' origin 
 from emotion recollected in tranquillity. " what the poet 
 chiefly does, or ought to do, is to represent, out of real 
 life, scenes and passions of an affecting or exciting 
 character. Now, men originally placed in such scenes 
 use a nervous and exquisite language, expressly adapted 
 for the occasion by Nature herself; and the poet, 
 therefore, in imitating such scenes or passions, will 
 recall them more vividly in proportion as he can 
 
WORDSWORTH. 27 
 
 succeed in employing the same language. Only one 
 consideration should operate to make him modify that 
 language : the consideration, namely, that his business 
 as a poet is^^ give pleasure. All such words or ex- 
 pressions, therefore, aS, though natural iu the original 
 transaction of a passionate scene, would be unpleasant 
 in its poetic rehearsal, must be omitted. Pruned and 
 weeded in accordance with this negative rule, any 
 description of a moving occurrence, whether in prose 
 or verse, would be true poetry. But, to secure still 
 more perfectly their great end of giving pleasure while 
 they excite emotion, poets have devised the artificial 
 assistance of metre or_j£iseT — TEe ratioiiats uf Qlb ilSc- — . 
 of metre consists in this, that it provides for the reader 
 or hearer a succession of minute pleasurable surprises, 
 apart from, and independent of, the emotion produced 
 by the matter for which it is the vehicle. A prose 
 version of a passionate story, though, if well managed, 
 it would not be so painful as the original transaction, 
 and might even be pleasurable, would still in many 
 cases be sufficiently painful to prevent its being read 
 more than once. But, by narrating the same in metre, 
 the poet is able, as it were, cunningly to administer a 
 series of doses of pleasure, artificially prepared, which, 
 though not very perceptible, are stUl sufficient, by 
 mingling with the current of the meaning, to attgwlper 
 and sweeten its effects. And rhyme is a still higher 
 
28 WOBDHWORTE. 
 
 form of the same device. The necessities, therefore, of 
 metre and rhyme do oblige certain departures in poetry 
 from the primary language of emotion; but, with 
 allowance for these, good poetic diction should still 
 approach very near to the language of real life. 
 
 Tliis view, so useful as an attack upon the florid 
 diction of the poets of the preceding age, certainly errs 
 by exaggeration. Wordsworth's own poetry will not 
 stand to be tried by it ; for, as Coleridge has shown, 
 there is hardly a verse, even in his most simple 
 productions, that does not deviate from the so-called 
 language of real life. And it must inevitably be so. 
 For, in the first place, the mere application of the 
 negative principle of modification laid down by Words- 
 worth would amount to an abandonment of the point 
 at issue. Eemove all that would be poetically un- 
 pleasant from the language of real passion in humble 
 life — the bad grammar, the incoherence, the mispro- 
 nunciations, and so on; and the language that would 
 then be left for the poet would be a very rare and 
 select language indeed, existing literally nowhere 
 throughout the community, but purely supposititious 
 and ideal, the sap and flower of all popular expression. 
 So also with the representation of passions of a higher 
 order. The only sense in which the language of a 
 great part of our best poetry can be said to resemble 
 real language is that it is the kind of language that 
 
WORDSWORTH. 29 
 
 a few of the most cultured persons of the commmuty 
 would employ on very rare and impressive occasions. 
 But even the choicest spontaneous language of the 
 best minds when most nobly moved in real life must 
 undergo modification before it can be used by the 
 poet. And, though Wordsworth has provided for such 
 modification, by laying down the positive principle 
 that the poet is at all times to remember that it is 
 his ofiSce to give pleasure, and by pointing out the 
 operation of this principle as regards metre and rhyme, 
 yet he does not seem to have seen the whole energy 
 of this principle as determining and compelling de- 
 partures from common usage. His argument for the 
 virtual identity of poetic language and the language 
 of real life reminds one of the mania for what is called 
 a simple conversational style. Why do not men write 
 as they speak? Why do they not convey their 
 meaning in books in the good racy English which 
 they employ at the dinner-table, or when giving their 
 household orders ? Such are the absurd questions that 
 are asked every day. It never seems to enter into the 
 minds of these people that conversation is one thing,, 
 public speaking another, and writing a third; that 
 each involves and requires a distinct setting of the 
 faculties for its exercise ; that in passing &om one to 
 either of the others certain powers must be called into 
 play that were before at rest, or sent to rest that were 
 
30 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 before in play; and that, accordingly, to demand the 
 perpetual nse of a conversational style is to insist that 
 there shall never be anything greater in the world 
 than what conversation can generate. But a world 
 thus restricted to the merely conversational method of 
 literary production would fall into decrepitude. When 
 a man talks with his friend, he is led on but by a 
 few trains of association, and finds a straggling style 
 natural for his purposes ; when he speaks in public, 
 the wheels of thought glow, the associative processes 
 by which he advances become more complex, and hence 
 the roll, the cadence, the precipitous burst ; and, lastly, 
 when he writes, still other conditions of thought come 
 into action, and there arises the elaborate sentence, 
 winding like a rivulet through the meadow of his 
 subject, or the page jewelled with a thousand allusions. 
 Precisely so in the matter more immediately under 
 discussion. Here, too, there is a gradation. A man 
 in a state of excitement talks in vivid language, and 
 even sets his words to a rough natural music, his voice 
 swelling or trembling with its burthen, though falling 
 short of song. But in the literary repetition of a 
 scene Nature suggests a new set of proprieties, answer- 
 ing to the entire difference between the mind in the 
 primary and the mind in the secondary attitude; 
 and a literal report would be found to defeat the 
 very end in view, and to be as much out of place 
 
WORDSWORTH. 31 
 
 as a literal copy in painting. Even in prose nar- 
 ration there must be a more select and coherent 
 language than served in the primary act of passion, 
 as well as a more melodious music. And when, moved 
 to a still higher flight, the story lifts itself into 
 metre — availing itself of a device sanctioned by an 
 origin in some of the more splendid moments of the 
 ancient human soul — then, in exchange for certain 
 advantages, it submits to restrictions that come along 
 with them. Finally, if the charm of rhyme be desired, 
 this too must be purchased by farther and inevitable 
 concessions. Thus, we repeat, there is a gradation. 
 In prose narration language is conditioned by a more 
 complex set of necessities than in actual experience ; 
 in metrical narration the conditions are more complex 
 still, so that, if the speech were of marble before, there 
 must now be speech of jasper ; and, lastly, in rhyme 
 the conditions compel the thought through so fine a 
 passage that the words it chooses must be opals and 
 rubies. Nor in aU this is there any departure from 
 nature. On the contrary, it is a fine provision that, 
 where the ordinary resources even of musical prose 
 are apt to fail, the mind should have more intense 
 methods of production in reserve. Such methods 
 are metre and rhyme. They do not impair the work 
 of intellectual invention, but rather assist it, and render 
 it capable of a more exquisite class of performances 
 
32 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 than would otherwise be possible. In prose, however 
 musical, the meaning flows easily over a level, obeying 
 the guidance of its own associations ; in metre new 
 associations are added, which, while they increase the 
 dif&culty, also stimulate the intellect to higher reaches ; 
 and, when with this is conjoined rhyme, or the obliga- 
 tion of conducting the already moving thought in the 
 direction or towards the horizon of a certain possible 
 number of preconceived sounds, then every fibre of 
 the mind is alert, the whole strength of the house- 
 hold is in action, and things are done that surprise the 
 gods. 
 
 Although there seems to be no doubt that the vehe- 
 ment opposition that greeted Wordsworth on his appear- 
 ance as a poet was determined largely by a perception 
 on the part of the public of those weaknesses in his 
 theory to which we have been alluding, it seems plain 
 also that much of it was a mere display of that instinct 
 of indignation which seizes men when they see their 
 household deities attacked. 
 
 " ' Pedlars,' and ' boats,' and ' waggons ! ' Oh ! ye shades 
 Of Pope and Dryden, are we come to this ? " 
 
 Such was the universal feeling of the critics. The 
 controversy between the Edinburgh Beview and Words- 
 worth was literally a contest between the old and the 
 new ; in which, however, the old derived certain advan- 
 
W0B.V8W0RTH. 33 
 
 tages from the obstinacy and want of tact with which 
 the new exposed and made a boast of its most galling 
 peculiarities. For, if Jeffrey's criticisms on Words- 
 worth's poetry be now compared with the criticisms 
 of Wordsworth's own friend Coleridge, as published 
 in the Biographia Liieraria, it wiU be found that, 
 immeasurably as the two critics differ in spirit — 
 the one refusing to admit Wordsworth to be a good 
 poet at all, the other considering him to be the greatest 
 English poet since Milton — there is still an almost 
 perfect coincidence in their special objections to his 
 style. What Jeffrey attacked was chiefly the alleged 
 childishness of much of Wordsworth's language, the 
 babyism of his "Alice Fells," with their cloaks of 
 " dufSe grey,'" &c. ; and it is precisely on these points 
 that Coleridge, even whUe aware of his friend's more 
 profound reason for such familiarities, expresses his 
 dissent from him. The truth is, had Wordsworth been 
 a man of more innate energy, more tremendousness, as 
 a poet, he would have effected the revolution that was 
 necessary with less delay and opposition. Wrapping up 
 his doctrinal peculiarities, if he had had any, iu the 
 midst of his poetry, instead of. protruding them in a 
 preface, he would have blasted the old spirit out by 
 the mere infatuation of the new, and wound resistless 
 hands in the hair of the nation's instincts. But, 
 instead of being the Mirabeau of the literary revolu- 
 
34 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 tion, hardly aware of Lis own propositions, he was, as 
 it were, its Eobespierre, who first threw his propositions 
 tied in a bunch into the crowd before him, and then 
 fought his way pertinaciously to i where they fell. Even 
 thus (and there were doubtless advantages in this 
 method too) he at length obtained success. The " This 
 wiU never do " with which Jeffrey introduced his criti- 
 cism of the Uxcursion proved a false augury. Slowly 
 and reluctantly the nation came round to Wordsworth ; 
 and, if there are still many that believe in his defects 
 and shortcomings, aU admit him to have been a true 
 poet, and a man of rare genius. Of the poets that have 
 appeared in England since he began his course — Byron, 
 Shelley, Keats, Tennyson, and others — there is not one 
 that does not owe something to his example and in- 
 fluence. Not that these men would not have been 
 poets even had Wordsworth never lived. Through 
 them, too, the new spirit would infallibly in any case 
 have asserted itself; and, as it is, there has been in 
 each of them something individual and original, which 
 has caught portions of the new spirit that even the 
 soul of "Wordsworth did not, and been made capable 
 thereby of perfectly specific work. A Nestor may be 
 the patriarch of the camp, but even his deeds may be, 
 in the end, outdone by the exploits of younger heroes. 
 Of aU the poets that have succeeded Wordsworth, the 
 one who stands most in the position of revolt against 
 
WORDSWORTH. 35 
 
 him is Byron. The Byronic in poetry is, in some 
 respects, the contradictory of the Wordsworthian. And 
 believing that Byron was also a great poet, and that 
 through him there were poured into our age elements 
 of grandeur and power that were wanting in Words- 
 worth, and yet were needed, one would willingly go on 
 to consider historically the appearance of this other 
 tendency in our literature, known as the Byronic, and 
 to show how the two tributaries became at length 
 united. It is time, however, to leave the historical 
 part of our subject, and direct our attention more 
 expressly to the qualities of Wordsworth as a poet. 
 
 That Wordsworth was a true poet, that he did possess 
 the " inherent glowj" the " vision and faculty divine," - 
 no one that has ever read a page of his writings can 
 honestly deny. Coleridge, in whose vocabulary the 
 word " imagination '' stood for the poetic faculty par 
 excellence, pronounced Wordsworth to be, in imaginative 
 power, " the nearest of all modern writers to Shake- 
 speare and Milton." This estimate may be opposed by 
 some as too high; but, if we keep in view the precise sense 
 attached by Coleridge to his words, it will be difficult 
 to lower it very much. Nor, in accepting such a judg- 
 ment, is it necessary to have any profound theory as 
 to the nature of this so-called imaginative or poetic 
 faculty which we then assert him to possess. It is 
 
 D 2 
 
36 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 sufficient if we know it when we see it, or if we feel 
 the force of any of those numerous synonyms and cir- 
 cumlocutions by which poets and analysts (Wordsworth 
 himself amongst others) have sought to describe it. 
 For, as some think, we define such terms best when we 
 rave about them, adhering to no one form of expression, 
 but supplementing the defects of all possible conception 
 by the vagueness and the force of sound. Perhaps the 
 phrase which, if fully apprehended, would best convey 
 the notion of what is meant by imagination as the 
 faculty of the poet, would be the phrase "creative 
 energy.'' For this phrase would carry with it one very 
 essential discrimination — the discrimination, namely, 
 of the poetic faculty, as such, both from that passive 
 sensibility by which the mind, presenting a photo- 
 graphic surface to the universe, receives from it 
 impressions of whatever is, and also from that minor 
 and more ordinary exercise of activity by which the 
 mind, sitting thereafter amid these received impressions, 
 recollects, registers, and compares them. What the 
 imaginative or poetic faculty does is something beyond 
 this, and is more akin to the operation of that original 
 cosmic power at whose fiat the atoms and the ele- 
 ments sprang first together. A certain accumulation 
 of material, a certain assemblage of impressions, or 
 mental objects, being supplied by the consciousness, 
 and lying there ready, it is the part of this faculty to 
 
WORDSWORTH. 37 
 
 discharge into them a self that shall fuse them into a 
 living whole, capable of being contemplated with plea- 
 siire. This — the poiesis or creation of new unities, the 
 information of mere knowledge with somewhat of the 
 spirit of the knower, the iacorporation of diverse im- 
 pressions and recollections by the combining flash of a 
 specific mental act — is the function of the imagination. 
 Now, as all men possess this faculty in some degree, 
 and as in the generation of all the higher species of 
 thought or action it must be present in a very large 
 degree, by whatever names such species of thought 
 or action are called, it is only in a certain supreme sense 
 that imagination is set apart in all languages as the 
 proper faculty of poets. Yet there is reason in this. 
 Poets pre-eminently are men that breathe their own 
 spirit into things, that make self dominate over what is 
 distiQct from self, that give oat into the universe more 
 than they receive from it. So in Goethe's lines on the 
 poet — 
 
 " \yherewith bestirs he human spirits ? 
 "Wherewith makes he the elements obey ? 
 Is't not the stream of song that out his bosom springs. 
 And to his heart the world back coiling brings ? " 
 
 That is, thfe stream of song, or self, flowing forth from 
 the poet's heart into the world of phenomena, entwines 
 itself there with this and with that portion of matter 
 
38 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 or experience, and then flows back to whence it came, 
 coiling what it has captured along with it. This power, 
 this overflowing of self upon the universe, so character- 
 istic of the poet, appears most of all in his eye. The 
 eyes of some men are dull and obtuse ; those of others 
 are sharp and piercing, as if they shot their power out 
 in lines ; the eyes of the poet are heavy-laden and 
 melancholy, like pools continually too full. 
 
 However we may choose to vary the words that are 
 taken to define the essential faculty of the poet, we 
 shall find that they apply to Wordsworth. Every page 
 
 / of his poetry abounds with instances of imagination. 
 
 I Thus, from the JExcursion — 
 
 " Some tall crag 
 That is the eagle's birth-place, or some peak 
 Familiar with forgotten years, that shows 
 Inscribed upon its visionary sides 
 The history of many a winter-storm, 
 Or obscure record of the path of fire." 
 
 Or from Peter Bell — 
 
 " And he had trudged through Yorkshire dales, 
 Among the rocks and winding scars ; 
 
 Where deep and low the hamlets lie 
 
 Beneath their little patch of sky, 
 And little lot of stars" 
 
 Or from Intimations of Immortality from Recollections 
 of Childhood — 
 
WORDSWORTH. 39 
 
 " Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : 
 The Soul that rises with us, our life's star, 
 Hath had elsewhere its setting, 
 
 And Cometh from afar : 
 Not in entire forgetfulness. 
 And not in utter nakedness, 
 But trailing clouds of glory do we come 
 
 jFroni God who is our home : 
 Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
 Shades of the prison-house begin to close 
 
 Upon the growing Boy ; 
 But he beholds the light, and whence it flows — 
 
 He sees it in his joy ; 
 The Youth, who daily further from the east 
 Must travel, stQl is Nature's priest. 
 And by the vision splendid 
 Is on his way attended ; 
 At length the Man perceives it die away. 
 And fade into the light of common day." 
 
 These, and hundreds of other passages that might be 
 quoted, show that Wordsworth possessed, in a very high 
 degree indeed, the true primary quality of the poet — 
 imagination ; a surcharge of personality or vital spirit, 
 perpetually overflowing among the objects of the other- 
 wise conditioned universe, and refashioning them accor- 
 ding to its pleasure. 
 
 If we proceed now to inquire what were the most 
 prominent of those other characteristics which, acting 
 and re-acting with this generic tendency in the economy 
 of Wordsworth's mind, determined the specific pecu- 
 
40 WOEDSWOBTH. 
 
 liarities of his poetical productions, we are sure to be 
 impressed first of all by his extreme sensibility to, and 
 accurate acquaintance with, the changing phenomena 
 of external nature. It is a just complaint against 
 civilization, as that word is at present defined, and 
 especially against life in cities, that men are thereby 
 shut out, or rather shut in, from sources of sensation 
 the most pure and healthy of any. That people should 
 know something of the aspects of the earth they live 
 on ; that they should be familiar with the features of at 
 least a portion of its undisguised surface, with its rocks, 
 its woods, its turf, its hills, as seen in the varying 
 lights of day and night, and the varying livery of the 
 seasons : this, it may be said, was clearly intended to 
 be for ever a part of the mere privilege of existence. 
 But a large proportion qf mankind have been obliged 
 to let slip even this p6or item of their right in being. 
 Pent up, on the on@ hand, in their cares against starva- 
 tion, and, on the other, in their devices for artificial 
 comfort, men have ceased to regard, with the same true 
 intimacy as of old, the venerable face of their ancient 
 * mother. Certain great admonitions of the outward, 
 indeed, will always remain with men wheresoever they 
 pass their days — the overarching sky, the midnight 
 winds, the sea's expanse, the yellow cornfield, the 
 wooded landscape. And, after aU, these are the images 
 of nature that have most power to stir and affect us : 
 
WORDSWORTH. 41 
 
 these, of which not even eities can deprive ns. Cities, 
 too, have their own peculiar kinds of scenery, of which, 
 and especially of their nocturnal aspects, enough has 
 not yet been made. Thus, in Keats's Lamia — 
 
 " As men talk in a dream, so Corinth aU, 
 Throughout her palaces imperial. 
 And all her populous streets and temples lewd. 
 Mutter' d, like tempest in the distance brew'd. 
 To the wide-spreaded night above her towers." 
 
 But of the rural minutice of Nature, and also of what 
 may be called her aspects of the horrible and lone- 
 some, most of us, above all if we are denizens of 
 cities, are compelled to be ignorant. Very few, for 
 example, can tell the names of the various forest trees, 
 or distinguish them from each other ; and fewer still 
 can recognise, either by name or association, the 
 various wild-fiowers that grow in the meadows. How 
 much also of sympathy with nature have we not lost 
 by not knowing, with the shepherd or husbandinan, the 
 signs of the weather : what the clouds say when they 
 hurry so, what mean those motions of the cattle, and 
 why the mists roll down the hOls? And then, in 
 the more special region of phenomena to which we 
 have referred, who among us experience, save by rare 
 chance, the realities of those scenes so telling in books 
 of fiction — ^the dark and solitary moor with the light 
 glimmering in the distance, the fearful bivouac in the 
 
42 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 depths of a wood, or the incessant breaking of the 
 waves at midnight against the cliff-embattled shore ? 
 Now, it is a curious fact that one of the most cha- 
 racteristic features of that revolution in English 
 poetry with which the name of Wordsworth is asso- 
 ciated has been the increased interest that it has both 
 instinctively aroused and knowingly cultivated in the 
 facts and appearances of material nature. If, as Words- 
 worth himself has said, hardly a new original image or 
 description of nature was introduced into English verse 
 in the age between Milton and Thomson, our recent 
 poets have certainly retrieved the neglect. "N"ature, 
 nature," has been their cry ; and as Bacon, after his 
 lordly fashion of thought, fancied that it was of service 
 to his health and spirits to inhale every morning the 
 smell of freshly-ploughed earth into which he had 
 poured wine, so they have interpreted literally their 
 prescriptions to the same effect, by renewing as often 
 as possible their acquaintance with the rural earth, and 
 falling periodically on the turf, as it were, with their 
 faces downwards. In particular, it must have been 
 remarked what an increased familiarity our recent 
 poets have contracted with the botanical department 
 of nature. Chaucer himself could hardly have described 
 the beauties of a field or a garden more minutely than 
 some of our modern versifiers. ISTor among the poets 
 that have helped to cultivate this delight in the obser- 
 
WOBDSWOBTS. 43 
 
 vation of natural appearances is there anyone that 
 deserves to be ranked before Wordsworth. A native 
 of scenes celebrated for their loveliness, he seems to 
 have been endowed from the first with a capacity to 
 feel and appreciate their benignant influence. In one 
 of the few fragments that have been yet given to the 
 world of his unpublished poem, The Prelude, he thus 
 describes his sympathy with nature in childhood : — 
 
 " In November da^s, 
 When vapours rolling down the valleys made 
 A lonely scene more lonesome ; among woods 
 At noon ; and 'mid the calm of summer nights. 
 When, by the margin of the trembling lake, 
 Eeneath the gloomy hills, homeward I went 
 In solitude,, such intercourse was mine : 
 Mine was it in the fields, both day and night. 
 And by the waters, all the summer long. 
 And in the frosty season, when the sun 
 Was set, and, visible for many a mile, 
 The cottage windows through the twilight blazed, 
 I heeded not the summons : happy time 
 It was indeed for all of us ; for me 
 It was a time of rapture ! . . . Shod with steel 
 We hissed along the polished ice, in games 
 Confederate, imitative of the chase 
 And woodland pleasures — the resounding horn. 
 The pack loud chiming, and the hunted hare. 
 So through the darkness and the cold we flew, 
 And not a voice was idle : with the din 
 Smitten, the precipices rang aloud ; 
 
44 WORDSWOBTH. 
 
 The leafless trees and every icy crag 
 Tinkled like iron ; while far distant hills 
 Into the tumult sent an alien sound 
 Of melancholy, not unnoticed, while the stars, 
 Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the west 
 The orange sky of evening died away." 
 
 This intimacy with the face of the earth, this rich 
 and keen sense of pleasure in English nature, whether 
 in her vernal or her wintry aspects, Wordsworth carried 
 with him into manhood. Submitting it, together with 
 all else that he knew of himself, to his judgment for 
 examination, he seems even to have arrived at a theory 
 that it is essential for every poet that would peacefully- 
 possess his faculty in these modern times to connect 
 himself permanently and domestically with some appro- 
 priate spot or tract of scenery, the whole influence of 
 which he may thoroughly exhaust and incorporate with 
 his verse. At least, in his own case, some such general 
 conviction appears to have blended with the mere 
 sentiment of local attachment, which was doubtless 
 strong in him, in determining his retirement to the 
 Lakes. There are even traces, we fancy, of a dispo- 
 sition on his part to generalize the feeling still more, 
 and to lay it down as a maxim that, in all ordinary 
 cases, the natal spot of every human being is the 
 appropriate spot of his activity through life, removal 
 from which must injure him, and that, so far as our 
 
WOBDSWOBTH. 45 
 
 present social arrangements render this impossible, and 
 our present facilities for locomotion render the reverse 
 easy, so far we fall short of the ideal state of things. 
 In the abeyance of this law (hard law for many !) 
 lay, he seems to have felt, one of the great uses of 
 descriptive poetry. While men do tear themselves 
 away from their native localities, and traverse the earth, 
 or congregate in cities, descriptive poetry, he persuaded 
 himself, must ever possess a refreshing and medicinal 
 virtue. It was one of his most valued claims, there- ^--^ 
 fore, that he should be considered a genuine English 
 descriptive poet. And certainly this is a claim that 
 even those who thiat most humbly of his attainments 
 cannot deny him. There would be a propriety, we 
 think, in remembering Wordsworth as a descriptive^^ 
 poet along with Chaucer and Thomson, thus distin-' 
 guishing him both from such poets as Burns and 
 Tennyson, on the one hand, and from such poets as 
 Keats on the other. In such poets as Burns and 
 Tennyson, the element of what may be called human 
 reference is always so decided that, though no poets 
 describe nature more beautifully when they have oc- 
 casion, it woidd stiU be improper to speak of them 
 specially as descriptive poets. To borrow a distinction 
 from the sister art, it may be said that, if Bums and 
 Tennyson are more properly classed with the figure- 
 painters, notwithstanding the extreme beauty and finish 
 
4(3 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 of their natural backgrounds, so, on the same principle, 
 Wordsworth, ^vhose skill in delineating the human 
 subject is also admitted, may yet not erroneously be 
 classed with the landscape-painters. On the other 
 hand, he differs from poets like Keats in this, that, 
 being a native of-tb&_gouutry, and accustomed there- 
 fore to the appearancesjif-4aixaII[na!ufB~iTrTall seasons, 
 he does not confound Nature with VegetaEibn, In the 
 poetry of Kga 
 
 must feel, there is an excess 
 I of ■^lerely botanical imagery ; ill Kadmg Ins* descrip- 
 tions we seem either to brearhe lihe air of a hothouse, 
 
 reat-lealed exotics, or 
 jme yhtidy nook in 
 
 heavy with the moist odours 
 
 to lie full-stretched at noon ln~ 
 
 a wood, ra nk underneat h with the pipy hemlock, and 
 kindifed plants of strange overgrowth. CTWords worth, 
 as we 
 
 seen, thereJsno_such_unhealthy luscious- 
 
 ness. He Has Fis spots of thick herbage and his banks 
 
 of florid richness too ; but what -fe^delights in is the 
 
 "broad, clear expanse, the placid lake, the pure pellucid 
 
 air, thequiet outline of the m0^ntam>-' 
 
 The second characfSriStie-ef Wordsworth's poetry to 
 which we would call attention is the general intellectual 
 vigour it displays, the large amount of really excellent 
 thought that is bedded in it — thought that would have 
 been valuable to the world in whatever form it had 
 been put forth, and which might easily, had Words- 
 worth not been a poet, have been put forth otherwise 
 
WOBDSWOBTH. 
 
 tlian in metre. We have already asserted, with suf- 
 ficient distinctness, that poetry is something essentially 
 different from thought or proposition put into verse.- 
 A man may carry in his head a quantity of thought 
 sufficient to set up a university, or to supersede a 
 British Association, and yet be no poet. Or, on the 
 other hand, a man may have something of the poetic 
 spark in him, and he an intellectual weakling. It 
 remains true, nevertheless, that intellect, or thought — 
 clear, large intellect, such as would be available for 
 any purpose whatever ; deep, abundant thought, such as 
 we find in the best philosophical writings — is essential 
 towards forming a great poet. This intellect of the 
 poet may either exert itself in such a state of perfect 
 diffusion through the rest of his mind in its creative 
 act as only to become manifest in the completed 
 grandeur of the result — which is the case, for example 
 with the poetry of« Homer and Milton ; or it may 
 retain its right to act also as a separate organ for the 
 secretion of pure matter of thought — which is the case 
 with the poetry of Shakespeare. In Wordsworth's 
 poetry the presence of a superior intellect — an intellect 
 strong, high, and subtle, if not of extreme dimensions 
 — may be discovered by both of these tests. In the 
 first .place, the substance of his poetry, its logical com- 
 pactness, and its entire freedom from mere common- 
 place, prove that a powerful and scholarly mind must 
 
WOBDSWOBTH. 
 
 have presided over the work of production. On the 
 other hand, for proofs that Wordsworth was familiar, 
 even formally, with the best philosophical ideas of his 
 time, one needs only to dip into his Excursion, or any 
 other of his severer poems. Thus, in the following 
 passage, short as it is, the metaphysical reader will 
 discern a perfect mastery, on the part of the poet, over 
 a conception the power of grasping which is recognised 
 in the schools as the one test of a mind capable of 
 metaphysical studies : — 
 
 " 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 — 
 Theme tliis but little heard of among men — 
 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— this is our high argument." 
 
 This and similar conceptions of a very high metaphysics 
 were evidently as familiar to Wordsworth as they were 
 to Coleridge, from whom, it is very probable, he may 
 liave originally derived some of them. Indeed, if we 
 make due allowance for the necessary difference 
 between the scientific and the poetic mode of pre- 
 senting truths, it may be alleged that there is hardly 
 
WORDSWORTH. 49 
 
 a notion of any generality put forth by Coleridge, 
 ■whether in psychology, theology, politics, or literary 
 criticism, some recognition of which may not be 
 discovered either in the poems or in the prose disser- 
 tations of Wordsworth. The agreement between the 
 two men intellectually seems to have been complete in 
 almost every particular. Both professed political Con- 
 servatism; both conducted their speculative reason- 
 ings to a point where they merged in belief in Divine 
 Eevelation, and in a system of tenets derived from that 
 belief, not differing essentially from theological ortho- 
 doxy ; and both exhibited an ardent attachment to 
 the forms and rules of the Church of England. It may 
 even be questioned by a certain class of critics whether 
 Wordsworth, in his treatment of such matters, has 
 not sometimes taken leave of- the poetical mood 
 altogether, and assumed the mood of the preacher; 
 whether the didactic fit did not sometimes overcome 
 him in his poetry, and whether he has not allowed the 
 controversial spiritj so manifest in his prefaces, to run 
 over also somewhat deleteriously into his verse." 
 
 As distinct from the general intellectual excellence 
 of Wordsworth's productions, we have to notice, farther, 
 their singularly calm, religious, and contemplative tone. ■ 
 By thoughtfulness or contemplativeness we usually 
 mean something quite distinguishable from mere intel- 
 lectual vigour or opulence. The French are an intel- 
 
50 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 lectual nation ; they think rapidly and powerfully ; but 
 they do not answer to our notion of a thoughtful or con- 
 templative people, xllontemplativeness, according to our 
 usage of the word, does not so much imply the power 
 of attaining or producing thought as the power of 
 brooding sentimentally over thought already attained. 
 If we first oppose the speculative to the active, and then 
 make a farther distinction between the speculative and 
 the contemplative, the character of Hamlet in Shake- 
 speare may be taken to represent the union of the specu- 
 lative and the contemplative. The Prince is a student 
 from the university, daring into all questions, and fer- 
 tile at every moment in new generalities and pregnant 
 forms of expression ; but his peculiarity consists in this, 
 that far back in his mind there lie certain permanent 
 thoughts and conceptions, towards which he always 
 reverts when left alone, and from which he has ever 
 to be roused afresh when anything is to be done. 
 Now it is this tendency to relapse into a few favourite 
 and constitutional trains of thought that makes the 
 contemplative character. Nor is it difficult to see 
 in what thought it is, above all others, that the con- 
 templative mind wiU always find its most appropriate 
 food. Birth, death, the future; the sufferings and 
 misdeeds of man in this life, and his hopes of a life to 
 come; the littleness of us and our whole sphere of 
 knowledge, and the awful relations in which we stand 
 
WORDSWORTH. 51 
 
 to a world of the supernatiiral — these, if any, are the 
 permanent and inevitable objects of human contem- 
 plation and solicitude. From age to age these thoughts 
 ihave been handed down ; every age must entertain, 
 and no age can conclude, them. What the ancient 
 Chaldean meditated as he lay at night under the stars 
 of the desert, the same things does the modem 
 student meditate as he paces his lonely room. " Man, 
 that is born of woman, is of few days and full of 
 trouble ; " " How can a man be justified with 
 God?" "0 that one might plead for a man with 
 God as a man pleadeth for his neighbour ! " — amid 
 aU the changes of manners, dynasties, and races, 
 these thoughts survive. They, and such like, are 
 the peculiarly human thoughts, the thoughts of 
 humanity as such, the thoughts upon which mankind 
 must, always fall back, and compared with which all 
 other thoughts are but intrusions and impertinences. 
 Now, although it would be possible to show that the 
 effect even of abstract speculation, if carried far enough, 
 is to lead men back into these thoughts and keep them 
 there, so that in this sense the most speculative men 
 must, as if by compulsion, become profoundly contem- 
 plative, yet for general purposes a distinction may be 
 drawn between men who are speculative and men who 
 are contemplative in their tendencies. Some men are 
 always active intellectually, always engaged in some 
 
 E 2 
 
52 ' WOBDSWOBTK 
 
 process of inquiry and ingenuity — inventing a machine, 
 scheming a project, discovering a law of mind or 
 matter. These men are, in the present sense, specu- 
 lative men; they are continually at work within the 
 ascertained sphere of human activity ; and it is by 
 the labours of such men that the mass of this world's 
 experience of its own self-contained capabilities has 
 been accumulated. But there are other men who, 
 either without being mentally active in this way, or 
 besides being thus active, have a constitutional 
 tendency at aU times to fall into a musing attitude, 
 to relapse, as we have already expressed it, into certain 
 ancient and footworn trains of thought that lead 
 apparently nowhither. These are the contemplative 
 men. They are the men whose favourite position 
 is rather at the circumference of the known sphere 
 than within it, the men who, at whatever time they 
 may be born, receive, cherish, and transmit the per- 
 manent and characteristic thoughts of the human race. 
 This quality of contemplativeness is always associated 
 in our minds with the idea of sadness, tearfulness, 
 melancholy. The patriarch Isaac, of whom we are told 
 that he went out into the fields to meditate at even- 
 tide, seems, in our fancy, the most mild and pensive of 
 the characters of Scripture. And such men are the salt 
 of the earth. There may be little originality, indeed, 
 in the thoughts that form the appropriate food of the 
 
WORDSWORTH. 53 
 
 contemplative mind. To realize the conception "All 
 flesh is grass," or the conception " Why do the wicked 
 prosper ? " seems but a very small effort of the intellect, 
 by no means comparable to the effort required in almost 
 every act of daily life. Nevertheless, it remains true 
 that it is only out of a deep soil of such old and simple 
 conceptions that any kind of true human greatness can 
 rear itself, and also that there are very few minds indeed, 
 in these days of ours, over which these and similar 
 conceptions have their due degree of power. It is 
 accordingly one of the chief merits of Wordsworth that 
 in him this reference to the supernatural, this disposition 
 to interpret all that is visible in the spirit of a con- 
 viction of its evanescence, did exist in a very high and 
 unusual measure. He was essentially a pensive or 
 contemplative man, one who was perpetually recurring 
 to those few extreme thoughts and conceptions which 
 most men never care to reach, and beyond which no 
 man can go. This, which was conspicuous in the very- 
 aspect of his countenance, and which his recluse life 
 illustrated, he has himself explicitly asserted. 
 
 " On man, on nature, and on human Ufe, 
 Musing in solitude, I oft perceive 
 Fair trains of imagery before me rise. 
 Accompanied by feelings of delight 
 Pure, or with no unpleasing sadness mixed ; 
 And I am conscious of affecting thoughts 
 And dear remembrances, whose presence soothes 
 
54 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Or elevates the mind, content to weigh 
 The good and evil of our mortal state. 
 To these emotions, whencesoe'er they come, 
 Whether from breath of outward circumstance. 
 Or from the soul — an impulse to herself — 
 I would give utterance in numerous verse." 
 
 It is the blending in "Wordsworth of this contemplative 
 tendency with so much general vigour of intellect that 
 has earned for him the name of the English Philo- 
 
 M sophical Poet. It ought to be observed, at the same 
 time, that in all Wordsworth's contemplative poetry the 
 influence of Christian doctrine is plainly discernible. 
 His meditations on Man, Nature, and the Puture, are 
 not those of a Pagan sage, however his language may 
 sometimes consist even with a lofty Pagan view of the 
 universe : on the contrany, he seems to think through- 
 out as one in whose manner of transacting those great 
 
 ' and paramount conceptions that form the necessary 
 matter of all real contemplation that sweet modification 
 had been wrought which Christianity has rendered 
 possible. 
 
 One of the results of Wordsworth's naturally pensive 
 disposition, left to exspatiate as it chiefly was among the 
 objects of a retired and pastoral neighbourhood, ■ was 
 v^ that it gave him a specially keen and sympathetic eye 
 fur the characteristic miseries of rural life. We do not 
 think that he was the man that could 
 
WOBBSWORTS. 55 
 
 " hang 
 Brooding atove the fierce confederate storm 
 Of sorrow barricadoed evermore 
 Within the walls of cities;" 
 
 but no man better than he could 
 
 " hear Humanity in fields and groves 
 Pipe solitary anguish." 
 
 In pathetic stories of humble rural life we know no 
 poet superior to Wordsworth. All the ordinary and, if 
 we may so speak, parochial woes of rural existence 
 in England seem to have been diligently noted and 
 pondered by him. It is told of Burns by Uugald 
 Stewart that, as they were walking together one morn- 
 ing in the direction of the Braid HiUs, near Edinburgh, 
 where they commanded a prospect of the adjacent 
 country, the poet remarked that the sight of so many 
 smoking cottages gave a pleasure to his mind which he 
 did not believe anyone could understand that did not 
 know, as he did, how much of real worth and happiness 
 such poor habitations might contain. Now, if the 
 glance with which Wordsworth, in his poetry, looks 
 abroad on the cottage-sprinkled scenery of his native 
 district cannot be said to show that warm familiarity 
 with the daily tenor of humble rustic life which Burns 
 had from experience, it may at least be compared to the 
 kindly glance of some pious and diligent pastor, such 
 
56 WOBBSWOBTH. 
 
 as Wordsworth has himself described in his Excursion, 
 surveying from a height the scattered homes of his 
 well-known parishioners. At home in the parsonage 
 there are books, pictures, and a piano, the care of a 
 gentle wife or daughters ; in walking over the fields, 
 too, the pastor, an academic and cultured man, has 
 necessarily thoughts and enjoyments of his own ; never- 
 theless, what he has seen and known of the habits of 
 those among whom he labours has given him an eye 
 to perceive, and a heart to appreciate, their lowliest 
 anxieties and sorrows. Almost exactly so it is with, 
 Wordsworth. The incidents of rural life that he 
 delights to depict are precisely those that would arouse 
 the interest and occupy the attention of some good 
 clergyman, active in his duties, and accustomed to store 
 up in his memory the instructive annals of his parish. 
 The death of a poor seduced girl, the return of a dis- 
 abled soldier to his native viUage, the wreck of the 
 fortunes of a once thriving family, the solitude of aged 
 widowhood, the nightly meanings of- a red-cloaked 
 maniac haunting some dreary spot in the woods — 
 nothing can exceed the pathos with wiiich Wordsworth 
 can tell such simple local stories as these. One can 
 hardly read without tears some of his narratives of 
 this kind : for example, the poem entitled Ghiilt and 
 Sorrow, the pastoral entitled Michael, or the tale of the 
 widow Margaret and her lonely cottage as told in the 
 
WORDSWORTH. 57 
 
 first book of the Excursion. Showing a similar eye for 
 the moral picturesque in humble rural life, though alto- 
 gether of a more cheerful character, is the hearty tale 
 of the Waggoner, perhaps one of the most perfect of 
 aU Wordsworth's compositions. And here we may 
 remark that, if Wordsworth had any such theory as 
 we have supposed as to the advantage, in the poetical 
 occupation, of a permanent connexion of the poet with 
 some one spot or district, then, in such a theory, he 
 must necessarily have had respect as well to the power 
 of familiar modes of life to form the heart of the poet as 
 to the influence of familiar scenery in attuning his 
 imagination. And certainly there is much in this. 
 Rarely does one that has removed from his native spot 
 form elsewhere relations that can stand him in stead 
 when he wishes to glance into human life at once 
 intimately and broadly. 
 
 Somewhat dissociated in appearance from those 
 characteristics of Wordsworth which we have already 
 mentioned, but demonstrably compatible with them, 
 was his strong sense of the antique: his lively interest | 
 in the traditional, the legendary, and the historical. We 
 see in Wordsworth, in this respect, a certain similarity 
 to a man from whom otherwise he differed much — 
 Sir Walter Scott. The English poet seems to have had 
 the same liking for significant anecdotes and snatches 
 of ancient song and ballad, the same reverence for 
 
58 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 pedigree, and the same pleasure in associating places 
 known to him with celebrated transactions of the past, 
 as were observable, in still larger degree, in the Scottish 
 novelist. Among the poems that exemplify this 
 characteristic of our author, are the dramatic poem of 
 The Borderers, the beautiful poem entitled Hart-leap 
 Well, the long legendary poem of The White Doe of 
 Rylstone (which is in the metre, and somewhat in the 
 style, of much of Scott's poetry), and also many of 
 the shorter pieces written during tours in Scotland 
 and in various parts of England. A particular illus- 
 tration of this quality of Wordsworth's mind is also 
 presented in his Scott-like habit of introducing, almost 
 lovingly, topographical references and the names of 
 places into his verse. Thus, in the poem To Joanna, 
 describing the echo of a lady's laugh heard among the 
 mountains : — 
 
 " The rock, like something starting from a sleep, 
 Took up the Lady's voice, and laughed again ; 
 That ancient woman seated on Helm-crag 
 Was ready with her cavern ; Hammar-scar 
 And the tall steep of Silverhow sent forth 
 A noise of laughter ; Southern Loughrigg heard, 
 And Fairfield answered with a mountain tone ; 
 Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky 
 Carried the Lady's voice ; old Skiddaw blew 
 His speaking-trumpet ; back out of the clouds 
 Of Glaramara southward came the voice ; 
 And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head." 
 
WOBDSWORTH. 59 
 
 But most conspicuously of all the poet has exhibited 
 his interest in the antique and historical, and his power 
 of imaginatively reproducing it, in his fine series of 
 Ecclesiastical Sonnets, wherein he traces, as in a series 
 of bold retrospective glimpses, the history of Christi- 
 anity in the British Islands. There are passages in 
 these Sonnets worth, for historical effect, many pages of 
 the writings of our ecclesiastical historians. 
 
 Of the various other excellences of Wordsworth we 
 wiU particulaiize but one more — the exquisite propriety _ 
 and delicacy of his style, his easy and perfect mastery - 
 over the element of language. He must have pos- 
 sessed a natural gift of rich and exuberant expression ; 
 but it is equally evident that he must have, at a very 
 early period, submitted this natural exuberance to a 
 careful and classic training, and also that he must have 
 bestowed his best pains in finishing, according to his 
 own ideas of correctness, all his compositions indi- 
 vidually. Hence greater smoothness and beauty, and 
 more of strict logical coherence, in Wordsworth's style 
 than is usual even among careful poets, as well as a 
 more close fitting of the language to the measure of the 
 thought, and a comparative freedom from forced rhymes^ 
 and jarring evasions of natural forms of words. This 
 appears even in the greater typographical neatness of a 
 printed page of Wordsworth's poetry, as compared, for 
 example, with a printed page of Byron's, the lax and 
 
60 WORBSWORTB. 
 
 dash-disrupted look of which suggests to practised eyes 
 the notion at once of more energetic genius and greater 
 literary haste. Specimens of Wordsworth's extreme 
 felicity of expression have already been given in the 
 previous extracts ; and in selecting for incessant repeti- 
 tion such poems of his as We are Seven, and such 
 lines as those famous ones about the " yellow primrose,'' 
 the public have already indicated their appreciation in 
 his case of this merit in particular. A quotation or 
 two, however, illustrative of the same thing, may here 
 be added. Observe how variously and yet simply the 
 language, in the following passages, pursues the intri- 
 cacies and adapts itself to the mood of the meaning : — 
 
 " A village churchyard, lying as it does in the lap of 
 Nature, may indeed be most favourably contrasted with 
 that of a town of crowded population ; and sepulture 
 therein combines many of the best tendencies which 
 belong to the mode practised by the ancients with 
 others peculiar to itself The sensations of pious 
 cheerfulness which attend the celebration of the 
 Sabbath-day in rural places are profitably chastised by 
 the sight of the graves of kindred and friends, gathered 
 together in that general home towards which the thought- 
 ful yet happy spectators themselves are journeying. 
 Hence, a parish church, in the stOlness of the country, 
 is a visible centre of a community of the living and the 
 dead, a point to which are habitually referred the 
 nearest concerns of both." — Essay on Epitaphs. 
 
WOBDSWORTH. Gl 
 
 ■ To all that binds the soul in powerless trance, 
 Lip-dewiag song, and ringlet-tossing dance." 
 
 Descriptive Sketches. 
 
 " She dwelt among the untrodden ways 
 
 Beside the springs of Dove, 
 A maid whom there were none to praise, 
 
 And very few to love : 
 A violet by a mossy stone 
 
 Half hidden from the eye ! 
 Fair as a star when only one 
 
 Is shining in the sky ! 
 She lived unknown, and few could know 
 
 When Lucy ceased to be ; 
 But she is in her grave, and, oh, 
 
 The difference to me ' " 
 
 Miscellaneous Poems. 
 
 " Then up I rose. 
 And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash 
 And merciless ravage ; and the shady nook 
 Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower. 
 Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up 
 Their quiet being . and, unless I now 
 Confound my present feelings with the past. 
 Ere from the mutilated bower I turned 
 Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, 
 1 felt a sense of pain when I beheld 
 The silent trees, and saw the intruding sky." 
 
 I^uUinff. 
 " Great God ! I'd rather be 
 
 A pagan suckled in a creed outworn ; 
 
 So might I, standing on this pleasant lea. 
 
62 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; 
 Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea ; 
 Or hear old Triton blow Jiis wreathed horn." 
 
 Sonnets. 
 
 " Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room ; 
 And hermits are contented with their cells ; 
 And students with their pensive citadels ; 
 Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom, 
 Sit blithe and happy ; bees that soar for bloom 
 High as the highest peak of Furness-fells 
 Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells : 
 In truth, the prison unto which we doom 
 Ourselves no prison is : and hence to me, 
 In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound 
 Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground ; 
 Pleased if some souls (for such there needs must be) 
 Who have felt the weight of too much liberty 
 Should find brief solace there, as I have found." 
 
 Sonnets. 
 
 That we would assign to Wordsworth a high place 
 among the poets of England the whole tenor of our 
 observations hitherto will have made clear. At the 
 same time, that he falls short of the very highest rank, 
 that he does not stand on the very top of our English 
 Parnassus, where Chaucer, Milton, and Spenser keep 
 reverent company with Shakespeare, but rather on that 
 upper slope of the mountain whence these greatest are 
 visible, and where various other poets hold perhaps as 
 just, if not so fixed, a footing : tliis also we have sought 
 
WOBDSWORTH. 63 "^ 
 
 to convey as part of our general impression. We do 
 
 not think, for example, that Wordsworth was so great a 
 
 poet as Burns ; and, if it is only in respect of general 
 
 mental vigour and capacity, and not in respect of poetic 
 
 genius per se, that Dryden, Pope, and Coleridge, could 
 
 be justly put in comparison with Wordsworth, and, 
 
 being so put in comparison, preferred to him on the— 
 
 whole, yet there are others in our list of poets for 
 
 whom, even after the ground of competition has been 
 
 thus restricted, we beHeve it would be possible to take 
 
 up the quarrel With all the faults of Byron, both 
 
 moral and literary, the poetic efflux in Mm came from 
 
 greater constitutional depths, and brought, if less pure, 
 
 at least more fervent, matter with it than the poetry of 
 
 Wordsworth : had Keats and Shelley lived longer, even 
 
 those that sneer at the Byronie might have seen poets 
 
 comparable, in their estimation, to the Patriarch of the 
 
 Lakes ; and, should our noble Tennyson survive as a 
 
 constant writer till his black locks have grown grey, one 
 
 sees qualities in him that predict for him more than a 
 
 Wordsworth's fame. Keeping in view, therefore, these 
 
 comparisons and contrasts, it seems proper that we 
 
 should add to the foregoing enumeration of some of 
 
 Wordsworth's characteristic excellences a word or two 
 
 descriptive of some accompanying defects. ^ 
 
 Pirst of all, then, as it seems to us, the intellect of _ 
 Wordsworth, though very far beyond the ordinary in its 
 
64 W0BD8W0RTH. 
 
 dimensions^ and very assiduously developed by culture, 
 was by no means of the largest known English calibre. 
 'Sot to bring into the comparison such rare giants as 
 Shakespeare, Bacon, and Milton, there have been, and 
 probably still are, very many distinguished men in our 
 island fit to rank intellectually as the peers of Words- 
 worth, or even as his superiors. Making the necessary 
 discrimination between native intellectual strength 
 to arrive at conclusions and the soundness of the 
 conclusions arrived at, one would say that Johnson, 
 Burke, Burns, David Hume, and not a few others that 
 might be named, were presumably men of more 
 powerful intellect than Wordsworth. Partly because 
 of the time at which they lived, psfrtly from causes for 
 which they were personally more responsible, the 
 intellectual conclusions of those men, or of some of 
 them, may have been less noble and lofty than those 
 of Wordsworth, their favourite forms of thought more 
 coarse, their philosophy less true, deep, and ethereal. 
 But their intellectual strength or grasp, their sense and 
 insight, their whole available power to do, discern, and 
 invent, were perhaps greater. Even of Pope,^to whose 
 reputation as a poet Wordsworth and his followera- have 
 been so severe, it might be maintained that, comparison 
 of poetic merit apart, his was the denser and nimbler 
 brain. Nor would the greatest admirers of Words- 
 worth say that in force and reach of intellect T^e 
 
frOBDSWOKTE. 65 
 
 excelled Ms friend Coleridge. Fine, stately, and silvery 
 as Wordswortli's prose writings are, they want the depth, 
 originality, and richness of the similar compositions of 
 that old man eloquent. Wordsworth's, in short, was 
 not a vast or prodigious, hut only a very high and 
 serene intellect. Now, though it has been already 
 shown that it is not intellect as such that makes a 
 poet, hut that either a man may have a great intellect 
 and be no poet or may be a poet without having an 
 extraordinary intellect, yet, as it has been shown also 
 that to constitute a great poet great intellect is es- 
 sential, we may assume it as a fact that the measure of 
 the general intellectual power of any particular poet is 
 also so far a measure of his poetic excellence. Accord- 
 ing to this rule, we should first apply the intellectual 
 test, so as to decide Wordsworth's place (probably 
 beside such men as Coleridge and Dryden) in our 
 general hierarchy of English men of letters of all sorts 
 taken together ; then, dividing this miscellaneous body 
 into kinds or classes, we should retain Wordsworth 
 exactly at his ascertained height among the poets ; and, 
 lastly, allowing to the whole class of poets as much 
 additional elevation as might be thought necessary, on 
 the score of any supposed superiority of the poetical 
 constitution as such, we should fix Wordsworth's just 
 place among all the ornaments of English literature. 
 A second defect in Wordsworth is his want of- 
 
C6 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 humour. This charge has been made so often against 
 other celebrated writers that one is almost ashamed to 
 bring it forward again in any new case whatever. 
 Nevertheless, it is a charge of real weight against any- 
 one regarding whom it can be proved, and it is hardly 
 necessary to offer proofs that it is true regarding 
 Wordsworth. There are, indeed, poems of his, such as 
 The Waggoner, The Idiot Boy, and The Street Musician, 
 that display a kind of genial and warm interest in the 
 little pleasant blunders and less than tragic mishaps of 
 daily life ; but in such instances we seem to recognise 
 the air of the poet as that of a sedate dreamer looking 
 at matters, or hearing of them, with a hard benevolent 
 smile, rather than as that of a man of hearty native 
 humour, recklessly enjoying what is jocose. There is 
 no real mirth, no rich sense of the comic, in all that 
 Wordsworth has written. In that full sly love of a jest 
 that lurks in the down-looking eye of Chaucer, as well 
 as in the broad and manly capacity of laughter that 
 distinguished Burns, the poet of the Lakes was totally 
 wanting. Hence it is that, among aU his characters, 
 he has given us none like the Host of the Tabard in 
 the Ganterlury Pilgrirnage, and that, living as he did in 
 a notable part of England, the whole spirit and pecu- 
 liarity of which he sought to make his own, he could 
 not imbibe or reproduce its humours. Whenever, in 
 obedience to an intellectual perception of the existence 
 
WORDSWORTH. 67 
 
 in society of such so-called "livimours," he attempts to 
 introduce them into his poetry, he either only reaches 
 the playful, or betrays his natural seriousness by keep- 
 ing the moral lesson strictly in view. Kow, though 
 there have been really great poets, Milton and Schiller 
 for example, in whom this defect of humour was as 
 marked as in Wordsworth, yet in such cases it will be 
 found that the defect did, after all, operate to some 
 extent injuriously, and had to be made good in some 
 way by very ample compensations. If Milton had not 
 humour, he had a large measure of what may properly 
 enough be called wit, an infinite power of scorn, and a 
 tremendous mastery of the language of abuse and sar- 
 casm. As regards Byron, also, not to mention Pope, it 
 is impossible to say how much not only of his popu- 
 larity, but also of his real worth as a poet, may depend 
 on the quantity of admirable wit which he brought into 
 the service of the Muse. But in Wordsworth there is 
 almost as little of wit, properly so called, as of humour. 
 His moods are a benevolent seriousness, a rapt and 
 spiritual state of the feelings, and a mild and sacerdotal 
 sympathy with all that he sees. He may feel contempt, 
 as indeed few men are said to have done in a greater 
 degree, but he has no art in the ludicrous expression of 
 it ; be sometimes smiles, but he never laughs. In a 
 poet of actual English life this is to be regarded as a 
 considerable disqualification. 
 
 F 2 
 
68 WOBDSWOBTH. 
 
 We may indicate another deficiency in Wordsworth 
 by repeating the common criticism that he lacks 
 energy, fire, impulse, intensity, passion. Wordsworth 
 was, according to his own definition of a poet, " a man 
 endowed with more lively sensibility, more enthusiasm ' 
 and tenderness, than are supposed to be common among 
 mankind ; " but what we now mean is something quite 
 consistent with this. There was no tremendousness, 
 nothing of the Pythic, in the nature of Wordsworth. 
 
 " I surely not a man ungently made," 
 
 are the fitting words he uses in describing himself. A. 
 calm, white-haired sage, who could thrill to the beauty 
 of a starry night, and not a swart-faced Titan like Burns, 
 full of strength and fire, was the poet of the Excursion. 
 With all his pathos, aU his clearness of vision, there 
 were sorrows of humanity he never touched, recesses of 
 dark moral experience he could not pierce nor irradiate. 
 We feel in his poetry as if we were spoken to by some 
 mUd and persuasive preacher, rather than borne down 
 by the experienced utterance of a large-hearted man. 
 He does not move us to the depths of our being ; he 
 only affects us gently. One reason for this must be 
 that, naturally and by birth, Wordsworth was deficient 
 in some of the more formidable elements of the human 
 constitution. Possessing in large degree the elements 
 
WORDSWORTH. 69 
 
 of intellect, sensibility, and imagination, he seems to 
 have been wanting in the Byronic element of personal 
 passion. Moreover, and partly va consequence of this, 
 he appears to have passed through the battle of life all 
 but unwounded. This of itself would account for the 
 placid, self-possessed, and often feeble style of his 
 poetry. In the life of every man distinguished for 
 what is called momentum of character there wUl almost 
 certainly be found some sore biographical circumstance 
 — some fact deeper and more momentous than all the 
 rest — some strictly historical source of melancholy, that 
 must be discovered and investigated if we would com- 
 prehend his ways. Man comes into this world regard- 
 less and unformed ; and, although in his gradual pro- 
 gress through it he necessarily acquires, by the mere 
 use of his senses and by communication with others, a 
 multitudinous store of impressions and convictions, yet, 
 if there is to be anything specific and original in his 
 life, this, it would seem, can only be produced by the 
 operation upon him of some one overbearing accident 
 or event, which, rousing him to new wakefulness, and 
 evoking all that is latent in his nature, shall bind these 
 impressions and convictions in a mass together, breathe 
 through them the sternness of personal concern, and 
 impart to them its seal and pressure. The experiences 
 that most commonly perform this function in the lives 
 
70 WOBDSWOBTH. 
 
 of men are those of Friendship and Love. The power 
 of Love to rouse men to larger and more fervid views of 
 nature has been celebrated since the beginning of time. 
 A man that has once undergone Love's sorrow in any 
 extreme degree is by that fact awakened at once and 
 for ever to the melancholy side of things ; he becomes 
 alive to the gloomy in nature and to the miserable in 
 life ; and, by one stupendous resumption of stars, clouds, 
 trees, and flowers, into his own pained being, like an 
 old coinage requiring re-issue, he realizes how it is that 
 all creation groaneth and travaileth together in spirit 
 until now. So also, though perhaps more rarely, with 
 the influence of exalted and lost Friendship. But 
 Wordsworth, happily for himself, seems to have met 
 with no such accident of revolution. Passing through 
 the world as a pilgrim, pure-minded, and even sad with 
 the sense of the mysterious future, nothing occurred in 
 his journey to strike him down as a dead man, and 
 agonize him into a full knowledge of the whole mystery 
 of the present. Hence, we believe, the want of that 
 intensity in his poetry which we flnd in the writings, 
 not only of the so-called subjective poets, such as 
 Byron and Dante, but also of the greatest objective 
 poets, as Goethe and Shakespeare. The ink of Words- 
 worth is rarely his own blood. 
 
 It is little more than an extension of the last remark 
 
W0KD8W0RT3. Ti- 
 
 to say that Wordsworth was rather a poet or hard than ^ 
 (if we may be allowed the distinction) a lyrist or 
 minstrel The purpose of the poet, to use the term 
 for the moment in this restricted sense, is to describe, 
 narrate, or represent some portion of the external, as it ' 
 is rounded out and made significant in his own mind ; 
 the purpose of the lyrist or minstrel is to pour forth 
 the passing emotions of his soul and inflame other men 
 with the fire that consumes himself. Accordingly, the 
 faculties most special to the merely poetic exercise, 
 as in the old Homeric epos or in modern descriptive 
 verse, are those of intellect, sensibility, and imagination 
 — passion or personal excitement being but a separate 
 element, which may be more or less present according 
 to circumstances, and which ought, as some think, to be 
 absent from pure poetry altogether ; whereas, in lyrical 
 effusion, on the other hand, passion or present excite- 
 ment is nearly all in aU. The poetry of Keats may be 
 taken as a specimen of pure poetry as such : aU his 
 chief poems are literally compositions or creations, the 
 results of a process by which the poet's mind, having 
 projected itself into an entirely imaginary element, 
 devoid of aU connexion with the present, worked and 
 moved therein slowly and fantastically at its own will 
 and pleasure. As specimens, again, of the purely 
 lyrical, we have all such pieces, ancient and modem, as 
 
72 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 are properly denominated psalms, odes, hymns, or 
 songs. When, therefore, people talk, as they now in- 
 . cessantly do, of calmness as being essential to the poet, 
 and when, with Wordsworth, they define the poetic art 
 to consist in the tranquil recollection of bygone emotion, 
 it is clear that they can have in view only pnre poetry, 
 the end of which is to represent in an imaginative man- 
 ner some portion of the outward. '■sFor, of the lyrist 
 or song-writer it may be affirmed, just as of his near 
 kinsman the orator, that the more of passion or per- 
 sonal impetus he has the better ; and, so far from 
 advising him to wait for complete tranquillity, one 
 would advise him to select, as the true lyrical moment, 
 that first moment, whenever it is, when the primary 
 perturbation has just so far subsided that his trembling 
 hands can sweep the stringsi, But with this difference 
 comes another. The poet, in describing his scene or 
 narrating his story, feels himself impelled to every 
 legitimate mode of increasing the pleasure he conveys ; 
 and the result, in one direction, is Metre. But, how- 
 ever natural Metre may have been in its origin, it has 
 >now become to the poet rather a pre-established ar- 
 rangement or available set of conditions, to the rule of 
 which he adapts what he has already in other respects 
 rendered complete, than a compulsory suggestion of the 
 poetic act itself. Not so with the Ijrrist. As cadence 
 
WORDSWOBTS. 73 
 
 or musical utterance is natural in an excited state of 
 the feelings, so in lyrical poetry ought the song or 
 melody to be more than the words. The heart of the 
 lyrist should be a perpetual fountain of song ; and, 
 when he is to hold direct communication with the 
 world, an inarticulate hum or murmur, rising, as it 
 were, from the depths of his being, ought to precede 
 and necessitate all the actual speech. Now, in this 
 lyrical capability, this love of sound or cadence for its 
 own sate, Wordsworth is certainly inferior to many 
 other poets. One might have inferred as much from 
 the narrowness of his theory of verse ; but the fact is 
 rendetedstUl gaore apparent byajieraeaJTJr^s po^5~~^ 
 thepiselves! V ery lew poetshave been more admirable 
 lasters of poetic metre : no versification is more clear, 
 various, and flexible, or more soothing to the ear, than 
 tiiat of Wordsworth. But he is not a singer or a min- 
 stret-firoperly so called; the lyric madness does not . 
 seize him f verse _w ith him is rather an es ojaaite 
 variety of rhetoric, a legitimate aesthetic device, than 
 a necessary form of utterance. Seldom in Wordsworth 
 is there a stanza after reading which and quite losing 
 sight of the words we are stiU haunted (as we con- 
 stantly are in Bums, Byron, and Tennyson) by an 
 obstinate recollection of the tune. Were we required 
 to say in what portion of Wordsworth's poetry he has 
 
WORDSWORTH. 
 
 shown most of this true lyric spirit, in which we believe 
 him to have been on the whole deficient, we should un- 
 hesitatingly mention his Sonnets. These are among the 
 finest and most sonorous things in our language ; and 
 it is by them, in conjunction with his Excursion (or, as 
 we may now say, The Recluse) that his great name will 
 be most surely perpetuated. 
 
il. 
 
 SCOTTISH INELUENCE IN BRITISH 
 LITERATURE. 
 
II. 
 
 SCOTTISH INFLUENCE IN BRITISH LITERATURE.^ 
 
 It was in the winter of 1786-87 that the poet Burns, a 
 new prospect having been suddenly opened up to him 
 by the kind intervention of Blacklock and a few other 
 influential men in Eduiburgh, abandoned his desperate 
 project of emigrating to the West Indies, and hastened 
 to pay his memorable first visit to the Scottish metro- 
 polis. During that winter, as all who are acquainted 
 with his life know, the Ayrshire ploughman, then in his 
 twenty- ninth year, was the lion of Edinburgh society. 
 Lord Monboddo, Dugald Stewart, Harry Erskine, Dr. 
 Robertson, Dr. Hugh Blair, Henry Mackenzie, Dr. 
 Gregory, Dr. Black, Dr. Adam Ferguson: such were 
 the names then most conspicuous in the literary capital 
 
 1 North Briiish Review, August 1852. — " Life of Lord Jeffrey : vrith 
 a Selection from his Correspondence. " By Lord Cockbitkn, one of the 
 Judges of the Court of Session in Scotland. 2 vols. 1852. [What 
 is here printed is only the introdnctory part of the aildcle as it stood 
 in the Bcview. ] 
 
SCOTTISH INFLUENCE IN 
 
 of North Britain ; and it was in the company of these 
 men, alternated with that of the Creeches, the Smellies, 
 the "Willie Mcols, and other contemporary Edinburgh 
 celebrities of a lower grade, that Burns first realized 
 the fact that he was no mere bard of local note, but 
 a new power and magnate in Scottish Literature. 
 
 To those who are aUve to the poetry of coincidences 
 two anecdotes connected with this residence of Burns 
 in Edinburgh will always be interesting. 
 
 What reader of Lockhart's Life of Scott has ever for- 
 gotten the account there given of Scott's first and only 
 interview with Burns ? As the story is now more 
 minutely told in Mr. Eobert Chambers's Life of Burns, 
 Scott, who was then a lad of sixteen, just removed from 
 the High School to a desk in his father's office, was 
 invited by his friend and companion, the son of Dr. 
 Ferguson, to accompany him to his father's house on 
 an evening when Burns was to be there. The two 
 youngsters entered the room, sat down unnoticed by 
 their seniors, and looked on and listened in modest 
 silence. Burns, when he came in, seemed a little out 
 of his element. Instead of mingling at once with the 
 company, he kept going about the room, looking at the 
 pictures on the walls. One print particularly arrested 
 his attention. It represented a soldier lying dead 
 among the snow, his dog on one side, and a woman 
 with a child in her arms on the other. Underneath 
 
BRITISH LITEBATUBE. 79 
 
 the print were some lines of verse descriptive of the 
 subject, which Burns read aloud with a voice faltering 
 with emotion. A little while after, turning to the 
 company and pointing to the print, he asked if any 
 one cotdd tell him who was the author of the lines. 
 No one chanced to know, except Scott, who remembered 
 that they were from an obscure poem of Langhorne's. 
 The information, whispered by Scott to some one near, 
 was repeated to Burns ; who, after asking a little more 
 about the matter, rewarded his young informant with 
 a look of kindly interest, and the words, (Sir Adam 
 Ferguson reports them,) " You'll be a man yet, sir." 
 Such is the story of the "literary ordination," as Mr. 
 Chambers well calls it, of Scott by Burns. It is a 
 scene which Sir WiUiam Allan should have been the 
 man to paint. 
 
 The other story is now told for the first time by 
 Lord Cockburn. Somewhere about the very day on 
 which the foregoing incident happened, " a little black 
 creature " of a boy, we are told, who was going up the 
 High Street of Edinburgh, and staring diligently about 
 him, was attracted by the appearance of a man whom 
 he saw standing on the pavement. He was taking a 
 leisurely view of the object of his curiosity, when some 
 one standing at a shop-door tapped him on the shoulder, 
 and said, " Ay, laddie, ye may weel look at that man ! 
 that's Eobert Bums." The " little black creature," thus 
 
80 SOaTTISH INFLUENCE IN 
 
 early addicted to criticism, was Francis Jeffrey, the 
 junior of Scott by two years, and exactly four years 
 behind him in the classes of the High School, where he 
 was known as a clever nervous little fellow, who never 
 lost a place without crying. It is mentioned by Lord 
 Cockburn that Jeffrey's first teacher at the High 
 School, a Mr. Luke Praser, had the good fortune to 
 send forth, from three successive classes of four years 
 each, three pupils no less distinguished than Walter 
 Scott, Francis Jeffrey, and Henry Brougham. 
 
 It is not for the mere purpose of anecdote that we 
 cite these names and coincidences. We should like 
 very much to make out for Scotland in general as sug- 
 gestive a series of her intellectual representatives as 
 Lord Cockburn has here made out for part of the peda- 
 gogic era of the worthy and long dead Mr. Luke Fraser. 
 Nor is it a difficult task. 
 
 Confining our regards to the eighteenth century, the 
 preceding paragraphs enable us to group together at 
 least three conspicuous Scottish names as belonging, by 
 right of birth, to the third quarter of that century — 
 Burns, born in Ayrshire in 1759 ; Scott, born in Edin- 
 burgh in 1771 ; and Jeffrey, born in the same place in 
 1773. Suppose, however, that we go a little farther 
 back for some other prominent Scottish names of the 
 same century. Then the readiest to occur to the 
 
BEIT 18 H LITEBATVRE. 81 
 
 memory will be these : — James Thomson, the poet, 
 bora in Eoxburghsbire in 1700 ; Thomas Eeid, the 
 philosoplier, born near Aberdeen in 1710; David 
 Hume, born at Edinburgh in 1711 ; Eobertson, the 
 historian, born in Mid-Lothian in 1721; Tobias Smol- 
 lett, the novelist, born at Cardross in the same year ; 
 Adam Smith, born at Kirkaldy, in 1723; Eobert 
 Pergusson, the Scottish poet, born at Edinburgh in 
 1750 ; and Dugald Stewart, bom at Edinburgh in 1753. 
 If, for a similar purpose, we come down to the last 
 quarter of the century, five names at least will be siire 
 to occur to us, in addition to that of Brougham — 
 Thomas Campbell, bom in Glasgow in 1777 ; Thomas 
 Chalmers, born at Anstruther in Fifeshire in 1780 ; 
 John Wilson, born at Paisley in 1785 ; Sir "William 
 Hamilton, born at Glasgow in 1788 ; Edward Irving, 
 born at Annan in Dumfriesshire in 1792 ; and Thomas 
 Carlyle, born near Ecclefechan, in the same county, in 
 1795. In this list we omit the distinguished contem- 
 porary Scottish names in physical scienoe. We ought 
 not, however, to omit the names of Sir James Mackin- 
 tosh, born near Inverness in 1765, and James Mill, born 
 at Montrose in 1 773. The short life of Burns, if we 
 choose him as the central figure of the group, connects 
 all the persons named. The oldest of tbem was in 
 the prime of life when Bums was bom, and the 
 youngest of them had seen the light before Bums died. 
 
SCOTTISH INFLUENCE IN 
 
 On glancing along this series of eminent Scotchmen 
 born in the eighteenth century, it will be seen that 
 they may be roughly distributed into two nearly equal 
 classes — men of philosophic intellect, devoted to the 
 work of general speculation, or thought as such; and 
 men of literary or poetic' genius, whose works belong 
 more properly to the category of pure literary or artistic 
 effort. In the one class may be ranked Eeid, Hume, 
 Adam' Smith, Dugald Stewart, Mackintosh, Mill, 
 Chalmers, and Sir WiUiam Hamilton; in the other, 
 Thomson, Smollett, Eobertson, !Fergusso;i, Burns, 
 Scott, Jeffrey, Campbell, Wilson, Irving, and Carlyle. 
 Do not let us be mistaken. In using the phrases "philo- 
 sophic intellect " and " literary genius " to denote the 
 distinction referred to, we do not imply anything of 
 accurate discrimination between the phrases themselves. 
 For aught that we care, the phrases may be reversed, 
 and the men of the one class may be styled men of 
 philosophic genius, and those of the other men of 
 literary habit and intellect. If we prefer to follow the 
 popular usage in our application of the terms, it is not 
 with any intention of making out for the one class, by 
 the appropriation to it of the peculiar term " genius," 
 a certificate of a higher kind of excellence than belongs 
 to the other. Even according to the popular accepta- 
 tion of the term, several of those whom we have 
 included in the literary category — as, for example, 
 
BRITISH LITERATURE. S3 
 
 Eobertson — must be denied the title of men of genius : 
 while, by no endurable definition of the term, could 
 the title of men of genius be refused to such men as 
 Adam Smith, Chalmers, and Hamilton. Nor even when 
 thus explained will oui classification bear a very rigid 
 scrutiny. By a considerable portion of what may be 
 called the fundamental or unapparent half of his genius 
 Carlyle belongs to the class of speculative thinkers ; 
 while, on the other hand, the case of Chalmers is one 
 in which the thinking or speculative faculty, which cer- 
 tainly belonged to him, was surcharged and deluged by 
 such a constant flood from the feelings that, instead 
 of ranking him with the thinkers as above, we might, 
 with equal or greater propriety, transpose him to 
 the other side, or even name him on both sides. His 
 thinking faculty, which was what he himself set most 
 store by, was so beset and begirt by his other and more 
 active dispositions that, instead of working on and on 
 through any resisting medium with iron continuity, it 
 discharged itself almost invariably, as soon as it touched 
 a subject, in large proximate generalizations. 
 
 On the whole, then, instead of the foregoing classifi- 
 cation of eminent Scotchmen into men of speculation 
 and men of general literature, one might adopt as 
 equally serviceable a less formal classification which 
 the common satirical talk respecting Scotchmen will 
 suggest. The hara,^cool, logical Scotchman : such is 
 
 a 2 
 
84 (^OOTTIlSR INFLUENCE IN 
 
 the stereotyped plirase in which Englishmen describe 
 the natives of N"orth Britain. There is a sufficient 
 amount of true perception in the phrase to justify its 
 use ; but the appreciation it involves reaches only to 
 the surface. The well-known phrase, perfervidiom inge- 
 nium Scotorum, used, Buchanan tells us, centuries ago 
 on the Continent to express the idea of the Scottish 
 character then universally current, and founded on a 
 large induction of instances, is, in reality, far nearer 
 to the fact. Without maintaining at present that all 
 Scotchmen are perfervid, — that Scotchmen in general 
 are, as we have seen it ingeniously argued, not cool, 
 calculating, and cautious, but positively rash, fanatical, 
 and tempestuous, — it will be enough to refer to the 
 instances which prove at least that some Scotchmen 
 have this character. The thing may be expressed 
 thus : — On referring to the actual list of Scotchmen 
 who have attained eminence by their writings or 
 speeches in this or the last century, two types may 
 be distinguished, in one or the other of which the 
 Scottish mind seems necessarily to cast itself — (1) an 
 intellectual type specifically Scottish, but Scottish only 
 in the sense that it is the type which cultured Scottish 
 minds assume when they devote themselves to the 
 work of specific investigation ; and (2) a more popular 
 type, characterizing those Scotchmen who, instead of 
 pursuing the work of specific investigation, follow a 
 
BBITISH LITEBATUEE. 85 
 
 career calling forth all the resources of thought and 
 sentiment. Scotchmen of the first, or more fixed and 
 formal, type are Eeid, Smith, Hume, Mill, Mackintosh, 
 and Hamilton; in all of whom, notwithstanding their 
 differences, we see that tendency towards metaphysical 
 speculation for which the Scottish mind has become 
 celebrated. Scotchmen of the other or popular type, 
 partaking of the metaphysical tendency Or not, but 
 drawing their essential inspiration from the sentimental 
 depths of the national character, are Burns, Scott, 
 Chalmers, Irving, and Carlyle. However we may 
 choose to express it, the fact of this twofold forthgoing 
 of the Scottish mind, either in the scholastic and logical 
 du-ection marked out by one series of eminent prede- 
 cessors, or in the popular and literary direction marked 
 out by another series of eminent predecessors, cannot 
 be denied. 
 
 After all, however, there is, classify and distinguish 
 as we may, a remarkable degree of homogeneousness 
 among Scotchmen. The people of North Britain are 
 more homogeneous, have decidedly a more visible basis 
 of common character, than the people of South Britain. 
 A Scotchman may indeed be almost anything that is 
 possible in this world. He may be a saint or a de- 
 bauchee, a Christian or a sceptic, a spendthrift or a 
 usurer, a soldier or a statesman, a poet or a statistician, 
 a fool or a man of genius, clear-headed or confused- 
 
86 SCOTTISH INFLUENGE IN 
 
 headed, a Thomas Chalmers or a Joseph Hume, a dry 
 man of mere secular facts, or a man through whose 
 mind there roU for ever the stars and all mysteries. 
 Still, under every possible form of mental combina- 
 tion or activity, there will be found in every Scotch- 
 man something distinguishable as his birth-quality ox 
 Scotticism. 
 
 What is this Scotticism of Scotchmen ? What is this 
 ineradicable, universaUy-combinable element or pecu- 
 liarity, breathed into the Scottish soul by those condi- 
 tions of nature and of life which inhere in or hover over 
 the area of the Scottish earth, and which are repeated 
 in the same precise ensemble nowhere else ? Comes it 
 from the HEs, or the moors, or the mists, or any of 
 those other features of scenery and climate which dis- 
 tinguish bleak and rugged Scotland from green and 
 fertile England? In part, doubtless, from these, as 
 from all else that is Scottish. But there are hills, and 
 moors, and mists where Scotchmen are not bred ; and 
 it is rather in the long series of the memorable things 
 that have been done on the Scottish hills and moors — 
 the acts which the retrospective eye sees flashing 
 through the old Scottish mists — that one is to seek 
 the origin and explanation of whatever Scotticism is. 
 Now, as compared with England at least, that which 
 has come down to the natives of Scotland as some- 
 thing peculiar, generated by the series of past trans- 
 
BRITISH LITERATUKE. 87 
 
 actions of whicli their country has been the scene, 
 is an intense spirit of nationality. 
 
 No nation in the world is more factitioiis than the 
 Scotch, none more composite. If in England there 
 have been Celts, Eomans, Saxons, Danes, and Normans, 
 in Scotland there have been Celts, Eomans, Nor'^'egians, 
 Danes, Anglo-Saxons, and Anglo-Normans. The only 
 difference of any consequence in this respect probably 
 is that, whereas in England the Celtic element is de- 
 rived chiefly from the British or Welsh, and the Gothic 
 element chiefly from the Teutonic or Continental- 
 German source, in Scotland the Gaels have furnished 
 most of the Celtic, and the Scandinavian Germans most 
 of the Gothic element. Nor, if we regard the agencies 
 that have acted intellectually on the two nations, shall 
 we find Scotland to have been less notably affected 
 from without than England. To mention only one 
 circumstance, the Eeformation in Scotland was marked 
 by a much more decided importation of new modes 
 of thinking and new social forms than the Eeformation 
 in the sister country. But, though quite as factitious 
 as the English nation, the Scottish, by reason of its 
 very smallness, has always possessed a more intense 
 consciousness of its nationality, and a greater liability 
 to be acted upon throughout its whole substance by a 
 common thought or a common feeling. Even as late 
 as the year 1707 the entire population of Scotland did 
 
SCOTTISH INFLUENCE TN 
 
 not exceed one million of individuals ; and if, going 
 farther back, we fancy this small nation placed on the 
 frontier of one so much larger, and obliged continually 
 to defend itself against the attacks of so powerful a 
 neighbour, we can have no difficulty in conceiving how, 
 in the smaller nation, the feeling of a central life would 
 be sooner developed and kept more continuously active. 
 The sentiment of nationality is essentially negative. It 
 is the sentiment of a people which has been taught to 
 recognise its own individuality by incessantly marking 
 the line of exclusion between itself and others. Almost 
 all the great movements of Scotland, as a nation, have 
 accordingly been of a negative character. They have 
 been movements of self-defence. The War of National 
 Independence against the Edwards, the Non-Episcopal 
 struggle in the reigns of the Charleses, the Non-Intrusion 
 controversy of later times, may be taken as examples. 
 The very motto of Scotland is negative : Nemo me im- 
 pune lacesset. It is different M'ith England. There have 
 of course been negative movements in England too, but 
 these have been movements of one faction or part of 
 ^ the English people against another ; and the activity 
 of the English nation, as a whole, has consisted, not in 
 preserving its own individuality from external attack, 
 but in fully and genially evolving the various elements 
 which it finds within itself, or in powerful positive 
 exertions of its strength upon what lies outside of it. 
 
BRITISH LITEBATUBE. 89 
 
 The first and most natural form of what we have 
 called the Scotticism of Scotchmen — that is, of the 
 peculiarity which differences them from people of other 
 countries, and more expressly from Englishmen — is 
 this amor patrice, this inordinate intensity of national 
 feeling. There are very few Scotchmen who, whatever 
 they may pretend, are devoid of this pride in heing 
 Scotchmen. Penetrate to the heart of any Scotchman, 
 even the most Anglified or the most philosophic that 
 can be found, and there will certainly be seen a rem- 
 nant in it of loving regard for the little land that lies 
 north of the Tweed. And what eminent Scotchman 
 can be named in whose constitution a larger or smaller 
 proportion of the amor Scotim ■ has not been visible ? 
 In some of the foremost of such men, as in Burns, 
 Scott, and Wilson, this amor Scotim has been present 
 as even a professed ingredient of their genius, a senti- 
 ment determining, to a great extent, the style and 
 matter of aU that they have written or attempted : — 
 
 " The rough bur-thistle spreading wide 
 Amang the bearded bear, 
 I turned the weeder- clips aside, 
 And spared the symbol dear. 
 1^0 nation, no station 
 
 My envy e'er could raise ; 
 A Scot still, but blot stQl, 
 I knew nae higher praise." 
 
90 SCOTTISH INFLUENCE IN 
 
 In reading the writings of such men, one is perpetually 
 reminded, in the most direct manner, that these writings 
 are to be regarded as belonging to a strictly national 
 . literature. But even in those Scotchmen in the deter- 
 mination of whose intellectual efforts the amor Scotice 
 has acted no such ostensible part the presence of some 
 mental reference to, or intermittent communication 
 of sentiment with, the land of their birth is almost 
 sure to be detected. The speculations of Eeid, Hume, 
 and Adam Smith, and, in some degree, also, those of 
 Chalmers, were on matters interesting not to Scotchmen 
 alone, but to the human race as such ; and yet, pre- 
 cisely as these men enunciated their generalities 
 intended for the whole world in good broad Scotch, 
 so had they all, after their different ways, a genuine 
 Scottish relish for Scottish humours, jokes, and anti- 
 quities. The same thing is true of Carlyle, a power 
 as he is recognised to be not in Scottish only, but in 
 all European literature. Even James Mill, who, more 
 than most Scotchmen, succeeded in conforming, both 
 in speech and in writing, to English habits and require- 
 ments, relapsed into the Scot when he listened to a Scot- 
 tish song or told a Scottish anecdote. But perhaps 
 the most interesting example of the appearance of an 
 intense amor Scotice where, from the nature of the case, 
 it could have been least expected, is afforded by the 
 writings of Sir William Hamilton. If there is a man 
 
BRITISH LITERATURE. 91 
 
 now alive conspicuous among liis contemporaries for 
 the exercise on the most magnificent scale of an 
 intellect the most pure and abstract, that man is Sir 
 William ;^ and yet, not even when discussing the 
 philosophy of the unconditioned or perfecting the 
 theory of syllogism, does he forget his Scottish lineage. 
 With what glee, in his notes, or in stray passages in 
 his dissertations themselves, does he seize every oppor- 
 tunity of adding to the proofs that speculation in 
 general has been largely affected by the stream of 
 specific Scottish thought — quoting, for example, the 
 saying of Scaliger, " Les Ecossois sont hons Philosophes ;" 
 or dwelling on the fact that at one time almost every 
 continental university had a Scottish professorship of 
 philosophy, specially so named ; or reviving the memo- 
 ries of defunct Balfours, and Duncans, and Chalmerses, 
 and Dalgamos, and other " Scott extra Scotiam agentes " 
 of other centuries ; or startling his readers with such 
 genealogical facts as that Immanuel Kant and Sir 
 Isaac E"ewton had Scottish grandfathers, and that the 
 celebrated Trench metaphysician Destutt Tracy was, in 
 reality, but a transmogrified Scotchman of the name of 
 Stott ! We know few things more refreshing than 
 such evidences of strong national feeling in such a 
 man. It is the Scottish Stagirite not ashamed of the 
 
 ^ Sir "William died in 1856, four years after this was written. 
 
SCOTTISH INFLUENCE IN 
 
 bonnet and plaid ; it is the philosopher in whose veins 
 flows the blood of a Covenanter. 
 
 Even now, when Scotchmen, their native country- 
 having been so long merged in the higher unity of Great 
 Britain, labour altogether in the service of this higher 
 unity, and forget or set aside the smaller, they are still 
 liable to be affected characteristically in all that they do 
 by the consciousness that they are Scotchmen. This 
 will be found true whether we regard those Scotchmen 
 who work side by side with Englishmen in the conduct 
 of British public affairs or British commerce, or those 
 Scotchmen who vie with Englishmen in the walks of 
 British authorship and literature. In either case the 
 Scotchman is distinguished from the Englishman by 
 this, that he carries the consciousness of his nationality 
 about with him. Were he, indeed, disposed to forget 
 it, the banter on the subject to which he is perpetually 
 exposed in the society of his English friends and 
 acquaintances would serve to keep him in mind of it. 
 It is the same now with the individual Scotchman cast 
 among Englishmen as it was with the Scottish nation 
 when it had to defend its frontier against the English 
 armies. He is in the position of a smaller body placed 
 in contact with a larger one, and rendered more con- 
 scious of his individuality by the constant necessity of 
 asserting it. But this self-assertion of a Scotchman 
 among Englishmen, this constant feeling "I am a 
 
BRITISH LITERATUBE. 03 
 
 Scotchman,'' rests, like the feeling of nationality itself, 
 on a prior assertion of what is in fact a negative. 
 For a Scotchman to be always thinking " I am a 
 Scotchman " is, in the circumstances now under view, 
 tantamount to always thinking " I am not an English- 
 man." The Englishman, on the other hand, has no 
 corresponding feeling. As a member of the larger body, 
 whose corporate activity has always been positive rather 
 than negative, the Englishman simply acts out har- 
 moniously Ms English instincts and tendencies, the 
 feeling of not being a Scotchman never (except in the 
 case of a stray Englishman located in Scotland) either 
 spontaneously remaining in his mind or being roused ui 
 it by banter. The Scotchman who works in the general 
 field of British activity has his thoughts conditioned, 
 to some extent at least, by the negative of not being 
 an Englishman ; the Englishman thinks under no such 
 limitation. 
 
 This leads us to a more intimate definition of the 
 peculiarity of Scottish as compared with English 
 thought. The rudest and most natural form of what 
 we have called the Scotticism of Scotchmen consists, 
 we have hitherto been saying, ia simple consciousness 
 of nationality, simple amor Scoiice, or, in more restricted 
 circumstances, the simple feeling of not being an 
 Englishman. There are some Scotchmen, however, in 
 whom this first and most natural form of Scotticism is 
 
94 SCOTTISH INFLUENCE IN 
 
 not very well pronounced, and who are either emanci- 
 pated from it, or think that they are. We know not a 
 few Scots who have really succeeded in transferring 
 their enthusiastic regards from Scotland to the higher 
 unity of Great Britain — men who, sometimes speaking 
 in their own Scottish accent, sometimes in an accent 
 almost purely English, find the objects of their soli- 
 citude and admiration, not in the land lying north of 
 the Tweed, but rather in England, with her rich green 
 parks and fields, her broad ecclesiastical hierarchy, her 
 noble halls of learning, her majestic and varied litera- 
 ture, the full and generous character of her manly 
 people. We know Scotchmen whose sentiment is more 
 deeply stirred by Shakespeare's famous apostrophe to 
 "this England" than by Scott's to the land of brown 
 heath and shaggy wood. And, as Scotland and Eng- 
 land are now united, such men are becoming more 
 numerous. But even they shall not escape. If their 
 native quality of Scotticism does not survive in them 
 in the more palpable and open form of mere national 
 feeling, mere amor Seotice, it survives, nevertheless, in 
 an intellectual habit, having the same root, and as 
 indestructible. And what is this habit ? The popular 
 charges of dogmatism, opinionativeness, pugnacity, and 
 the like, brought against Scotchmen by Englishmen, 
 are so many approximations to a definition of it. For 
 our part, we should say that the special habit or 
 
BRITISH LITERATURE. 95 
 
 peculiarity which distinguishes the intellectual mani- 
 festations of Scotchmen — that, in short, in which the 
 Scotticism of Scotchmen most intimately consists — is 
 the habit of emphasis. All Scotchmen are emphatic. 
 K a Scotchman is a fool, he gives such emphasis to the 
 nonsense he utters as to be considerably more insufferable 
 than a fool of any other country ; if a Scotchman is a 
 man of genius, he gives such emphasis to the good 
 things he has to communicate that they have a su- 
 premely good chance of being at once or very soon 
 attended to. This habit of emphasis is exactly that 
 perfervidum ingenium Scotorum which used to be re- 
 marked some centuries ago wherever Scotchmen were 
 known. But emphasis is perhaps a better word than 
 fervour. Many Scotchmen are fervid too, but not all ; 
 but all, absolutely all, are emphatic. No one will call 
 Joseph Hume a fervid man, but he is certainly em- 
 phatic. And so with David Hume, or Eeid, or Adam 
 Smith, or any of those colder-natured Scotchmen of 
 whom we have spoken. Tervoui cannot be predicated 
 of them, but they had plenty of emphasis. In men like 
 Bums, or Chalmers, or Irving, on the other hand, there 
 was both emphasis and fervour ; so also with Carlyle ; 
 and so, iu a still more curious combination, with Sir 
 William Hamilton. And, as we distinguish emphasis 
 from fervour, so would we distinguish it from per- 
 severance. Scotchmen are said to be persevering, but 
 
88 SCOTTISH INFLUENCE IN 
 
 the saying is not universally true. Scotclimen are or 
 are not morally persevering, but all Scotchmen are in- 
 tellectually emphatic. Emphasis, we repeat, intellectual 
 emphasis, the habit of laying stress on certain things 
 rather than co-ordinating all : in this consists what is 
 essential in the Scotticism of Scotchmen. And, as this 
 observation is empirically verified by the very manner 
 in which Scotchmen enunciate their words in ordinary 
 talk, so it might be deduced scientifically from what 
 has been said regarding the nature and effects of the 
 feeling of nationality. The habit of thinking empha- 
 tically is a necessary result of thinking much in the 
 presence of, and in resistance to, a negative ; it is the 
 habit of a people that has been accustomed to act on 
 the defensive, rather than of a people peacefully self- 
 evolved and accustomed to act positively; it is the 
 habit of Protestantism rather than of Catholicism, of 
 Presbyterianism rather than of Episcopacy, of Dissent 
 rather' than of Conformity. 
 
 The greatest effects which the Scottish mind has yet 
 produced on the world (and these effects, by the con- 
 fession of Englishmen themselves, have not been small) 
 have been the results, in part at least, of this national 
 habit of emphasis. Until towards the close of last 
 century, the special department of labour in which 
 Scotchmen had, to any great extent, exerted themselves, 
 so as to make a figure in the general intellectual world, 
 
BRITISH LITERATVEE. 97 
 
 was the department of Philosophy, metaphysical and 
 dialectic. Their triumphs in this department are his- 
 torical What is called the Scottish Philosophy con- 
 stitutes, in the eyes of all who know anything of 
 history, a most important stage in the intellectual 
 evolution of modern Europe. From the time of those 
 old Duncans, Balfours, and Dalgarnos, mentioned by 
 Sir WiUiam Hamilton, who discoursed on philosophy, 
 and wrote dialectical treatises in Latin in all the cities 
 of the Continent, down to our own days, one can point 
 to a succession of Scottish thinkers in whom the interest 
 in metaphysical studies was kept alive, and by whose 
 labours new contributions to mental science were con- 
 tinually made. It was by the Scottish mind, in fact, 
 that the modem philosophy was conducted to that 
 point where Kant and the Germans took it up. The 
 qualifications of the Scottish mind for this task were, 
 doubtless, various. Perhaps there was something in 
 that special combination of the Celtic and the Scan- 
 dinavian out of which the Scottish nation, for the most 
 part, took its rise, to produce an aptitude for dialectical 
 exercises. Farther, it would not be altogether fanciful 
 to suppose that those very national struggles of the 
 Scotch in the course of which they acquired so strong a 
 sense of their national individuality — that is, of the 
 distinction between all that was Scotch and aU that 
 was not Scotch— served, in a rough way, to facilitate 
 
 H 
 
98 SCOTTim INFLUENCE IN 
 
 for all Scotehineii that fundamental idea of the dis- 
 tinction between the Ego and the Non-Ego the clear 
 and rigorous apprehension of which is the first step in 
 philosophy and the one test of the philosopher. In a 
 stni more important respect, however, one might trace 
 the success of the Scottish mind in philosophy to the 
 national habit of intellectual emphasis. A Scotchman, 
 when he thinks, cannot so easily and comfortably as 
 the Englishman repose on an upper level of propositions 
 co-ordinated for him by tradition, sweet feeling, and 
 pleasant circumstance. That necessity of his nature 
 which leads him to emphasise certain things, rather 
 than to take all things together in their established co- 
 ordination, drives him down and still down in search of 
 certain generalities whereon he may see that all can be 
 built. It was this habit of emphasis, this inability to 
 rest on the level of sweetly-composed experience, that 
 led Hume to scepticism; it was the same habit, the 
 same inability, conjoined with more of faith and re- 
 verence, that led Eeid to lay down in the chasm of 
 Hume's scepticism certain blocks of ultimate proposi- 
 tions or principles, capable of being individually enu- 
 merated, and yet, as he thought, forming a sufficient 
 basement for all that men think or believe. And the 
 same tendency is visible among Scotchmen now. It 
 amazes Scotchmen at the present day to see on what 
 proxiinate propositions even Englishmen who are cele- 
 
BRITISH LITERATURE. 99 
 
 brated as thinkers can rest their speculations. The 
 truth is that, if Scotchmen have, so far, a sou-rce of 
 superiority over Englishmen in their habit of dwelling 
 only on the emphatic, they have also in this same habit 
 a source of inferiority. Quietism, mysticism, that soft, 
 meditative disposition which takes things for granted 
 in the co-ordination established by mere life and usage, 
 pouring into the confusion thus externally given the 
 oil of an abounding inner joy, interpenetrating all and 
 harmonizing all — these are, for the most part, alien 
 to the Scotchman. His walk is not by the meadows, 
 the wheat fields, the green lanes, and the ivy-clad 
 parish churches, where all is gentle, and antique, and 
 fertile, but by the bleak sea-shore which parts the 
 certain from the limitless, where there is doubt in the 
 seamew's shriek, and where it is well if in the ad- 
 vancing tide he can find footing on a rock among the 
 tangle. But this very tendency of his towards what is 
 intellectually extreme injures his sense of proportion in 
 what is concrete and actual ; and hence it is that, when 
 he leaves the field of abstract thought, and betakes 
 himself to creative literature, he so seldom produces 
 anything comparable, in fulness, wealth, and harmo- 
 niousness, to the imaginations of a Chaucer or a Shake- 
 speare. The highest genius, indeed involves also the 
 capability of the intellectually extreme, and, accord- 
 ingly, in the writings of those great Englishmen, just as 
 
 H 2 
 
ft 
 
 100 SCOTTISH INFLUENCE IN 
 
 in those of the living English poet Tennyson, there are 
 strokes in abundance of that pure intellectual emphasis 
 in which the Scotchman delights ; hut then there is 
 also with them such a genial acceptance of all things, 
 great or small, in their established co-ordination that 
 the flashes of emphasis are as if they came not from a 
 battle done on an open moor, but from a battle trans- 
 acting itself in the depths of a forest. Among Scottish 
 thinkers. Mackintosh is the one that approaches nearest 
 to the English model ; and this may be accounted for 
 by the fact that much of what he did consisted, from 
 the necessities of the object-matter of his speculations, 
 in judicious compromise. 
 
 But even in the field of literature we need not abandon 
 the Scotchman. His habit of emphasis has here enabled 
 him to do good service too. His entry on this field, 
 however, was later than his entry on the field of phi- 
 losophy. True, there had been, contemporary with the 
 Scottish philosophers, or even anterior to them, Scottish 
 poets and general prose-writers of note — Dunbar, 
 Gawain Douglas, King James I., of Scotland, Bu- 
 chanan, Sir David Lindsay, Henryson, Drummond, 
 Allan Eamsay, and the like. True, also, in those 
 snatches of popular ballad and song which came down 
 from generation to generation in Scotland — many of 
 them written by no one knows whom, and almost all 
 of them overflowing with either humour or melancholy 
 
BRITISH LITERATURE. \0\ 
 
 — there was at once a fountain and a promise of an 
 exquisite national literature. One can think of old 
 Nieol Bum, the "violer," out on his rounds in the 
 Yarrow district, and singing as he played: — 
 
 " But Minstrel Burn cannot assuage 
 
 His woes while time endureth. 
 To see the changes of this age 
 
 Which fleeting time procureth. 
 Full many a jllace stands in. hard case 
 
 Where joy was wont beforrow, 
 With Humes that dwelt on Leader braes, 
 
 And Scotts that dwelt on Yarrow." 
 
 There was literature in the times when such old strains 
 were sung. But the true avatar of the Scottish mind 
 in modem literature came later than the manifestation 
 of the same mind in philosophy. Were we to fix a 
 precise date for it, we should name the period of 
 Bums's first visit to Edinburgh and familiar meetings 
 with the men of literary talent and distinction then 
 assembled there. 
 
 Edinburgh was, indeed, even then a literary capital, 
 boasting of its Monboddos, Stewarts, Eobertsons, Blairs, 
 Mackenzies, and Gregorys, men who had already 
 begun the race of literary rivalry with their contem- 
 poraries south of the Tweed. But, so far as the lite- 
 rary excellence of these men did not depend oh theu* 
 participation in that tendency to abstract thinking 
 
102 SGOTTISR INFLUENCE IN 
 
 which had already produced its special fruit in the 
 Scottish Philosophy, it consisted in little more than a 
 ■ reflection or imitation of what was already common and 
 acknowledged in the prior or contemporary literature 
 of South Britain. To write essays such as those of the 
 Spectator ; to be master of a style which Englishmen 
 should pronounce pure, and to produce compositions in 
 that style worthy of being ranked with the compositions 
 of English authors : such was the aim and aspiration of 
 Edinburgh literati between whom and their London 
 cousins there was aU the difference that there is 
 between the latitude of Edinburgh and the latitude of 
 London, between the daily use of the broad Scotch 
 dialect and the daily use of the classic English. 
 For Scotland this mere imitation of English models 
 was a poor and unsatisfactory vein of literary enterprise. 
 What was necessary was the appearance of some man 
 of genius who should flash through aU that, and who, 
 by the application to literature, or the art of universal 
 expression, of that same Scottish habit of emphasis 
 which had already produced such striking and original 
 results in philosophy, should teach the Scottish nation 
 its true power in literature, and show a first example of 
 it. Such a man was Bums. He it was who, unitins 
 emotional fervour with intellectual emphasis, and draw- 
 ing his inspiration from all those depths of sentiment 
 in the Scottish people which his predecessors, the 
 
BRITISH LITERATURE. 103 
 
 philosophers, had hardly so much as touched, struck for 
 the first time a new chord, and revealed for the first 
 time what a Scottish writer could do by trusting to 
 the whole wealth of Scottish resources. From the time 
 of Bums, accordingly, there has heen a series of eminent 
 literary Scotchmen quite different from that series 
 of hard logical Scotchmen who had till then heen the 
 most conspicuous representatives of their country in the 
 eyes of the reading public of Great Britain— a series of 
 Scotchmen displaying the power of emphatic sentiment 
 and emphatic expression as strikingly as their pre- 
 decessors had displayed the power of emphatic reason- 
 ing. While the old philosophic energy of Scotland 
 still remained unexhausted — the honours of Eeid, 
 Hume, Smith, and Stewart passing on to such men 
 as Brown, Mill, Mackintosh, and Hamilton (in favour 
 of the last of whom even Germany has paused in her 
 philosophic interregnum) — the special literary energy 
 which had been awakened in the country descended 
 along another line in the persons of Scott, Jeffrey, 
 Chalmers, Campbell, Wilson, and Carlyle. Considering 
 the amount of influence exerted by such men upon 
 the whole spirit and substance of British literature, 
 considering how large a share of the whole literary 
 produce of Great Britain in the nineteenth century 
 has come either from them or from other Scotchmen, 
 and considering what a stamp of peculiarity marks 
 
104 SCOTTISH INFLTJMNCE IN LITEBATUBE. 
 
 all that portion of this produce which is of Scottish 
 origin, are we not entitled to say that the rise and 
 growth of recent Scottish literature is as notable a 
 historical phenomenon as the rise and growth of 
 the Scottish philosophy? Considering, moreover, how 
 lately Scotland has entered on this literary field, how 
 little time she has had to display her powers, how 
 recently she was in this respect savage, and how much 
 of her savage vitality yet remains to be articulated 
 in civilized books, may we not hope that her literary 
 avatar is but beginning and has a goodly course yet 
 to run ? From Solway to Caithness we hear a loud 
 ATiien. 
 
III. 
 
 THE LIEE AND POETRY OE SHELLEY. 
 
III. 
 
 THE LIFE AND POETRY OF SHELLEY.^ 
 
 Celebrated for many a transaction belonging to the 
 history of Italy, the fifty miles of Italian coast which 
 lie between Leghorn in Tuscany and Spezzia in the 
 Sardinian states possess also, in virtue of certain 
 events of which they were the scene in the summer 
 of 1822, a peculiar interest ia connexion with British 
 poetry. 
 
 Byron and SheUey were then , both living there. 
 Voluntary exiles, for similar reasons, from their native 
 land, and already personally known to each other, they 
 had been residing separately for several years in dif- 
 ferent parts of Italy ; during the few immediately pre- 
 ceding months they had been living in the same town 
 of Pisa, seeing each other daily, and becoming better 
 acquainted with each other; and now again they had 
 1 Maemillcm'a Magazine, September 1860. 
 
108 SHELLEY.- 
 
 just parted — Byron to take up his summer-quarters at 
 Leghorn, and Shelley his at a lonely spot near Lerici, 
 in the GuJf of Spezzia. The two poets were thus, for 
 the time, separated by the whole distance of the fifty 
 intervening miles. A circumstance which made their 
 separation rather unfortunate at the moment was that 
 a third English poet — Mr. Leigh Hunt — was then on 
 his way to Italy to join them. While Byron and 
 Shelley were still together at Pisa, it had been arranged 
 that Mr. Hunt should come out to them, and that the 
 three should start a political and literary periodical 
 which Byron had projected, and which, published at 
 Pisa, should electrify Europe. Kow that Byron and 
 Shelley had separated, the arrangement had to be 
 modified. Mr. Hunt was to join Lord Byron at 
 Leghorn; they were to be the active partners in the 
 periodical; and SheUey was but to visit them now 
 and then, and help them as much as he could from 
 his retreat at Lerici. Nor did the fifty miles of dis- 
 tance matter very much. Both Byron and SheUey 
 were passionately fond of the sea ; and yachting in 
 that lovely bit of the Mediterranean was one of the 
 pleasures that made them prefer Italy to England. 
 Byron had just bought a beautiful craft, built like a 
 man-of-war brig, to lie in Leghorn harbour, and be 
 ready at a moment's notice to carry him and his 
 friends Eoberts and Trelawny wherever they chose; 
 
SHELLEY. 109 
 
 and Shelley, according to his more modest tastes and 
 means, had prociu-ed a small open pleasure-boat, to 
 lie on the beach under the hiH •which rose behind his 
 solitary house, and to carry himself, Mrs. Shelley, and 
 any friend that might chance to visit them, along the 
 Bay of Spezzia, or even southward, at a stretch, as 
 far as Leghorn. With such means of communication, 
 there was little fear but that Byron, Hunt, and Shelley 
 would be often together ! Byron's dangerous-looking 
 craft, the Bolivar, showing her brazen teeth through her 
 miniature port-holes, would often be cruising north- 
 wards in the direction of Spezzia, and Shelley's white- 
 sailed boat would be seen coyly tacking to meet her ; 
 and, in the course of a month or two, the Italian pre- 
 ventive-men along the shore would know both well as 
 the vessels of the English poet-lord and his mysterious 
 fellow-countryman ! Alas ! and, to this day [1860], if 
 we consider only what was historically possible, those 
 two vessels or their successors might stOl have been 
 cruising familiarly, each with its owner aboard, on 
 the same tract of sea! Leigh Hunt, the oldest of the 
 three poets, was alive among us but a few 'months ago, 
 at the age of seventy- five ; had Byron lived, he would 
 now have been seventy-two; Shelley, had he lived, 
 would have been sixty-eight. In the summer of 
 which we speak Leigh Hunt was in his thirty-ninth 
 year, Byron in his thirty-fifth, Shelley in his thirtieth. 
 
IIU SHELLEY. 
 
 Looking at Shelley, as we can fancy him standing on 
 the beach at Lerici, what do we see ? A man still 
 young, rather tall, but bent a little at the shoulders 
 from weakness — with a very small head, and hair 
 naturally dark-brown and curling, but now prematurely 
 tinged with grey ; the face also singularly small, with a 
 pale or pinkish-pale complexion, large spiritual-looking 
 eyes, very delicate features, and an expression altogether 
 graceful, etherial, and feminine. Could we hear, him 
 speak, the impression would be completed by his voice. 
 This is described as having been very high and shrill, so 
 that some one who heard it unexpectedly in a mixed 
 company compared it to the scream of a peacock. On 
 the whole, seen or heard even for the first time, he was 
 a man to excite a feeling of interest, and a curiosity as 
 to his previous history. 
 
 Born the heir to an English baronetcy, and to more 
 than the usual wealth and consideration attending that 
 rank, the whole life of SheUey had been a war against 
 custom. At Eton the sensitive boy, almost girlish in 
 his look and demeanour, had nerved himself, with meek 
 obstinacy, though with secret tears, against every part 
 of the established system — not only against the tyranny 
 of his fellows, but also against the teaching of the 
 masters. It had been the same when he went to 
 Oxford. He was then a Greek scholar, a writer of 
 verses, an insatiable student of the metaphysics of 
 
SHELLEY. Ill 
 
 Berkeley and Hvune, an incessant reasoner with any 
 one that •would reason with Viim on points of philosophy 
 or politics, and in every such argument an avowed 
 Eevolutionist, and at least a hypothetical Atheist. In ' 
 the rooms of his college, or along the streets, his shrill 
 voice might be heard attacking Christianity, Eeligion, - 
 the very idea of a God. He was frantically earnest on 
 this subject, as if, by compelling discussion of it, he 
 were digging at the root of all evil. At length, tired 
 of merely talking with his acquaintances, he sent a 
 printed statement of his opinions to the University 
 authorities, challenging them to an argument with him 
 as to the necessity or utility of any religious belief 
 The act was ghastly, and the reply of the authorities 
 was his instant expulsion from the University. His 
 family were shocked, and could not tell what to make 
 of such a youth ; and, at the age of seventeen, he re- 
 moved to ^London to live as his own master. There he 
 printed and privately distributed a numbei$;of copies 
 of his Queen Mob, expanding and illustrating the 
 poetical Atheism of the text in appended prose notes. 
 He introduced himself by letter to men and women of 
 genius, trying to enlist them in the great war which he 
 had begun, and into which he thought the whole intel- 
 lectual world must follow, against Statecraft and Priest- 
 craft. He read with avidity Godwin's " Political Justice " 
 — ^in the doctrines of which book he found a new social 
 
112 SHELLHY. 
 
 gospel; and he resolved from that hour to square all 
 his actions by what he considered strict justice, without 
 reference to the opinions of others. At this time he 
 had, by arrangement with hi-s family, about 2001. a 
 year ; which income he was able to increase, by borrow- 
 ing on his expectations, or in other ways. His own 
 manner of living was extremely temperate ; indeed, for 
 several years he was a vegetarian in diet and drank only 
 water. He had thus money to spend on objects that 
 moved his charity. He was continually in quest of 
 such objects. Every social anomaly, almost every social 
 inequality, affected him intensely. If he saw a shiver- 
 ing beggar in the street asking alms beside a carriage, 
 his longing was nothing less than to add the beggar and 
 the carriage together on the spot and divide the sum by 
 two. The sole use of his own money seemed to him to 
 be to mitigate, as far as he could, these social inequalities. 
 He did the most extraordinary and the most generous 
 things. To give away twenty or thirty pounds, where 
 he fancied it would relieve distress, was nothing to him. 
 He involved himself in debt and serious inconvenience 
 by repetitions of such acts of benevolence. Nor was it 
 only with money that he was generous. His society, 
 his sympathy, beyond the range of the intellectual 
 occupations in which he delighted, were given, by pre- 
 ference, to the outcast and the wretched. It was in the 
 same spirit of contempt for usage that, when, in his 
 
SHELLEY. 113 
 
 twentieth year, his affections were engaged, he 
 married the object of them — the daughter of a retired 
 tradesman. After three years of married life, spent in 
 different places, and latterly not happily, he and his 
 ■wife had separated by mutual consent, she returning 
 with her two children to her father's house. Shelley 
 then formed the new connexion which ended in his 
 second marriage, and went abroad to travel. On his 
 return he resided for eighteen months in London — las 
 fortune increased about this time, by his grandfather's 
 death, to 1,000/. a year; which continued to be his 
 income as long as he lived. This was the time too of 
 his becoming acquainted with Leigh Hunt, and, through 
 him, with Keats. One of his first acts on becoming 
 acquainted with Leigh Hunt was to offer him 100/. ; 
 and Mr. Hunt hims elf has recorded that this was but 
 the beginning of a series of kindnesses almost unprece- 
 dented in the annals of Mendship. On one occasion 
 of exigency he gave Hunt 1,400/. It was while SheUey 
 was residing in London in 1815 that Alastor, or The 
 Spirit of SolUude was composed. Early in 1816 he 
 and his companion again went abroad. They resided 
 for about a year and a half in Switzerland and 
 in Italy. It was in Switzerland that they had 
 first become acquainted with Lord Byron, who was 
 then living there. On their return to England they 
 went to Bath ; and here it was that Shelley received the 
 
 I 
 
114 SHELLEY. 
 
 terrible news of the suicide of his wife. To the horror 
 of the event itself was added the public scandal which 
 followed when the relatives of the unhappy woman 
 instituted a suit in Chancery to prevent Shelley from 
 taking back his children. They grounded their suit on 
 the fact that Shelley was an avowed Atheist. On this, 
 as in itself a sufficiently legal plea, Lord Chancellor 
 Eldon gave judgment in their favoui-. As far as the 
 newspapers could carry the report of the trial, the 
 name and the antecedents of "the Atheist Shelley" had 
 thus been blazoned over Britain. When the judgment 
 was given, SheUey was residing with his second wife — 
 Mary WoUstonecraft Godwin — at Great Marlow in 
 Buckinghamshire. Here he had organised a regular 
 system of charity. He had pensioners among the 
 agricultural labourers and the poor silk-weavers all 
 round; he even studied medicine, and walked the 
 hospitals in London, that he might be of use to the 
 sick. But neither in Great Marlow, nor anywhere else 
 in England, could the philanthropy of a man who bore 
 the brand of Atheist be trusted or tolerated. His very 
 pensioners shrank from him, and took his money sus- 
 piciously. Strongly sensitive to such distrust, and 
 fearing also future interferences of the law of England 
 with his liberty, he had resolved, if even at the sacrifice 
 of all his rights of inheritance to the family property, 
 to leave England for ever. In the spring of 1818 he 
 
SHELLEY. 115 
 
 had carried out the resolution hy going to Italy. Before 
 leaving England, he had written his Revolt of Islam, 
 and many other pieces of yerse and prose which now 
 appear in his collected works ; hut the four years thaf^ 
 had elapsed since his arrival in Italy had been the 
 period of what are now esteemed his finest productions. 
 During those four years- — residing at Venice, at Eome, 
 at Naples, at Horence, and finally, as we have seen, at 
 Pisa — ^he had written his Frometfieus Unbound, his 
 Cend, his Hellas, his Julian and Maddalo, his Epi- 
 psychidion, his Witch of Atlas, his Ode to Naples, and his 
 Adonais, besides his translations in prose and verse 
 from Plato, Calderon, the Homeric poets, and Goethe. 
 During the same period, also, he had begun to take a 
 more direct interest than before in the current politics 
 of Britain and of Europe — working down his general 
 doctrines respecting Man and Society into strong 
 Eadical lyrics, and satires on the liverpool and Castle- 
 reagh administration, calculated to do rough service at 
 home; and throwing «iuch of his energy simultaneously 
 into what we now call the cause of the oppressed 
 nationalities. He had, indeed, a passion for being 
 practical, and had recently spent a great deal of 
 money on an attempt, which did not succeed, to 
 establish a steamboat between Leghorn and Mar- 
 seilles. 
 
 Such, from his birth, had been the twenty-nine years 
 
 T 2 
 
116 SHELLEY. 
 
 of wandering, of wild clamour and agony, of fitful 
 ecstasy of mind and heart, that had brought the poet, 
 a kind of intellectual outcast, to his Salvator-Eosa 
 solitude under the pine-hills of Spezzia, sloping to 
 the sea. Part of all this past life of error and suffer- 
 ing (for time is merciful) had, doubtless, been left 
 behind, melted and softened in the thin air of recol- 
 lection; but part remained incorporate in the very 
 being of the sufferer, not to be dissolved away even 
 by the Italian sun, or soothed by the softness of the 
 bluest heaven. 
 
 What proportion of the past had faded, and what re- 
 mained, it might be difficult to say. Among the things 
 that had faded, one might say with some certainty, was 
 the early crudity of his exulting Atheisin. 
 
 Even at first, had not SheUey himself assumed the 
 name of Atheist, and employed it as a signature, and 
 shrieked it wherever he went, and seemed sometimes to 
 riot in the very horror it produced, it may be doubted 
 whether, from any study of his poems, the name would 
 ever have been attached to him. He would have been 
 named, much more probably, a Pantheist, a Platonist, 
 or the like. A recognition of the supernatural, of at 
 least a spirit of intellectual beauty as pervading all 
 visible things, of human life as but an evanescent incar- 
 nation and short local battle of principles that have their 
 origin behind time and beyond the stars, seems the one 
 
SHELLEY. 117 
 
 characteristic of Shelley's poetry from the first, which 
 if we do not attend to, it has no logical coherence. In 
 all our literature it would be difficult to find a soul that 
 was less the soul of a Secularist. Only remember, in 
 contrast with him, Bunyan's typical Atheist in the 
 " Pilgrim's Progress." Christian and Hopeful are there 
 toiHng along on their road across a great plain, when 
 they perceive afar off one coming softly and all alone 
 meeting them, with his back towards that part of the 
 horizon behind which was the Zion to which they were 
 bound. This is " Atheist," who, when he comes up to 
 them, announces to them, with a leering positiveness, 
 that it is all a mistake — that there is no God and no 
 Zion, and that they may as well go back with him, and 
 snap their thumbs at being rid once for all of that 
 troublesome delusion. Not so, certainly, at any time 
 with Shelley ! If he denies Zion and Christianity, and 
 assaUs Christian and Hopeful for believing in them, it 
 is as one walking, with mad eagerness, while he does 
 so, in the same direction with them, scanning as intently 
 the distant sky, and blaspheming sideways in their ears 
 what he does not see, not because his eyes have ceased 
 one moment to look for it, but out of a wild sorrow 
 that it is not to be seen. A gleam, and one fancies he 
 would falter in the middle of his talk, he would start 
 and shade his eyes to gaze, he would fall to the ground 
 weeping ! Now, although there is no evidence that the 
 
118 SHELLEY. 
 
 gleam ever came, though he stUl in his later years, as 
 in his earlier, kept talking sideways at Christian and 
 Hopeful in language which made them shudder, yet 
 not only did he not cease to hurry on with them, but 
 the very language of his sarcasm underwent a modi- 
 fication. Mr. Browning has stated it as his belief that, 
 had Shelley lived, he would have ranged himself finally 
 with the Christians. I do not feel that we are entitled 
 to say so much as this ; for his latest letters show, I 
 think, that much of what had been accoujited, in this 
 respect, the darkest peculiarity of his life, still remained 
 with him. 
 
 Of what else remained that which was perhaps most 
 obvious to those about him was the shattered state of 
 his nerves. Always of weak health, nothing but his 
 temperate habits could have kept him alive so long; 
 and now he was often racked by a pulmonary pain, 
 which seemed to augur that, in any case, he had not 
 many years to live. But, beyond this, the morbid 
 nervous excitement induced by such a life as his had 
 been had begun to manifest itself in that abnormal 
 action of the senses which makes men subject to 
 visions, apparitions, and the terrors of waking dream. 
 Various instances of such hallucinations, or nervous 
 paroxysms, are recorded by his biographers. Thus, 
 wMle he was staying at Oreat Mario w, he alarmed 
 his friends and the neighbourhood by a story of a 
 
SHELLEY. 119 
 
 fight he had had with a bura;lar who had tried to 
 murder him in the night ; for which story, it is helieved 
 by some, there was no foundation in fact. So also, 
 as some believe, with the story which he told of an 
 Englishman condng up to him at the Post-of6.ce at Pisa, 
 when he was inquiring for his letters, and knocking 
 him down, with an oath, as "that Atheist Shelley." 
 But the most extraordinary instance is that recorded 
 ia the diary of Captain Williams as having happened 
 at Lerici itself during the very days of his last residence 
 there. " Monday, May 6th," writes Captain Williams, 
 "after tea, walking with Shelley on the terrace, and 
 "observing the effect of moonshine on the waters, he 
 " complained of being unusually nervous; and, stopping 
 " short, he grasped me violently by the arm, and stared 
 "stedfastly on the white surf that broke upon the 
 " beach under our feet. Observing him sensibly affected, 
 " I demanded of him if he were in pain. But he only 
 " answered by saying ' There it is again — there ! ' He 
 " recovered after some time, and declared that he saw, 
 " as plainly as he then saw me, a naked child rise from 
 "the sea and clap its hands as in joy, smiling at him." 
 This was on the 6th of May, 1822. Two months after- 
 wards the omen was fulfilled. 
 
 Towards the end of June the news came that Leigh 
 Hunt had arrived in Genoa, and was on his way to 
 Leghorn. Shelley and Williams, who had been busy 
 
120 SHELLEY. 
 
 with their new boat, resolved to set out in her to 
 welcome Hunt. The weather had been overpower- 
 ingly hot, and the sea swollen and louring ; but on 
 the 1st of July a fine breeze sprang up, and they 
 weighed for Leghorn. They performed the voyage in 
 seven hours and a half, and anchored that night in 
 ^jeghom harbour beside the Bolivar, on board of which 
 they slept. Next day, and for five days more, there 
 were greetings of Hunt and his family, journeys with 
 them and Byron to Pisa and other places, and much 
 talk about the prospects of the new periodical. Un- 
 luckily, on account of some fray iu Byron's house, 
 which had brought an Italian servant of his within 
 the grip of the Tuscan police, his Lordship had taken 
 a sudden determination to leave Tuscany; and Shelley's 
 chief care was to get such arrangements made as would 
 prevent Hunt from being inconvenienced by this change 
 of plan. He did aU he could to secure this ; and on the 
 8th of July, taking leave of Hunt, BjT^on, and others, 
 he and Williams set out on their return to Lerici. An 
 English sailor lad, named Charles Vivian, accompanied 
 them in the boat. There were some fears for the 
 weather, which for some days had been calm and 
 sultry, but was now changed ; but Shelley could not 
 be persuaded to remain. The boat had not gone many 
 miles, when one of the terrible squalls that occur in 
 that part of the Mediterranean came on, and the friends 
 
SHELLEY. 121 
 
 left at Leghorn became anxious. Captain Eoberts, ■n-lio 
 had been watching the boat on her homeward track 
 with a glass from Leghorn lighthouse, saw her last, 
 when the storm came on, off Via Eeggio, at some 
 distance from the shore, hugging the wind with a 
 press of canvas. The storm then spread rapidly lite' 
 a dark mist, and blotted out that part of the horizc^, 
 enveloping the distant little boat and several largel 
 vessels that were also out. When the storm passed on- 
 wards from that quarter. Captain Eoberts looked again, 
 and saw every vessel except the little one, which had 
 vanished. Within that storm had been the apparition 
 
 of the naked babe! For days and days there was 
 
 great anxiety among the friends on shore. At length 
 the sea itself told all that ever was to be known of the 
 mystery, by washing ashore the three bodies — that of 
 Shelley, that of Williams, and that of the boy Vivian 
 — on different parts of the coast. The body of Shelley 
 was burnt on a pyre of wood, heaped with wine, salt, 
 frankincense, and perfumes, near the spot where it had 
 been cast ashore, Byron, Hunt, Trelawny and others 
 assisting at the ceremony. The collected ashes were 
 conveyed to Eome and there buried. 
 
 Whatever rank one may be disposed to assign, aU in 
 aU, to Shelley among English Poets, no reader can deny 
 that his genius was of the poetical order, that he pos- 
 
122 SHELLEY. 
 
 sessed in a singular degree the faculty of ideality, of, 
 pure imagination. His larger poems are well and even 
 carefully conceived as wholes, according to the peculiar 
 kind of constructive art of which they are specimens. 
 The language is logically precise, easy, graceful, and 
 luxuriant; the versification is natural, various, and 
 musical; and there are individual passages of acute 
 and even comprehensive philosophical meaning, of 
 powerful and delicate description, of weirdly and ex- 
 quisite phantasy, and of tender and concentrated feel- 
 ing. In his descriptions and visual fancies one notices, 
 among other things, a wonderfully fine sense of colour.. 
 Thus Asia, in the Prometheus Unbound, expecting, in a 
 vale of the Indian Caucasus, the arrival of her sister 
 Oceanid, Panthea : — 
 
 " This is the season, this the day, the hour ; 
 At sunrise thou shouldst come, sweet sister mine. 
 Too long denied, too long delaying, come ! 
 The point of one white star is quivering still. 
 Deep in the orange light of widening morn 
 Beyond the purple mountains. Through a chasm 
 Of wind-divided mist the darker lake 
 Eeflects it : now it wanes : it gleams again 
 As the waves fade, and as the burning threads 
 Of woven cloud unravel in the thin air : 
 'Tis lost ; and through yon peaks of cloud-like snow 
 The roseate sunlight quivers : hear I not 
 The Mo]iz!a. music of her sea-green plumes 
 "Winnowing the crimson dawn ? " 
 
SSELLEY. 123 
 
 Perhaps one of the finest continuous passages ia all the 
 larger poems is the concluding portion of the same 
 drama, where, partly in choruses of unseen spirits, and 
 partly in. dialogue between Prometheus and the Oceanids 
 in a forest near his cave, the glorious state of the eman- 
 cipated world of the Promethean era, when Jove is 
 dethroned, and Love and Justice reign, is set forth in 
 mystic allegory. The foUowing speech of Panthea may 
 serve as a specimen of the part that is in dialogue. The 
 new or Promethean earth is figured by the vision of a 
 vast solid sphere, as of crystal, filled with multitudinous 
 shapes and colours, yet all miraculously inter-tran- 
 spicuous, which is seen rushing, as in a whirlwind of 
 harmony, through an opening of the forest, grinding, as 
 it wheels, a brook that flows beneath iato an azure mist 
 of light, and whirling grass, trees, and flowers into a 
 kneaded mass of aerial emerald. Withia this strange 
 orb the Spirit of the Earth is seen asleep, like a wearied 
 child, pillowed on its alabaster arms, which are laid over 
 its folded wiugs. Its lips are seen moving as in a 
 smiling dream ; and from a star upon its forehead there 
 shoot swords and beams of fire, which whirl as the orb 
 whirls, and transpierce its otherwise opaque bulk with 
 radiant lightnings. In the light of these incessant shafts 
 all the secrets of the earth's interior, from the circuna- 
 ference to the core, are revealed in continuous trans- 
 lucence : — 
 
124 SHELLEY. 
 
 " Infinite mines of adamant and gold, 
 Valueless glories, unimagined gems, 
 And caverns on crystalline columns poised. 
 With vegetable silver overspread ; 
 Wells of unfathomed fire, and water-springs 
 Whence the great sea, even as a chUd, is fed. 
 Whose vapours clothe earth's monarch mountain-tops 
 With Idngly ermine-snow. The heams flash on 
 And make appear the melancholy ruins 
 Of cancelled cycles — anchors, beaks of ships, 
 Planks turned to marble, quivers, helms, and spears. 
 And gorgon-headed targes, and the wheels 
 Of scythed chariots, and the emblazonry 
 Of trophies, standards, and armorial beasts — 
 Kound which death laughed ; sepulchred emblems 
 Of dead destruction, ruin within ruin ! 
 The wrecks beside of many a city vast 
 Whose population which the earth grew over 
 Was mortal, but not human : see, they lie. 
 Their monstrous works and uncouth skeletons, 
 Their statues, homes and fanes — prodigious shapes 
 Huddled in grey annihilation, split. 
 Jammed in the hard black deep ; and, over these, 
 The anatomies of unknown winged things. 
 And fishes which were isles of living scale, 
 And serpents, bony chains, twisted around 
 The iron crags, or within heaps of dust 
 To which the tortuous strength of their last pangs 
 Had crushed the iron crags ; and over these 
 The jagged alligator, and the might 
 Of earth-convulsing behemoth, which once ' 
 Were monarch-beasts, and on the slimy shores 
 And weed-overgrown continents of earth 
 
SBELLEY. 125 
 
 Increased and multiplied like summer-worms 
 On an abandoned corpse, till the blue globe 
 Wrapt deluge round it like a cloak, and they 
 Yelled, gasped, and were abolished ; or some God 
 Whose throne was in a comet passed and cried 
 ' Be not,' and, like my words, they were no more." 
 
 Passages in a different vein might be quoted, as these 
 lines of apophthegm in the " Cenci : " — 
 
 " In the great war between the young and old 
 I, who have white hairs and a tottering body, 
 WUl keep at least blameless neutrality ; " 
 
 or this fine image : — 
 
 " Life, Kke a dome of many-coloured glass, 
 Stains the white radiance of eternity." 
 
 In some of the rougher political poems — as in the 
 burlesque of CEdvpus Tyrannus, and in Peter Bell the 
 Third — there is even a kind of fierce popular wit, 
 appealing to the coarsest understanding, and intended 
 to do so. Nor is it necessary to refer to those shorter 
 lyrical pieces. The Sensitive Plant, The Cloud, the Ode 
 to the- Skylark, &c., which are known even to those 
 who know nothing else of Shelley, and read again and 
 again for their melody, 
 
 " Sweet as a singing rain of silver dew." 
 
 In others of these lyrical pieces what intensity of 
 pathos ! Who that has ever heard Beatrice's wild song 
 
126 SHELLEY. 
 
 in the "Cenci" sung as it should be can forget its 
 plaintive horror? — 
 
 " False friend, wilt thou smile or weep 
 When my life is laid asleep ? 
 Little cares for a smile or a tear 
 The clay-cold corpse upon the bier. 
 
 Farewell ! Heigh ho ! 
 
 What is this whispers low ? 
 There's a snake in thy smile, my dear ; 
 And bitter poison within thy tear." 
 
 After all, however, less than almost any other poet, 
 is Shelley to be adequately represented in detached 
 "passages. "" His poetry is like an intellectual ether, that 
 must be breathed and lived in for some time ere its 
 influence can be appreciated. To minds of sufficient 
 culture, who have in this way become acquainted with 
 Shelley's poetry (and only minds of considerable 
 culture are likely ever to read much of it), it has 
 always presented itself as something very peculiar in 
 quality — totally different, for example, from the poetry 
 of Milton, or of Wordsworth, or of Byron, or of any 
 other preceding poet. To this, at least, Shelley's poetry 
 can lay claim — that, whether great or not, whether 
 useful or hurtful in its influence, it is very peculiar. 
 
 Eetaining for the nonce a distinction, somewhat pe- 
 dantic in form, and greatly laughed at of late by the 
 lovers of plain English (but which need not be given 
 
SHELLEY. 1£7 
 
 up, for all that, till the lovers of plain English have 
 provided an exact equivalent), one cannot do better 
 than repeat the observation, often made already, that 
 Shelley belongs to the order of the so-called "sub--' 
 jective" poets, as differing from those called the 
 "objective." The terms do express a real meaning. 
 There are some poets — as, for example, Chaucer, 
 Shakespeare, and Scott — whose poetry consists, in the 
 main, of combinations, more or less complex, of scenery, 
 incident, and character, each fashioned by a kind of 
 wondrous craft out of materials furnished to the ima- 
 gination by sense, memory, reading, and reflection, and 
 each, as soon as it is fashioned, detached altogether, 
 or nearly so, from the personality of the writer, and 
 sent to float away as a separate creation down the 
 stream of time. In the case of these so-called "ob- 
 jective " poets, it is a problem of the highest difficulty 
 to ascertain the personal character from their works. 
 Out of one set of materials Shakespeare fashions a 
 " Hamlet ; " then he sets about a " Macbeth ; " then 
 he betakes himself to a "Henry the Fourth," or a 
 " SCdsummer Night's Dream ; " but whether Shake- 
 speare himself is most in one or in another of these 
 creations, is a matter not to be lightly determined on 
 mere internal evidence. We see those creations sepa- 
 rately and successively issuing from Shakespeare's 
 mind, and we know that they were fashioned there by 
 
SHELLEY. 
 
 a subtle craft operating upon materials that had been 
 brought into that mind from the surrounding world ; 
 but what kind of chamber that mind was — of what 
 glooms, griefs, or distractions it may have been the 
 scene while the labour of creation was going on in 
 it — the works themselves do not accurately inform us. 
 For- fifty years the world is amazed and delighted with 
 gorgeous phantasies of colour, representing, as they 
 were never represented before in painting, the phases 
 of universal nature; and, when these phantasies are 
 traced to their source, they are found to be from the 
 hand of a taciturn and slovenly old man, named 
 Turner, shambling about ia his slippers in a dusty 
 cobwebby house in London, and reputed by those who 
 knew no better to be very gruff and very avaricious, 
 and to have apparently no other usual human taste 
 than a fondness for port wine. Of course, even in such 
 cases, independent knowledge of the man may enable 
 us to discern him in his works. There are, moreover, 
 for critics profound enough in their investigations, 
 subtle laws connecting the imagination with the per- 
 sonality and the life. But any such ultimate con- 
 nexion, discovered or discoverable, between the personal 
 character of the "objective" poet and the nature of 
 his creations is a far different thing from the obvious 
 relation subsisting between the character of the " sub- 
 jective" poet and his phantasies. Here we are never 
 
SEELLHT. 129 
 
 at a loss. The poetry of the "subjective" poet is 
 nothing else than an effluence from his personality • 
 through the medium of his imagination. He has certain 
 fixed ideas, certain permanent moods of mind, certain 
 notions as to what ought to be and what ought not to 
 be ; and these ideas, moods, or notions, he works forth 
 into all that he fancies. He preaches while he sings ; 
 what he imagines is a revelation of what he wishes. 
 He does not live in a house of stone (to use a figure 
 which, I think, is Mr. Browning's), communicating only 
 by certain chinks and embrasures with the world 
 without, and in which the possessor, while commandiug 
 a prospect all round, may keep himself and his own 
 movements concealed. He lives in a house of glass, 
 expressing his feelings as to what he sees in gestures 
 visible to all about him, and employing the poetic art 
 only as a means of flashing his own image and its 
 successive gesticulations to a greater and greater dis- 
 tance. Here too the means of the poetic art correspond 
 with the intention. The "subjective" poet, the poet 
 of fixed ideas — dealing, as it is his tendency to do, 
 not with things as they are in their infinite real 
 complexity, but with the supposed principles of things, 
 the springs or seeds of being, — such a poet may frame 
 his pictures out of the stuff of real life, if he chooses, 
 just as the "objective" poet does; but even then, 
 owing to the invariable meaning which he infuses into 
 
 K 
 
130 SHELLEY. 
 
 them, they will be in one strain, and more or less 
 repetitions of each other. In Byron's poetry, for 
 example, under very various forms, we have still a 
 reproduction of the Byronic type of character. On 
 the whole, however, it wUl be the tendency of the 
 " subjective " poet of the most determined type not to 
 take his scenery and circumstance from the real or 
 historical world at all — not to hamper himself with the 
 actual relations of time, place, and historical probability 
 — but, as he concerns himself morally with Man in 
 his primal elements, so to deal also with material 
 nature as simplified into its masses and generalizations. - 
 In other words, he wUl lay his scene anywhere in 
 vague time or space ; he will make his persons gigantic, 
 mythical, and featureless, and will unfetter the mode 
 of their actions from the ordinary terrestrial laws ; 
 and the objects amid which they move he will depict 
 as visual allegories. Hence that well-known deficiency 
 of human interest which often prevents poetry of this 
 kind from being widely popular. Most men like to 
 have their footing on a solid flooring of fact and 
 history, and do not take nearly so much pleasure in 
 a world of a few elemental ingredients and relations, 
 fashioned to illustrate the action of a few supposed 
 springs of being, as they do in representations of the 
 living and moving complexity of our own wrinkled 
 planet. 
 
SHELLEY. 131 
 
 The distinction we have been expoundiag is, of 
 course, not absolute. It would be dif&cult to name a 
 poet belonging so purely to one of the orders as to 
 have nothing in him of the other. On the whole, 
 however, Shelley is eminently a "subjective" poet. 
 In his CeTid, his Julian and Maddalo, and one or two 
 other poems, he does make it his aim to represent 
 historical occurrences, and scenes and feehngs as they 
 are found in actual life. But, in the main, he is a 
 poet of fixed ideas — a poet dealing incessantly with 
 the seeds and springs of being, and illustrating his 
 notions of these in imaginations of an arbitrary and 
 mythological character. His Poetry is, in fact, a kind 
 of ail-hung Mythology, shadowing forth the essential 
 principles of a creed which might be called SheUeyism. 
 What this creed was we have already partly seen in 
 our sketch of his life ; but a word or two more may 
 be added. 
 
 At one time Shelley had, as he tells us himself, 
 been a Materialist in philosophy. That is to say, he 
 regarded the universe as consisting of an original basis 
 or consolidation of matter of the kind called Inorganic, 
 upon which there had been reared, or out of which 
 there had somehow grown, a quantity of other and 
 more highly developed matter of the kind called 
 Organic, ascending in a hierarchy of forms, with Man 
 
 K 2 
 
132 SRELLEY. 
 
 at the apex. According to this philosophy, in thinking 
 of the universe, one is bound to think of matter and 
 of nothing else — matter lying dead and obdurate, or 
 matter pervaded by electricities, nerve-forces, and what 
 not, so as to be locomotive, sensitive, active, and reflec- 
 tive. But this philosophy Shelley had soon and very 
 decidedly abandoned ; and, instead of it, he had taken 
 up what is called th^^stern of Idealism. According 
 to this philosophy — which he had got at through 
 Hume and Berkeley, and partly through Plato, — not 
 Matter, but Thought, is the fundamental reality of the 
 universe. Everything is thought; nothing exists but 
 ■in and through thought. What we .call external 
 objects, what we call matter itself, is but thought of 
 a certain quantity and variety, distinguished from 
 thought recognised as such by certain accidents of 
 force, frequency, and the like. Thoughts in certain 
 successions, and in certain degrees of intensity : that 
 is aU we know anything of. The universe is but 
 a certain coagxilation or huge bubble-mountain of 
 thoughts — the harder and more coagulated parts of the 
 mass, crushed by the gravity of the others, constituting 
 what we call matter, and forming a permanent basis 
 for all; and the rest ascending in successive stages 
 of tenuityjill they end in the ether of once-imagined 
 whimsies. But, this being the case, it follows that 
 the universe may be continually added to and disturbed 
 
SHELLEY. 133 
 
 in its fabric. Thoughts being things, and the mind 
 having the power of pouring forth a constant succession 
 of new thoughts, these really rush into the fabric of 
 the past accumulation, and, in adjusting themselves 
 and finding their places, disturb its porosity, and keep 
 it continually agitated. Ai^bove all, the poet, whose 
 very business it is to send forth new imaginations of 
 a great and impressive character, is thus always 
 agitating, disturbing, and remodelling creation. This 
 is a doctrine which Shelley is perpetually repeating 
 in his prose-writings. " Imagination," he says, " or 
 mind employed prophetically in imaging forth its 
 objects, is the faculty of human nature on which every 
 gradation of its progress — nay, every, the minutest, 
 change — depends." According to Shelley, aU the 
 thoughts of aU minds are adding to and altering the 
 universe ; but it is the business of the poet, by certain 
 splendid precalculated imaginations, either softly to 
 disintegrate the mass of previously accumulated ex- 
 istence, so that it shall fall into new arrangements, 
 or sometimes to convulse, crack, and rend this mass 
 by the blast of a wholesome explosion through what 
 was previously a chaos. The Poet would thus be 
 pre-eminently the Keformer. 
 
 So far we have but the theoretical side of SheUey's 
 system. The difficulty is to see how, when he had 
 risen theoretically to the extreme of his Idealism, he 
 
134 SHELLEY. 
 
 turned in mid- air, and came back on the world in a 
 scheme of practical reason. Admit the universe to 
 be a coagulation of old thoughts, modifiable by new 
 ones, what kinds of new thoughts will make the right 
 and desirable modificatioii ? What is the principle, 
 what the rule, what the right and wrong, in thought ? 
 The poet, as the reformer-in-chief for the human race, 
 has to employ himself in splendid pre-calculated 
 imaginations, which, rushing forth from him, shall 
 softly arrange things in new harmonies, or violently 
 split their way with revolutionary force ! Well, 
 wherein consists the splendour to be desired in these 
 imaginations, and on what principles are they to be 
 precalculated ? Here, as is often the case with philo- 
 sophers, there is a gap in which we cannot see the 
 links connecting Shelley's theoretical or ascending with 
 his practical or descending reason. ^ But he has a 
 practical system, and a very definite one. Unlike 
 Hume, he ascends to the extreme of Idealism, not to 
 end in indifference or scepticism, but to descend again 
 all the more vehemently upon the world of man and 
 life, armed with a faith. He speaks, indeed, of Deity, 
 and other such ideas, as being only "the modes in 
 which thoughts are combined ; " but it is evident, what- 
 ever he calls them, that it is only the presence or the 
 absence of certain ideas of this class that constitutes, 
 in his view, the difference between the right and the 
 
SHELLEY. ' 135 
 
 wrong, between tlie splendid and the mean, in thougEt. 
 Thoughts combined so are eternally noble and good ; 
 thoughts combined otherwise are eternally ignoble and 
 bad- — no man ever cherished a belief of this kind more 
 passionately than Shelley. No man, therefore, had 
 more of the essence of an absolute ethical faith, of a 
 faith not fabricated out of experience, but structurally 
 derived from an authority in the invisible. Theoretically 
 an idealist, he was morally a fanatic. "I have con- 
 fidence in my moral sense alone, for that is a kind 
 of originality," is one of his own significant sayings. 
 His whole life is an illustration. His brief existence 
 in the world was one continued shriek about love 
 and justice. He had "a passion," he says, "for re- 
 formiug the world." Nor was it a superficial reform 
 that he contemplated. From first to last, as he 
 thought, human society had been an aggregate of 
 wrong and corruption. Kings, priests, and govern- 
 ments had iilled the earth with misery. Bound by 
 sophisms and slavish fears, men and women were Kving 
 defrauded of their natural rights, and out of their 
 natural relations. 
 
 " Kings, priests, and statesmen blast the human flower 
 Even ia its tender bud ; their influence darts, 
 Like subtle poison, through the bloodless veins 
 Of desolate society." 
 
 But this state of things is not to last for ever ! There 
 
136 SHELLEY. 
 
 will one _d ay be a reign of truth and love, of ju stice 
 and social equality ! , 
 
 " Spirit of Kature ! thou 
 life of interminable multitudes, 
 Soul of those mighty spheres 
 Whose changeless paths through Heaven's deep 
 silence lie. 
 Soul of that smallest being 
 
 The dwelling of whose life 
 Is one, faint April sun-gleam — 
 Man, like these passive things, 
 Thy will unconsciously fulfiUeth : 
 Like theirs, his age of endless peace. 
 Which Time is fast maturing, 
 Will swiftly, surely, come ; 
 And the unbounded frame which thou pervadest 
 Will be without a flaw 
 Marring its perfect symmetry." 
 
 This is Shelley's fixed faith, the burthen of all his 
 poetry. It was his own aim as a poet to send forth 
 sounds that might shake the reign of "Anarch Custom," 
 and hasten the blessed era in whose coming he believed. 
 Nor was it only on the great scale that he desired 
 to be a prophet of love and justice. He was to carry 
 out his principle to its minutest applications, promoting 
 
 every movement for the mitigation of s ocial or indi- 
 vidual suffering, and so constit u ting himself, as w elL 
 in literature asin action, what nature, J aJraming-him- 
 so delicately, had fi tted hi m to be — 
 
SSELLMY. 137 
 
 " A nerve o'er wliich. might creep 
 The else unfelt oppressions of this earth." 
 
 Here we recur to a question already opened. What- 
 ever SheUey's formal affirmations respecting the doc- 
 trines of Deity and Immortality might he, it is clear 
 that the fanatical intensity of his ethical creed implied 
 a habit of viewing the world from a point out of 
 itself, and hy the rule of ideas not belonging to it. 
 Had his principle been " to apprehend no farther than 
 this world," why such spasm, why such wailing, such 
 rage agaiost universal wrong, such frantic longing to re- 
 fashion human nature from its very roots ? On such a 
 principle, it is true, a man might be so far a reformer. 
 He might seek to correct the earth by itself, the part by 
 the knowledge of the whole, social evils in Asia by the 
 experience of Europe. But for a man to start up and 
 proclaim the whole past movement of humanity to have 
 been wrong, and to propose to arrest it, and shift its 
 very wheels, is a different matter. This was SheUey's 
 proposition. He did not propose only that the world] 
 should be corrected by itself, the part by the whole, but 
 that it should be corrected by a rule eternal and im- 
 mutable, which he sometimes called love or justice, and 
 sometimes the spirit of universal nature. There was i 
 Heart beating somewhere, to whose pulsations the eartl 
 as a whole was rebel, but which would yet subdue thi i 
 earth to unison with it ; and, meanwhile, the agents o I 
 
138 SHELLEY. 
 
 good and the harbingers of the final harmony were to 
 be those imaginations of man which, by relating them- 
 selves to this Heart, were to be prematurely in unison 
 with it, and at war with the earth and its customs. 
 Nothing short of this belief, however he phrased it, 
 was the principle of Shelley's practical philosophy. 
 Seeing that it was so, might not we say that, like his 
 own Prometheus, he had tipped his reed with stolen 
 fire? 
 
 Argument and metaphysics apart, there is, at least, 
 no way in which the fancy may more easUy apprehend 
 the peculiarity of Shelley's genius than by thinking of 
 him as one who surveyed the world not from a point 
 within it or on it, but from a point in distant space. 
 Better still, perhaps, one might think of him as not a 
 native of the earth at aU, but some fluttering spirit of 
 a lighter sphere, that had dropped on the earth by 
 chance, unable to be in happy relation to it as a whole, 
 though keenly sensitive to some of its beauties. Were 
 our science of pedigree worth anything, it might save 
 us the necessity of any such figure. Eemembering 
 that the year of Shelley's birth was that of the utmost 
 agony of the French Eevolution, when convulsion was 
 shaking all things established, and new social principles 
 were everywhere abroad, we might then have a glim- 
 mering how it happened that the genius of the time 
 took a whim to appear even in Sussex, and bespeak as 
 
S3ELLEY. 139 
 
 one of its incamations the child of a commonplace 
 English haronet, who had never bargained for such an 
 honour. But, unable to make anything to the purpose 
 of such a scientific fancy, we may resort to the other. 
 Shelley's personal friends used to resort to it. " I used 
 to tell him," says Leigh Hunt, " that he had come from 
 the planet Mercury." One may vary the form of the 
 fancy; and, though the pale planet Mercury, the 
 sickly darHag of the sun, seems such an orb as Shelley 
 might have come from, had he come from any, it might 
 be fitter to fancy that he had come from none, btt, 91 
 tin he touched our earth, had been winging about in 
 unsubstantial ether. When Milton's rebel host left the 
 celestial realms, angels flocking on angels and the great 
 Archangel leading, might we not suppose that some small 
 seraph, who had joined the rebellion, lagged behind the 
 rest in his flight, became detached from them by regret 
 or weakness, and, unable to overtake them, was left to 
 flutter disconsolate and alone amid the starry spaces ? 
 Excluded from Heaven, but not borne down with the 
 rest into Pandemonium, if this creature did at last 
 come near our orb in his wanderings, might it not 
 become his refuge; and then might we not suppose 
 that, though retaining the principle of rebellion — so 
 that, when the Highest was named, he would shriek 
 against the name — yet his recollections of his original 
 would be purer, and his nature less impaired, than if. 
 
140 SHELLEY. 
 
 instead of transparent space, populous Pandemonium 
 had been his intermediate home ? 
 
 Whatever form we give to the fancy, the character- 
 istics of Shelley's poetry are such as to accord with it. 
 Intense as is his ethical spirit, his desire to act upon 
 man and society, his imagination cannot work with 
 things as he finds them, with the actual stuff of^ 
 historical life. His mode of thinking is not according 
 to the terrestrial conditions of time, place, cause and 
 effect, variety of race, climate, and costume. His 
 persons are shapes, winged forms, modernized versions 
 of Grecian mythology, or mortals highly allegorized; 
 and their movements are vague, swift, and independent 
 of ordinary physical laws. In the Bevolt of Islam, 
 for example, the story is that of two lovers who career 
 through the plains and cities of an imaginary kingdom 
 on a Tartar horse, or skim over leagues of ocean in a 
 boat whose prow is of moonstone. But for the Genci, 
 and one or two other pieces, one would say that 
 Shelley had scarcely any aptitude for the historical. 
 Even in his sensuous imagery the same arbitrariness 
 is apparent. His landscapes, like his persons, are a 
 sort of allegories. His true poetical element, where 
 alone he takes things as he finds them, is the atmo- 
 sphere. Shelley is preeminently the poet of what 
 may be called meteorol ogical circumstance. He is at 
 home among winds, mists, rains, snows, clouds gorgeous- 
 
SHELLEY. 141 
 
 ly coloTired, glories of sunrise, nights of moonshine, 
 lightnings, streamers, and falling stars; and what of 
 vegetation and geology he hrings in is but as so much 
 that might be seen by an aerial creature in its ascents 
 and descents. TTis poetry is fall of direct and all but 
 conscious suggestions of this. Need we cite, as one, 
 his Ode to the Skylark, that "scomer of the ground," 
 whose sldll he covets for the poet ? Then there is his 
 lyric of The Cloud : — 
 
 " I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, 
 
 Por the seas and the streams ; 
 I bear light shade for the leaves when laid 
 
 In their noon-day dreams ; 
 From my wings are shaken the dews that waken 
 
 The sweet birds every one. 
 When rocked to rest on their mother's breast 
 
 As she dances about the sun ; 
 I wield the flail of the lashing haU, 
 
 And whiten the green plains under. 
 And then again I dissolve ia rain. 
 
 And laugh as I pass in thunder." 
 
 Aga-JTi in his Invocation to the West Wind, in which, 
 expressly imploring it to be his spirit, he dedicates 
 himself as it were, to the meteorological for ever : — 
 
 " wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, 
 Thou from whose imseen presence the leaves dead 
 Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing. 
 
 Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is ! 
 
142 SHELLEY. 
 
 What if my leaves are falling like its own? 
 The tumult of thy mighty harmonies 
 
 Will take from both a deep autumnal tone, 
 Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, spirit fierce, 
 My spirit ! Be thou me, impetuous one ! 
 
 Drive my dead thoughts over the universe. 
 Like withered leaves, to quicken a new birth ; 
 And, by the incantation of this verse, 
 
 Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth 
 Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind ! 
 Be through my lips to unawakened earth 
 
 The trumpet of a prophecy ! wind, 
 
 If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind ? 
 
IV. 
 THE LIPE AND POETRY OE KEATS. 
 
IV. 
 
 T3E LIFE AND POETRY OF KEATS} 
 
 Keats was bom in Moorfields, London, in October 
 1795, the son of a livery-stable keeper of some 
 wealth, who had attained that position by marrying 
 his master's daughter and so succeeding him in the 
 business. There were five children, four sons and a 
 daxighter, of whom John was the third. The father, 
 who is described as an active, energetic little man of 
 much natural talent, was killed by a fall from a horse 
 at the age of thirty-six, when Keats was in his ninth 
 year ; and the care of the children devolved upon the 
 mother, a taU, large-featured woman, of considerable 
 force of character. There was also a maternal uncle, 
 a very tall, strong, and courageous man, who had been 
 in the navy, had served under Duncan at Camper- 
 down, and had done extraordinary feats in the way 
 of fighting. Partly in emulation of this uncle, partly 
 ' Macmillcm's Magazine, Noyember 1860. 
 
146 KEATS. 
 
 _ 
 
 from constitutional inclination, the boys were always 
 fighting too — in the house, about, the stables, or out 
 in the adjacent streets, with each other, or with any- 
 body else. John, though the shortest for his years, 
 and the most like his father, was the most pugnacious 
 of the lot; but with his pugnacity he combined, it is 
 said, a remarkable sensibility, and a great love of fun. 
 This character he took with him to a boarding-school 
 at Enfield, near London, kept by the father of Mr. 
 Charles Cowden Clarke, then also a boy, not much 
 older than Keats, receiving his education under his 
 father's roof. At school, Keats, according to the 
 recollections of Mr. Clarke and others of his school- 
 fellows, was at first a perfect little terrier for resolute- 
 ness and pugnacity, but very placable and frolicsome, 
 very much liked, and, though not particularly studious, 
 very quick at learning. There would seem to have 
 been more of pleasant sociability between the family 
 of the master and the scholars in the school at Enfield, 
 and more of literary talk at bye-hours, than were then 
 common at private English schools. At all events, 
 when, by the death of his mother, of lingering con- 
 sumption, in 1810, the guardianship of Keats, his two 
 surviving brothers, and his only sister, devolved on a 
 Mr. Abbey, a London merchant who had known the 
 family, and when Mr. Abbey thought it best to take 
 two of the boys from school and apprentice them to 
 
KEATS. 147 
 
 professions, it was felt by Keats to be a very bappy 
 arrangement that he was apprenticed to a surgeon- 
 apothecary at Edmonton, so near to Enfield that he 
 could still go over when he liked to see the Clarkes. 
 He was then fifteen years of age. His share of the 
 family property, held for him by his guardian till he 
 came of age, was about 2,000Z. ; and his apprenticeship 
 was to last five years. 
 
 Erom Edmonton Keats was continually walking over 
 to Enfield to see his young friend, Cowden Clarke, 
 and to borrow books. It was some time ia 1812 that 
 he borrowed Spenser's Faeri/ Queene. The effect was 
 immediate and extraordinary. "He ramped," says 
 Mr. Clarke, "through the scenes of the romance;" 
 he would talk of nothing but Spenser; he had whole 
 passages by heart, which he would repeat; and he 
 would dwell with an ecstasy of delight on fine par- 
 ticular phrases, such as "the sea-shouldering whale.'' 
 His first known poetical composition (he was then 
 seventeen) was a piece expressly entitled " In Imi- 
 tation of Spenser." 
 
 " Now Morning from her orient chamber came, 
 And her first footsteps touch'd a verdant hill, 
 Crowning its lawny crest with amber flame, 
 Silvering the untainted gushes of its rOl ; 
 Which, pure from mossy beds," &c. 
 
 From that moment it seemed as if Keats lived only 
 
 L 2 
 
148 KEATS. 
 
 to read poetry and to write it. From Speuser he 
 ■went to Chaucer, fi'om Chaucer to Milton, and so on 
 and on, with ever-widening range, through all our 
 sweeter and greater poets. He luxuriated in them by 
 himself; he talked about them, and read parts of 
 them aloud to his friends ; he became a critic of their 
 thoughts, their words, their rhymes, their cadences. 
 His chief partner in these tastes was Mr. Cowden 
 Clarke, with whom he would take walks, or sit up 
 whole evenings, discoursing of poets and poetry; and 
 he acknowledges, in one of his metrical epistles, the 
 influence which Mr. Clarke had in forming his literary 
 likings. Above all, it was Mr. Clarke that first intro- 
 duced him to any knowledge of ancient Greek poetry. 
 This was effected by lending him Chapman's Homer, 
 his first acquaintance with which, and its effects on 
 him, are celebrated in one of the finest and best- 
 known of his sonnets. Thenceforward Greek poeti'y, 
 so far as it was accessible to him in translation, bad 
 peculiar fascinations for him. By similar means he 
 became fondly familiar with some of the softer Italian 
 poets, and with the stories of Boccaccio. It was 
 noted by one of his friends that his preferences at 
 this time, whether in EugUsh or in other poetry, were 
 still for passages of sweet, sensuous description, or of 
 sensuous-ideal beauty, such as are to be found in the 
 minor poems of Milton, Shakespeare and Chaucer, and 
 
KEA TS. 149 
 
 in Spenser througliout, and that he rarely seemed to 
 dwell with the same enthusiasm on passages of fervid 
 feeling, of severe reference to life, or of powerful 
 human interest. At this time, in fact, his feeling for 
 poetry was very much that of an artist in language, 
 observing effects which particularly delighted him, and 
 studying them with a professional admiration of the 
 exquisite. He brooded over fine phrases like a lover; 
 and often, when he met a quaint or delicious word 
 in the course of his reading, he would take pains to 
 make it his own by using it, as speedily as possible, 
 in some poem he was writing. Ah ! those days of 
 genial, enjoying youth, when, over the fire, with a 
 book in one's hand, one got fine passages by heart, 
 and, in walks with one or two choice companions, 
 there was an opening of the common stock, and hours 
 and miles were whiled away with tit-bits of recent 
 reading from a round of favourite poets ! Those were 
 the days when books were books ; and it is a fact to 
 be remembered, as regards literature, that one half of 
 the human race is always under the age of twenty-one. 
 Before Keats's apprenticeship was over, it was pretty 
 clear to himself and his friends that he would not 
 persevere in becoming a surgeon. In the year 1816, 
 when he came from Edmonton to London, at the age 
 of twenty, he did indeed enter himself as a student 
 at the hospitals ; but he very soon gave up attending 
 
150 KEATS. 
 
 them, and found more agreeable employment in the 
 society of Leigh Hunt, Shelley, Godwin, Dilke, Oilier, 
 the painter Haydon, Hazlitt, Charles Armitage Brown, 
 and others whose names are less remembered. In this 
 society of artists and men of letters — forming, so far 
 as the literary ingredient was concerned, the so-called 
 "Cockney School," as distinct from the "Lakists" of 
 the North of England, and from, the Edinburgh men 
 who gave both of them their names — Keats at once 
 took a prominent place, less on account of what he 
 had actually done than on the promise of what he 
 was to be. On first settling in London, he had taken 
 lodgings in the Poultry, in the heart of the City ; but, 
 as soon as he had abandoned the idea of following 
 the medical profession, he removed to Hampstead, a 
 suburb of London as you approach it from the north. 
 
 London, with all the evils resulting from its vast- 
 ness, has suburbs as rich and beautiful, after the 
 English style of scenery, as any in the world; and 
 even now, despite the encroachments of the ever- 
 encroaching brick and mortar on the suiTounding 
 country, the neighbourhood of Hampstead and High- 
 gate, near London, is one in which the lover of 
 natural beauty and the solitary might well delight. 
 The ground is much the highest round London; there 
 are real heights and hollows, so that the omnibuses 
 
KEATS. ISl 
 
 eoming from town have to put on additional horses ; 
 you ascend steep roads, lying in part through villages 
 of quaint shops, and old, high-gabled brick houses, 
 still distinct from the great city, though about to be 
 devoured by it — in part through straggling lines of 
 villas, with gardens and grassy parks round them, 
 and here and there an old inn ; and, from the highest 
 eminences, when the view is clear, you can see London 
 left behind, a mass of purplish mist, with domes and 
 steeples visible through it. Where the villages end, 
 you are reaUy in the country. There is the Heath, 
 on the Hampstead side — an extensive tract of knolls 
 and Uttle glens, covered here and there with furze, 
 all abloom with yellow in the summer, when the 
 larks may be heard singing over it; threaded here 
 and there by paths with seats in them, or broken by 
 clumps of trees, and blue rusty-nailed palings, which 
 enclose old-fashioned family-houses and shrubberies, 
 where the coachman in livery may be seen talking 
 lazUy to the gardener; but containing also seques- 
 tered spots where one might wander alone for hours, 
 or lie concealed amid the sheltering furze. At night, 
 Hampstead Heath would be as ghastly a place to 
 wander in as an uneasy spirit could desire. In every 
 hollow, seen in the starlight, one could fancy that 
 there had been a murder; nay, tradition points to 
 spots where foul crimes have been committed, or 
 
152 KEATS. 
 
 where, in the dead of night, forgers, who had walked, 
 with discovery on their track, along dark intervening 
 roads, from the hell of lamp-lit London, had lain 
 down and poisoned themselves. In the day, however, 
 and especially on a bright summer day, the scene is 
 open, healthy, and cheerful. On the on6 side, is a 
 view across a green valley, called " The Vale of 
 Health," to the opposite heights of Higbgate; on the 
 other, the eye traverses a flat expanse of fields and 
 meadows, stretching for many miles northward, and 
 looking, in its rich level variety, like a miniature 
 representation of all England. And then the lanes 
 all about and around, leading away from the Heath, 
 deep and steep, between high banks and along the 
 old church and churchyard, and past little ponds and 
 gardens, and often ending in footpaths through fields, 
 where one has to get over stiles ! 
 
 All this of Hampstead and its. vicinity even now 
 [I860]; but, forty years ago, it was stDl better. At 
 that time London itself was a different city. There 
 was less smoke ; there were no steamers on the river ; 
 and from the overspanning bridges the water could be 
 seen running clear beneath, with the consciousness of 
 fish in it. Then, too, the conveyance between London 
 and such suburbs as Hampstead and Highgate .was 
 not by omnibuses passing every five minutes, but by 
 the old stage-coaches, with their guards and horns, 
 
KEATS. Ib'i 
 
 coming and going leisurely twice or thrice a day. Ii 
 those days, therefore, Hampstead and Highgate wert 
 still capable of having an individuality of their own 
 and of having associations fixed upon them by th< 
 occupations of their residents, even though these wert 
 in London daily, and were, by their general designa 
 tion, properly enough, Londoners. Part of their cele 
 brity now, indeed, arises from associations thus formed 
 Old Leigh Hunt, visiting those scenes not long befor* 
 his death, would point out the exact wooden seat oi 
 the Heath where he and Keats, or where he anc 
 Shelley, sat when such and such a poem was recited 
 or the exact spot in a path through the fields wher( 
 Coleridge took leave of him and Charles Lamb, t( 
 dawdle back to his home at Highgate, and wher( 
 Lamb, while the departing skirts of the sage wen 
 visible, stuttered out some pun about his persona 
 appearance and his last metaphysical monologue. A 
 the particular time of which we are now speakinj 
 Leigh Hunt was living at Hampstead, where als( 
 lived Mr. Aimitage Brown, a retired merchant o 
 literary tastes, and others of whom it is not neces 
 sary to take note; and there, in. the evenings, at thi 
 houses of such men, artists and others would dro] 
 in ; and then, ye future critics of Blackwood anc 
 the Quarterly, what wit there would be, what music 
 what portfolios of sketches and engravings, what whiti 
 
154- KEATS. 
 
 casts from the antique, what talk about poetry and 
 literature ! From that time, with scarcely an excep- 
 tion, Hampstead was the London home of Keats — 
 first as a guest of Leigh Hunt, or a lodger, near to 
 him; and afterwards, and more permanently, as a 
 guest of Mr. Armitage Brown. Indeed, just as 
 Wordsworth and his associates were supposed to have 
 constituted themselves into a school by retiring to 
 Cumberlaiid and "Westmoreland, in order to be in 
 closer relations to nature, as exhibited in that dis- 
 trict of lake and mountain, so it might have been 
 suggested maliciously of Keats, Hunt, and the rest of 
 their set, that the difference between them and the 
 elder school was that what th^i/ called ISTature was 
 Nature as seen from Hampstead Heath. As the one 
 set of poets had received from their Edinburgh critics 
 the name of "the Lakists," so, to make the joke 
 correspond, the others, instead of being called " the 
 Cockney Poets," might have been named the ifiarap- 
 stead Heath-ens. 
 
 Keats signalized his accession to this peculiar 
 literary group by publishing, in 1817, a little volume 
 of poems, containing some of his sonnets and other 
 pieces now appended to his longer and later com- 
 positions. The volume scarcely touched the attention 
 of the public, though it served to show his power to 
 
KEATS. 155 
 
 his immediate friends. He was then two-and-twenty 
 years of age; and his appearance was rather singular. 
 Coleridge, who once shook hands with him, when he 
 met him with Hunt in a lane near Highgate, describes 
 him as "a loose, slack, not well-dressed youth." The 
 descriptions of Hunt and others are more particular. 
 He was considerably under middle height, his lower 
 Umbs being small, in comparison with the upper, to 
 a degree that marred his whole proportion. His 
 shoulders were very broad for his size ; his face was 
 strongly cut, yet delicately mobile, expressing an un- 
 usual combination of detemunation with sensibility, 
 its worst feature being the mouth, which had a pro- 
 jecting upper lip, and altogether a savage pugilistic 
 look. Nor did the look belie him. He had great 
 personal courage, and once took the trouble to thrash 
 a butcher for some insolent conduct in a regular 
 stand-up fight. His hair was brown, and his eyes 
 large, and of a dark, glowing blue. " His head," says 
 Leigh Hunt, "was a puzzle for the phrenologists, 
 "being remarkably small in the skull — a singularity 
 " which he had in common with Byron and Shelley, 
 " whose hats I could not get on.'' His voice, unlike 
 Shelley's, was deep and grave. His entire expres- 
 sion was that of eager power; and, in contradiction 
 of what was observed of him at an earlier period, he 
 was now easily, though still apparently against his 
 
156 KEATS. 
 
 will, betrayed into signs of vehement emotion. " At 
 the recital of a noble action, or a beautiful thought," 
 says Mr. Hunt, "his eyes would suffuse with tears, 
 and his mouth trembled." On hearing of some un- 
 manly conduct, he once burst out, "Why is there 
 not a human .dust-hole into which to tumble such 
 fellows?" Evidently iU-health, as well as imagina- 
 tive temperament, had to do with this inability to 
 restrain tears and other signs of agitated feeling. His 
 mother had died of consumption at a comparatively 
 early age; his younger brother, Tom, was already far 
 gone in the same fatal malady; and, though there 
 was as yet no distinct symptom of consumption in 
 Keats, he was often flushed and feverish, and had his 
 secret fears. He had many hours of sprightliness, 
 however, when those fears would vanish, and he would 
 be full of frolic and life. In allusion to this occa- 
 sional excess of fun and animal spirits, his friends 
 punned upon his name, shortening it from " John 
 Keats" into "Junkets." StUl, amid all — in his times 
 of despondency, as well as in his seasons of hope — 
 Poetry was his ceaseless thought, and to be a Poet 
 his one ambition : — 
 
 " for ten years, that I may overwhelm 
 Myself in Poesy ! So I may do the deed 
 That my own soul has to itself decreed ! " 
 
KEATS. 15'! 
 
 Of what kind this intended deed was we have alsc 
 some indication. Like all the fresher young poets ol 
 his time, Keats had imbibed, partly from constitu- 
 tional predisposition, partly from conscious reasoning 
 that theory of Poetry which, for more than twenty 
 years, Wordsworth had been disseminating by precepi 
 and by example through the literary mind of Eng 
 land. This theory, ia its historical aspect, I wil 
 venture to call Pre-JDrydenism. Its doctrine, histori 
 caUy, was that the age of true English Poetry wai 
 the period anterior to Dryden — the period of Chaucei 
 Spenser, Shakespeare, Fletcher, and Milton — and that 
 with a few exceptions, the subsequent period, fron 
 Dryden inclusively down to the time of Words 
 worth's own appearance as a poet, had been a prosai 
 interregnum, during which what passed for poetry wa 
 either an inflated style of diction which custom hai 
 rendered pleasing, or, at best, shrewd sense and wil 
 or miscellaneous cogitation, more or less weighty, pu 
 into metre. 
 
 Take an example. Here are two stanzas from 
 weU-knowu paraphrase of Scripture, still sung i: 
 churches over a large part of the kingdom. 
 
 " In life's gay mom, when sprightly youth 
 With vital ardour glows. 
 And shines in all the fairest charms 
 Which beauty can disclose. 
 
158 KEATS. 
 
 Deep on thy soul, before its powerr 
 Are yet by vice enslaved. 
 
 Be thy Creator's glorious name 
 And character engraved." 
 
 "to* 
 
 How remorselessly Wordsworth would have torn this 
 passage to pieces — as, indeed, he did a similar para- 
 phrase of Scripture by Dr. Johnson ! " Life's gay 
 morn ! " " sprightly youth ! " he would have said, — 
 meaningless expressions, used because it is considered 
 poetical to stick an adjective before every noun, and 
 " gay " and " sprightly " are adjectives conveniently in 
 stock ! Then, " sprightly youth with vital ardour 
 glows" — what is this but slip-shod; and, besides, why 
 tug the verb to the end of the phrase and say "with 
 vital ardour glows," instead of "glows with vital 
 ardour," as you would do in natural speech? 0, 
 of course, the rhyme ! Yes ; but who asked you 
 to rhyme at aU, in the first place? and, in the 
 next place, if you were bent on rhyming, and found 
 " ardour " would not suit at the end of your pre- 
 cious line, that was your difficulty, not mine! What 
 are you a poet for but to overcome such difficul- 
 ties, or what right have you to extract the rhythms 
 and rhymes that you want in your craft as a ver- 
 sifier from the mere torture of honest prose? And 
 then, worse and worse, "Youth," already "glowing," 
 with this "vital ardour," also, it seems, "shines," 
 
KEATS. 159 
 
 and (marvellous metaphor !) shines " with charms " — 
 which " charms " (metaphor stOl more helpless !) are 
 " the fairest charms disclosed by beauty ! " And so 
 on he would have gone, pointing out the flaws of 
 meaning and of expression in the next stanza in the 
 same stern manner. Pass, he would, have said at last, 
 from this poor jingle of words to the simple and 
 beautiful text of which it is offered as a paraphrase : 
 "Eemember now thy Creator in the days of thy 
 youth, while the, evil days come not, nor the years 
 draw nigh, when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure 
 in them." The defects, he would have continued, seen 
 on a small scale in the foregoing metrical version of 
 this passage, were visible throughout the whole course 
 of English poetry after Milton — with here and there, 
 as in Thomson and Dyer, a remarkable exception. 
 There was then no faithfulness to fact in description 
 or in imagery from natiure, no natural speech in verse, 
 nothing save more or less of intellectual vigour ex- 
 hibited through an artificial form of diction, to which 
 men had grown so accustomed that they had ceased 
 to inspect it logically. Even men of real genius, 
 such as Dryden himself and Pope, were, in the bulk 
 of their writings, but splendid practitioners of a false 
 style, which, when people had been educated to see 
 its viciousness, would mar their fame as poets. 
 
 I am not here discussing Wordsworth's theory; I 
 
160 KEATS. 
 
 am only stating it. Keats, I repeat, had adopted this 
 theory, if not in all its particulars, at least in its 
 essence. Thus, in one of his pieces, after speaking of 
 the greatness of his old favourite English poets, he 
 says— i'£,^ = ., ^ :: /-^-./ . 
 
 " Could all this be forgotten ? Yes, a schism 
 Nurtured by foppery and barbarism 
 Made great Apollo blush for this his land. 
 Men were thought wise who could not understand 
 His glories : with a puling infant's force 
 They sway'd about upon a rocking-horse 
 And thought it Pegasus. Ah, dismal-soul'd ! 
 The winds of heaven blew, the ocean roll'd 
 Its gathering waves ; — ye felt it not. The blue 
 Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew 
 Of summer-night collected still to make 
 The morning precious ; Beauty was awake ! 
 Why were ye not awake ? But ye were dead 
 To things ye knew not of, — were closely wed 
 To musty laws, lined out with wretched rule 
 And compass vile ; so that ye taught a school 
 Of dolts to smoothe, inlay, and clip and fit. 
 Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit. 
 Their verses taUied. Easy was the task : 
 A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask 
 Of poesy. Ill-fated, impious race ! 
 That blasphemed the bright Lyrist to his face, 
 And did not know it ! No, they went about. 
 Holding a poor decrepit standard out, 
 Mark'd with most flimsy mottoes, and, in large, 
 The name of one Boileau 1 " 
 
KEATS. lei 
 
 Keats, then, was a Pre-Drydenist in his notions of 
 poetry, and in his own intentions as a poetic artist. 
 But I will say more. "Wordsworth had then so far 
 conquered the opposition through which he had been 
 struggling that a modified Pre-Drydenism was univer- 
 sally diffused through English literary society, and 
 the so-called Cockney, or Hampstead-Heath School, 
 with whom accident had associated Keats, were largely 
 tinged with it. They did not, indeed, go all the 
 length with Words worth, in depreciating Dryden and 
 Pope (as who could ^; but a superior relish for the 
 older poets was one of their avowed characteristics. 
 But in this, I believe, Keats went beyond the rest of 
 them. It may be perceived, I think, that, with aH 
 his esteem for Hunt and Shelley, . both as kind per- 
 sonal friends and as poets, he had notions respecting 
 himself which led him, even while in their society 
 and accounted one of them, to fix his gaze with 
 steadier reverence than they did on the distant veteran 
 of Eydal Mount. To Wordsworth alone does he seefn 
 to have looked as, all in all, a sublimity among con-^ 
 temporary poets. 
 
 So far, however, as Keats had yet been publicly 
 heard of, it was only as one fledgling more in the 
 brood of poets whose verses were praised in the 
 Examiner. The things he had yet published were but 
 little studies in language and versification, preparatory 
 
 M 
 
162 KEATS. 
 
 to sometliing that could be called a poem. Such a 
 poem he now resolved to write. Always drawn by 
 a kind of mental affinity to the sensuous Mythology 
 of the Greeks, he had chosen for his subject the 
 legend of Endymion, the youthful lover of the moon- 
 goddess Artemis. "A long poem," he said, "is the 
 test of invention ; and it will be a test of my inven- 
 tion if T can make 4,000 lines out of this one bare 
 circumstance, and fill them with poetry." To accom- 
 plish his task, he left London in the spring of 1817, 
 and took up his abode first in the Isle of Wight, then 
 at Margate (in both of which places he revelled in 
 the views of the sea as a newly-found pleasure), and 
 then, successively, at Canterbury, Oxford, and other 
 places inland. In the winter of 1817-18 he returned 
 to Hampstead with the four books of his Endymion 
 completed. The absence of seven or eight months, 
 during which this poem was written, was also 
 the period in which many of those letters to his 
 friends were written that have been edited by Mr. 
 Monckton Milnes, in his Memoir of the poet. These 
 letters have hardly received the attention they deserve. 
 They are very remarkable letters. One can see, indeed, 
 that they are the letters of an intellectual invalid, of 
 a poor youth too conscious of " the endeavour of this 
 present breath," watching incessantly his own morbid 
 symptoms, and communicating them to his friends. 
 
KEATS. 163 
 
 There is also in them a somewhat unnatural straining 
 after quaint and facetious conceits, as if he would not 
 write common-place, but would force himself by the 
 mere brief rumination of the moment into some 
 minute originality or whim of fancy. On the whole, 
 however, with the proper allowance, the letters may 
 be read without any injury to the highest notion of 
 him that may be formed from his compositions that 
 were meant for publication ; and there have not been 
 many yoimg poets of whose casual letters as much 
 could be said. They abound in shrewd observations, 
 in delicate and subtle criticisms, ia fine touches of 
 description, and in thoughts of a philosophical kind 
 that are at once comprehensive and deep. 
 
 "Endymion: A Poetic Romance" appeared in the 
 beginning of 1818. Its reception was not wholly satis- 
 factory. It made Keats's name more widely known; 
 it procured him visits and invitations ; and, when he 
 attended Hazlitt's lectures, ladies to whom he was 
 pointed out looked at him instead of listening to the 
 lecturer. But Hunt, Shelley, and the rest, though they 
 admired the poem, and thought some passages in it very ' 
 wonderful, had many faults to find. The language in 
 many parts was juvenile, not to say untasteful; such 
 phrases as " honey-feel of bliss " were too frequent ; it 
 was impossible for any understanding of a rational sort 
 
 M 2 
 
1G4 KEATS. 
 
 to reconcile itself to such, a bewildering plenitude of 
 luxuriant iuYention raised on such a mere nothing of a 
 basis ; and, on the whole, there was too evident a way- 
 wardness in the sequence of the thoughts, arising from 
 a passive dependence of the matter at every point on the 
 mere suggestion of the rhyme ! These and other such 
 objections were heard on all hands. Worst of aU, 
 Wordsworth had no approbation to give. At Haydon's, 
 one evening, when Wordsworth was present, Keats was 
 induced to repeat to him the famous Hymn to Pan, which 
 Shelley had praised as that in the whole poem which 
 "gave the surest sign of ultimate excellence." The iron- 
 grey poet heard it to the end, and then only remarked 
 that it was " a pretty piece of paganism." And so, with 
 no more encouragement than usually falls to the lot of 
 a young man in such cases, Keats had to keep his own 
 counsel, and look forward to other works, in which, 
 choosing more solid subjects, he should exert his powers 
 more compactly and impressively, and win, by better- 
 disciplined strokes, the recognition which the world 
 yields so slowly to forms of genius differing from' those 
 to which it has been accustomed. His was certainly a 
 new faculty, which had to create and educate the taste 
 by which it should itself be appreciated ; and his hope, 
 therefore, lay with the body of the growing youth of 
 the land, whose perpetual privilege it is that they alone 
 can receive and enjoy without criticising. No man 
 
KEATS. 165 
 
 was ever fully and heartily accepted, among Ms own 
 sex, except by those younger than himself. 
 
 Keats, there is no doubt, was prepared to wait and 
 work on. The story of his having been killed by the 
 savage article in the Quarterly is proved to have been 
 wholly untrue. He had sense enough and com-age 
 enough to get over that chagrin within the usual period 
 of twenty-four hours, which, if there is any use for 
 human spirits in the earth's rotation, ought to bring 
 them as well as other things round again to the status 
 quo. But other causes were ait work, some of which are 
 but dimly revealed by his biographer, but the chief of 
 which was his hereditary malady of consumption. In 
 the winter of 1819-20 he was seized with the fatal blood- 
 spitting he had long dreaded; after a few months of 
 lingering, during which he seemed partly to fight with 
 Death as one to whom life was precious, partly to long 
 to die as one who had nothing to live for, he was 
 removed to Italy ; and there, having suffered much, he 
 breathed his last at Eome on the 23d of February, 1821, 
 at the age of twenty-fi.ve years and four months. He 
 had wished for " ten years " of poetic life, but not half 
 that term had been allowed him. The sole literary 
 event of his life, after the publication of his Endymion 
 in 1818, had been the publication of his Lamia, The Eve 
 of St. Agnes, and Other Poems, in 1820 ; and the sole 
 variation of his manner of life had consisted in his 
 
166 KEATS. 
 
 leaving Hampstead for a ramble or a residence in the 
 country, and returning again from the country to 
 Hampstead or London. 
 
 After all, whether a man is a poet, a philosopher, or a 
 man of action, there is a common standard by which he 
 may be tried, so as to measure his relative intellectual 
 importance. The determination of this standard is 
 difficult ; but ultimately, I believe, the truest measure 
 of every man, in intellectual respects, is the measure 
 of his speculative or purely philosophical faculty. So 
 far as this may be demurred to, the objection will arise, 
 I fancy, from the practical difficulty of applying the test. 
 It is only certain poets that give us the opportunity 
 of judging of the strength of their rational or purely 
 noetic organ — that faculty by which men speculate, or 
 frame what are called "thoughts" or "propositions." 
 Whenever this is done, however, then, cceteris paribus, 
 the deeper thinker is the greater poet. Hence it is 
 an excellent thing for the critic to catch his poet 
 writing prose. He has him then at his mercy ; he can 
 keep him in the trap, and study him through the 
 bars at his leisure. If he is a poor creature, he will 
 be found out; if he has genuine vigour, then, with 
 all allowance for any ungainliness arising from his 
 being out of his proper element, there will be evi- 
 dences of it. Now,, tried by any test of this kind, 
 
KEATS. 167 
 
 Keats will be found to have been no weakling. The 
 following passages from his prose letters, for example, 
 are, I believe, thoughts of pith and substance, whether 
 absolutely true or not: — - 
 
 " Men of Genius are great as certain ethereal 
 chemicals operating on the mass of neutral intellect, 
 but they have not any individuality, any determined 
 character. I would call the top and head of those 
 who have a proper self Men of Power." 
 
 " Men should bear with each other ; there is not the 
 man who may not be cut up, ay, lashed to pieces, on 
 his weakest side. The best of men have but a portion 
 of good iu them — a kind of spiritual yeast in. their 
 frames which creates the ferment of existence — by 
 which a man is propelled to act and strive and buffet 
 with circumstance. The sure way is, first to know a 
 man's faults, and then be passive. If, after that, he 
 insensibly draws you towards him, then you have no 
 power to break the link." 
 
 " I had, not a dispute, but a disquisition, with Dilke 
 upon various subjects. Several things dovetailed in 
 my mind, and at once it struck me what quality went 
 to form a man of achievement, especially in literature, 
 and which Shakespeare possessed so enormously — I 
 mean Tiegative capability ; that is, when a man is cap- 
 able of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, 
 without any irritable reaching after fact and reason, 
 . . . This, pursued through volumes, would perhaps 
 take us no farther than this — that, with a great poet, 
 the sense of beauty overcomes every other considera- 
 tion, or rather obliterates every other consideration." 
 
168 KEATS. 
 
 "An extensive knowledge is necessary to thinking 
 people : it takes away the heat and fever, and helps, 
 by widening speculation, to ease the burden of the 
 mystery." 
 
 " Axioms in philosophy are not axioms till they have 
 been proved upon our pulses." 
 
 " I compare human life to a large mansion of many 
 apartments; two of which only I can describe — the 
 doors of the rest being as yet shut upon me. The 
 first we step into we call the Infant or Thoughtless 
 Chamber; in which we remain as long as we do not 
 think. We remain there a long while, and, notwith- 
 standing the doors of the second chamber remain wide 
 open, showing a bright appearance, we care not to 
 hasten to it, but are imperceptibly impelled by the 
 awakening of the thinking principle within us. We 
 no sooner get into the second chamber, which I shall 
 call the Chamber of Maiden Thought, than we become 
 intoxicated with the light and the atmosphere. We 
 see nothing but pleasant wonders, and think of delay- 
 ing there for ever in delight. However, among the 
 effects this breathing is father of, is that tremendous 
 one of sharpening one's' vision 'into the heart and 
 nature of man, of convincing one's nerves that the 
 world is full of misery and heart-break, pain, sickness, 
 ; and oppression ; whereby this Chamber of Maiden 
 Thought becomes gradually darkened, and, at the same 
 time, on all sides of it, many doors are set open, but all 
 dark — all leading to dark passages. We see not the / 
 ■balance of good and evil; we are in a mist; we feel 
 the 'Burden of the Mystery.' To this point was 
 Wordsworth come, as far as I can conceive, when he 
 wrote Tintern Abbey: and it seems to me that his 
 
KEATS. 169 
 
 genius is explorative of those dark passages. Now, 
 if we live and go on thinking, we too shall explore 
 them. He is a genius, and superior to us in so far as 
 he can, more than we, make discoveries, and shed a 
 light on them." 
 
 As the aphorisms and casual spurts of speculation 
 of a youth of twenty-two (and all the passages I 
 have quoted are from letters of his written before his 
 twenty-third year), these, I think, are sufficient proof 
 that Keats had an intellect from which his superiority 
 in some literary walk or other might have been surely 
 anticipated. 
 
 What we independently know enables us to say 
 that it was pre-eminently as a poet that he was fitted 
 to be distinguished. He was constitutionally a poet, 
 one of those minds in whom, to speak generally, 
 Imagination or Ideality is the sovereign faculty. But, 
 as we had occasion to explain in the paper on 
 Shelley, there are two recognised orders of poets, 
 each of which has its representatives in our literature 
 ^-thatorder,_called_ "3Jlbjectiye,^l_Jo^ jwhich Shelley 
 himself belonged, and whose peculiarity it is that 
 their poems are vehicles for certain fixed ideas lying 
 in the minds of their authors, outbursts of their per- 
 sonal character, impersonations under shifting guises 
 of their wishes, feelings and beliefs ; and that order, 
 on the other hand, distinguished as "objective," who 
 
170 KEATS. 
 
 simply fashion their creations by a kind of inventive 
 craft working amid materials supplied by sense, 
 memory, and reading, without the distinct infusion 
 of any element of personal opinion. To this latter 
 order, as 1 said, belong Chaucer, Shakespeare, and 
 Scott. Now, indubitably, Keats, by the bulk of his 
 poetry, belongs to this order too. The contrast be- 
 tween him and SheUey, in this respect, is complete. 
 Contemporaries and friends, they were poets of quite 
 opposite schools and tendencies; and, so far as they 
 were repelled by each other's poetry (which they 
 were to a certain extent, despite their friendship), it 
 arose from this circumstance. Unlike the feminine 
 and ethereal Shelley, whose whole life was a shrill 
 supernatural shriek in behalf of certain principles, 
 Keats was a slack, slouching youth, with ■ a thick 
 torso, a deep grave voice, and no fixed principles. 
 He had, as we have seen, his passing spui-ts of 
 speculation, but he had no system of philosophy. 
 So far as religious belief was concerned, he had no 
 wish to disturb existing opinions and institutions, 
 partly because he had really no such quarrel with 
 them as Shelley had, partly because he had no con- 
 fidence in his ability to dogmatise on such points. In 
 politics, away from his personal connections, he was 
 rather conservative than otherwise. He thought the 
 Liverpool-and-Castlereagh policy very bad and oppres- 
 
KEATS. 171 
 
 sive ; but he did not expect that his friends, the 
 Liberals, would briag things very much nearer to the 
 millennium ; and he distinctly avows that he was not, 
 like some of his friends, a Godwin-perfectibUity man, 
 or an admirer of America as an advance beyond 
 Europe. In short, he kept aloof from opinion, doc- 
 ti'ine, controversy, as by a natural instinct; he was 
 most at home in the world of sense and imagery, 
 where it was his pleasure to weave forth phantasies; 
 and, if his intelligence did now and then indulge in 
 a discursive flight, it was but by way of exercise, or 
 because opinions, doctrines, and controversies may be 
 considered as facts, and therefore as materials to be 
 worked into poetic language. 
 
 In quoting from Keats's letters I have purposely 
 selected passages showing that such was not only his 
 practice, but also his theory. His very principle of 
 poetry, it wiU be observed, almost amounts to this, 
 that the poet should have no principles. The dis- 
 tinction he makes between men of genius and men 
 of power is that the action of the former is like that 
 of an ethereal chemical, a subtle imponderable, passing 
 forth on diverse materials and rousing their affinities, 
 whereas the latter impress by their solid individuality. 
 So, again, when he speaks of the quality that forms 
 men for great literary achievement as being what he 
 calls a "negative capability" — a power of remaining. 
 
172 KEATS. 
 
 and, as it were, luxuriously lolling, in doubts, mys- 
 teries, and half-solutions, toying with them, and toss- 
 ing them, in aU their complexity, into forms of 
 beauty, instead of piercing on narrowly and in pain 
 after truth absolute and inaccessible. A Wordsworth, 
 he admits, might have a genius of the explorative 
 or mystery-piercing kind, and might come back from 
 his excursions into the region of the metaphysical 
 with handfuls of new truth to be worked up into his 
 phantasies. But even he might be too dogmatic; and, 
 as for himself, though he might fancy that occa- 
 sionally he reached the bourn of the mysterious and 
 caught glimpses beyond, it would be presumption to 
 put his half-seeings into speech for others ! If any 
 doubt still remains on this head, the following addi- 
 tional passage from one of his letters will set it at 
 rest : — 
 
 "As to the poetical character itself (I mean that 
 sort of which, if I am anything, I am a member) it 
 is not itself; it has no self; it is everything and 
 nothing; it has no character; it enjoys light and 
 shade ; it lives in gusts ; it has as much delight in 
 conceiving an lago as an Imogen. What shocks the 
 virtuous philosopher delights the chameleon poet. . . . 
 A poet is the most unpoetical thing in existence, be- 
 cause he has no identity; he is continually in, for, 
 and filling, some other body. The sun, the moon, 
 the sea, and men and women who are creatures of 
 impulse, are poetical, and have about them an un- 
 
KEATS. ITS 
 
 changeable attribute ; tLe poet has Bone, no identity. 
 ... If, then, he has no self, and if I am a poet, ] 
 where is the wonder that I should say I would write ■ 
 no more ? flight I not at that very instant have 
 been cogitating in the character of Saturn and Ops ? 
 It is a wretched thing to confess, but it is a very 
 fact, that not one word I utter earn be taken for 
 granted as an opinion growing out of my identical 
 nature. How can it be when I have no nature ? 
 When I am in a room with people, if I am free from 
 speculating on creations of my own brain, tlien not 
 myself goes home to myself, but the identity of every 
 one in the room begins to press in upon me, so that 
 I am in a very little time annihilated." 
 
 Only on one subject does he profess to have any fixed 
 opinions — namely, on his own art or craft. " I have 
 not one opinion," he says, "upon anything except 
 matters of taste." This is one of the most startling 
 and significant sayings ever uttered by a man respect- 
 ing himself. 
 
 If I am not mistaken, the definition which Keats 
 here gives of the poetical character corresponds with 
 the notion which is most popular. Though critics 
 distinguish between " subjective " and " objective " 
 pObts, and. enumerate men in the one class as famous 
 as men in the other, yet, in our more vague talk, we 
 are in the habit of leaving out of view those who are 
 called " subjective '' poets, and seeking the typical poet 
 among their " objective '' brethren, such as Homer and 
 
m KEATS. 
 
 Shakespeare. How this habit is to be explained — 
 whether it proceeds from a perception that the men 
 of the second order are more truly and purely poets, 
 and that the others, though often glorious in poetry, 
 might, in strict science, be referred in half to another 
 genus — I wiU not inquire. It may be remarked, how- 
 ever, that, be this as it may, it is by no means 
 necessary to go all the length with Keats in the 
 interpretation of his theory, and to fancy that the 
 poet approaching most nearly to the perfect type 
 must be a man having no strong individuality, no 
 permanent moral gesture. Scott, for example, was a 
 man of very distinct character, with a mode of think- 
 ing and acting in the society in which he lived as 
 proper to himself as his physiognomy or corporeal 
 figure. So, no doubt, it was with Chaucer and Shake- 
 speare ; and Milton, who may, by much of his poetry, 
 be referred to the same order, was a man with a 
 personality to shake a nation. What is meant is 
 that, when they betook themselves from miscellaneous 
 action among their fellows to the exercise of their 
 art, they all, more or less, allowed their personality 
 to melt and fold itself in the imagination. They all, 
 more or less, at such times, stood within themselves, as 
 within a chamber in which their own hopes, convic- 
 tions, anxieties, and principles lay about neglected, 
 while they plied their mighty craft, like the swing 
 
KEATS. 175 
 
 of some gigantic arm, witli reference to all wittont. 
 Keats did the same ; only, in his case, the chamber 
 ■wherein he sat had, by his own confession, very few 
 fixtures or other proper furniture. It was a painter's 
 Studio, with very little in it besides the easel 
 
 StiQ, as cannot be too often repeated, there are 
 subtle laws connecting the creations of the most 
 purely artistic poet with his personal character and 
 experience. The imagination, though it seems to fly 
 round and round the personality, and often at a great 
 distance from it, is still attached to it and governed 
 by it in its flight — determined, in its wheelings to- 
 wards this or that object, by incessant communica- 
 tions from the total mind and reason of which it is 
 at once the efflux, the envoy, and the servitor. 
 Chaucer's poetry would have been different if Chaucer 
 himself had been different; Scott's novels and poems 
 could have been written by no one but a man cast 
 exactly in Scott's mould, even to the bushiness of his 
 eyebrows and the Northumbrian burr of his speech ; 
 and, had we the necessary sldll in the higher criti- 
 cism, even the Protean Shakespeare might be chased 
 out of his dramas into his own proper form as he 
 nsed to walk in the meadows of Stratford-upon-Avon. 
 So also with the poetry of Keats. Impersonal as it 
 is in comparison with such poetry as Shelley's, it 
 has yet a certain assemblage of characteristics, which 
 
176 KEATS. 
 
 the reader learns to recognise as distinctive; and 
 these it owes to the character of its author. 
 
 At the foundation of the character of Keats lay an 
 extraordinary keenness of all the bodily sensibilities 
 and the mental sensibilities which depend upon them. 
 He led, in great part, a life of passive sensation, of 
 pleasure and pain through the senses. Take a book 
 of Physiology and go over the so-called classes of 
 sensations one by one — the sensations of the mere 
 muscular states ; the sensations connected with such 
 vital processes as circulation, alimentation, respiration, 
 and electrical intercommunication with surrounding 
 bodies ; the sensations of taste ; those of odour ; those 
 of touch ; those of hearing ; and those of sight — and 
 Keats will be found to have been unusually endowed 
 in them all. He had, for example, an extreme sensi- 
 bility to the pleasures, of the palate. The painter 
 Haydon teUs a story of his once seeing him cover 
 his tongue with cayenne pepper, in order, as he 
 said, that he might enjoy the delicious sensation of a 
 draught of cold claret after it. " Talking of pleasure," 
 he says himself in one of his letters, " this moment 
 I was writing with one hand, and with the other 
 holding to my mouth a nectarine ; " and he goes on 
 to describe the nectarine in language that would re- 
 awaken gustativeness in the oldest fruiterer. This of 
 one of the more ignoble senses, if it is right to call 
 
KEATS. 177 
 
 those senses ignoUe that minister the least visibly to 
 the intellect. But it was the same with the nobler or 
 more intellectual senses of hearing* and sight. He 
 was passionately fond of music ; and his sensitiveness 
 to colour, light, and other kinds of visual impression, 
 was pretematurally acute. He possessed, in short, 
 simply in virtue of his organization, a rich intellec- 
 tual foundation of that kind which consists of notions 
 furnished directly by sensations, and of a correspond- 
 ing stock of names and terms. Even had he remained 
 without education, his natural vocabiilary of words 
 for all the varieties of thrills, tastes, odours, sounds, 
 colours, and tactual perceptions, would have been un- 
 usually precise and extensive. As it was, this native 
 capacity for keen and abundant sensation was de- 
 veloped, educated, and harmonised, by the influences 
 of reading, intellectual conversation, and more or less 
 laborious thought, into that richer and more culti- 
 vated sensuousness which, under the name of sensi- 
 bility to natural beauty, is an accepted requisite in 
 the constitution of painters and poets. 
 
 It is a fact on which physiologists have recently 
 been dwelling much, that the imagination' of any 
 bodily state or action calls into play exactly those 
 nervous, muscular, and other processes, though in 
 weaker degree, which are called into play by the real 
 bodily state or action so simulated. The imagination 
 
 N 
 
178 KEATS. 
 
 of sugar in the mouth causes the same exact flow 
 within the lips which would be caused by sugar really 
 tasted; the imagination of firing a rifle does actually 
 compel to the entire gesture of shooting, down even 
 to the bending of the forefinger round the ideal trigger, 
 though the mimic attitude may be baulked of com- 
 pletion; the imagination of a pain in any part may 
 be persevered in till a pain is actually induced in that 
 part. Whether or not this fact shall ever serve much 
 towards the elucidation of the connexion between the 
 imagination and the personal character — whether or 
 not it may ever be developed into a distinct doctrine 
 that the habits of a man's own real being mark, by 
 an a priori necessity, the directions in which his 
 imagination will work most naturally and strongly — 
 one can hardly avoid thinking of it in studying the 
 genius of Keats. The most obvious characteristic of 
 Keats's poetry is certainly its abundant seiisuovsness. 
 Some of his finest little poems are all but literally 
 lyrics of the sensuous, embodiments of the feelings of 
 ennui, fatigue, physical languor, and the like, in tissues 
 of fancied circumstance and sensation. Thus, in the 
 well-known Ode to the Nightingale — 
 
 " My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 
 My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk. 
 Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 
 One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk." 
 
KEATS. 179 
 
 In this state lie hears the nightingale, and straightway 
 finds his cure — 
 
 " for a draught of vintage that hath heen ■ 
 Cool'd a long age in the deep-delvM earth. 
 Tasting of Flora and the country-green, 
 
 Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth ! 
 for a beaker full of the warm South, 
 Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 
 With beaded bubbles winking at the brim 
 And purple-stainM mouth, 
 That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, 
 And with thee fade away into the forest dim." 
 
 It is the same in those longer pieces of narrative phan- 
 tasy which form the larger portion of his wiitings. 
 Selecting, as in Endymion, a legend of the Grecian 
 mythology, or, as in Isabella, or the Pot of Basil, a 
 story from Boccaccio, or, as in I^e Eve of St. Agnes, 
 the hint of a middle-age superstition, or, as in Lamia, 
 a story of Greek witchcraft, he sets himself to weave 
 out the little text of substance so given into a linked 
 succession of imaginary movements and incidents 
 taking place in the dim depths of ideal scenery, 
 whether of forest, grotto, sea-shore, the interior of a 
 Gothic castle, or the marble vestibule of a Corinthian 
 palace. In following him in these luxurioiis excur- 
 sions into a world of ideal nature and life, we see his 
 imagiaation winging about, as if it were his disem- 
 bodied senses hovering insect-like in one humming 
 
 N 2 
 
180 KEATS. 
 
 group, all keeping together in harmony at the bidding 
 of a higher iateUectual power, and yet each catering 
 for itself in that species of circumstance which is its 
 peculiar food. Thus, the disembodied sense of Taste — 
 
 " Here is wiue 
 Alive with sparkles — never, I aver, 
 Since Ariadne was a vintager, 
 So cool a purple : taste these juicy pears, 
 . Sent me by sad Vertumnus, when his fears 
 Were high about Pomona : here is cream 
 Deepening to richness from a snowy gleam — 
 Sweeter than that nurse Amalthea skumn'd 
 For the boy Jupiter ; and here, undimm'd 
 By any touch, a bunch of blooming plums 
 Eeady to melt between an infant's gums." 
 
 Or, again, in the description of the dainties in the 
 chapel in the The Eve of St. Agnes — 
 
 " And stiU she slept an azure-Hdded sleep 
 In blanchfed linen, smooth and lavender'd. 
 While he from forth the closet brought a heap 
 Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd. 
 With jellies soother than the creamy curd. 
 And lucent syrups tinct with cinnamon, 
 Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd 
 Prom Fez, and spicM dainties every one 
 
 From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon." 
 
 As an instance of the disembodied delight in sweet 
 odour, take the lines in Isabella — 
 
KEATS. 131 
 
 " Then in a silken scarf, sweet witli the dews 
 Of precious flowers pluck'd in Arahy, 
 And divine liquids come with odorous ooze 
 Through the cold serpent-pipe refreshfully, 
 She wrapp'd it up.'' 
 
 Delicacy and richness in ideal sensations of touch and 
 sound are found throughout. Thus, even the sensa- 
 tion of cold water on the hands : — 
 
 " When ia an antechamher every guest 
 Had felt the cold full sponge to pleasure press'd 
 By ministering slaves upon his hands and feet " ; 
 
 or the ideal tremulation of a string : — 
 
 " Be thou in the van 
 Of circumstance ; yea, seize the arrow's barb 
 Before the tense string murmur." 
 
 But let us pass to the sense of sight, with its various 
 perceptions of colour, Ught, and lustre. Here Keats 
 is, in some respects, facile princeps, even among our 
 most sensuous poets. Here is the description of 
 Lamia while she was still a serpent: — 
 
 " She was a gordian shape of dazzling hue. 
 Vermilion-spotted, golden, green, and blue. 
 Striped like a zebra, freckled like a pard. 
 Eyed like a peacock, and all crimson-barr'd, 
 Aiid fuU of silver moons that, as she breathed. 
 Dissolved, or brighter shone, or interwreathed 
 Their lustres with the gloomier tapestries." 
 
182 KEATS. 
 
 Here is a passage somewhat more various, the 
 description of the bower in which Adonis was 
 sleeping — 
 
 " Above his head 
 Four lily-stalks did their white honours wed 
 To make a coronal ; and round him grew 
 All tendrils green, of every bloom and hue, 
 Together intertwined and trameli'd Tresh : 
 The vine of glossy sprout ; the ivy mesh. 
 Shading the Ethiop berries ; and woodbine, 
 Of velvet leaves, and bugle-blooms divine ; 
 Convolvulus in streakfed vases flush ; 
 The creeper, mellowing for an autumn blush ; 
 And virgin's bower, trailing airily ; 
 With others of the sisterhood." 
 
 These last quotations suggest a remark which does 
 not seem unimportant. "When critics or poets them- 
 selves speak of the love of nature or the perception 
 of natural beauty as essential in the constitution of 
 the poet, it wlU often be found that what they chiefly 
 mean is an unusual sensibility to the pleasures of 
 cue of the senses — the sense of sight. "What they 
 mean is chiefly a fine sense of form, colour, lustre, 
 and the like. Kow, though it may be admitted that, 
 in so far as ministration of material for the intellect 
 is concerned, sight is the most important of the 
 senses, yet this all but absolute identification of love 
 of nature with sensibility to visual pleasures seems 
 
KEATS. 183 
 
 erroneous. It is a kind of treason to the other senses, 
 all of which are avenues of communication between 
 nature and the mind, though sight may be the main 
 avenue. In this respect I believe that one of the 
 most remarkable characteristics of Keats is the uni- ' 
 versality of his sensuousness. 
 
 But farther. Not only, in popular language, does 
 the love of nature seem to be identified with a sen- 
 sibility to the pleasures of the one sense of sight; 
 but, by a more injurious restriction stOl, this love of 
 nature or perception of natural beauty seems to have 
 been identified, especially of late, with one class of 
 the pleasures of this one sense of sight — ^to wit, the 
 pleasures derived from the contemplation of vegeta- 
 tion. Eoses, lilies, grass, trees, cornfields, ferns, heaths, 
 and poppies : these are what pass for " nature " with 
 not a few modern poets and critics of poetry. It 
 seems as if, since Wordsworth fulminated the advice 
 to poets to go back to nature and to study nature, it 
 had been the impression of many that the proper way 
 to comply with the advice was to walk out in the 
 fields to some spot where the grass was thick and the 
 weeds and wild-flowers plentiful, and there lie flat 
 upon the turf, chins downwards, peering into grasses 
 and flowers, and inhaling their breath. Now, it ought 
 to be distinctly represented, in correction of this, that 
 ever so minute and loving a study of vegetation. 
 
184 KEATS. 
 
 though laudable and delightfxil in itself, does not 
 amount to a study of nature — that, in fact, vegeta- 
 tion, though a very respectable part of visible nature, 
 is not the whole of it. When night conies, for 
 example, where or how much is your vegetation 
 then ? Vegetation is not nature : I know no pro- 
 position that should be more frequently dinned in 
 the ears of our young poets than this. The peculiar 
 notion of natural beauty involved in the habit spoken 
 of may be said to have come in with the microscope. 
 In the ancient Greek poets we have very little of it. 
 They give us trees and grass and flowers, but they 
 give them more by mere suggestion; and, so far as 
 they introduce physical nature at all (which is chiefly 
 by way of a platform for human action), it is with the 
 larger forms and aspects of nature that they deal, the 
 wide and simple modifications of the great natural 
 elements. Shakespeare, when he chooses, is minutely 
 and lusciously rich in his scenes of vegetation (and, 
 indeed, in comparing modern and romantic with 
 ancient and classical poets generally, it is clear that, 
 in this respect, there has been a gradual development 
 of literary tendency) ; but no man more signally than 
 Shakespeare keeps the just proportion. Wordsworth 
 himself, when he called out for the study of nature, 
 and set the example in his own case by retiring to the 
 Lakes, did not commit the error of confounding nature 
 
KEATS. 185 
 
 with vegetation. In that district, indeed, where there 
 are mountains and tarns, incessant cloud-variations, 
 and other forms of nature on the great scale, to em- 
 ploy the eye, it was not likely that it would dispro- 
 portionately exercise itseK on particular banks and 
 gardens or individual herbs and flowers. Such an 
 affection for the minutiae of vegetation was reserved 
 perhaps for the so-called Cockney poets ; and one can 
 see that, if it were once supposed that they introduced 
 the taste, the fact might be humorously explained by 
 recollecting that nature to most of them was nature 
 as seen from Hampstead Heath. 
 
 Now, undoubtedly, Keats is great in botanical cir- 
 cumstance. Here is a passage in which he describes 
 the kind of home he would like to live in for the 
 purpose of writing poetry : — 
 
 " Ah ! surely it must be where'er I find 
 Some flowery spot, sequester'd, wild, romantic. 
 That often must have seen a poet frantic ; 
 Where oaks that erst the Druid knew are growing, 
 And flowers, the glory of one day, are blowing ; 
 Where the dark-leaved laburnum's drooping clusters 
 Eeflect athwart the stream their yellow lustres. 
 And, intertwined, the cassia's arms unite 
 With its own drooping buds, but very white ; 
 Where on one side are covert branches hung, 
 'Mong which the nightingales have always sung 
 In leafy quiet ; where to pry aloof 
 Between the pillars of the sylvan roof 
 
186 KEATS. 
 
 Would fee to find where violet buds are nestling, 
 And where the bee with cowslip bells was wrestling : 
 A There must be too a ruin dark and gloomy, 
 
 To say ' Joy not too much in all that's bloomy.' " 
 
 Again, in the hymn to Pan in Endymion : — 
 
 " thou whose mighty palace-roof doth hang 
 From jagged trunks, and overshadoweth 
 Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, death 
 Of unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness ; 
 Who lovest to see the Hamadryads dress 
 Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels darken. 
 And through whole solemn hours dost sit and hearken 
 The dreary melody of bedded reeds 
 In desolate places where dank moisture breeds 
 The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth. 
 Bethinking thee how melancholy loth 
 Thou wast to leave fair Syrinx — do thou now, 
 By thy love's nulky brow ! 
 By aU the trembling mazes that she ran ! 
 Hear us, great Pan ! " 
 
 But, though Keats did "joy in all that is bloomy," 
 I do not know that he joyed "too much." Though 
 luscious vegetation was one of his delights, I do not 
 think that in him there is such a disprdportion be- 
 , tween this and other kinds of imagery as there has 
 I been in other and inferior poets. There are sea and 
 cloud in his poetry, as well as herbage and turf; he 
 is as rich in mineralogical and zoological circumstance 
 
KEATS. 187 
 
 as in that of botany. His most obvious characteristic, 
 I repeat, is the universality of his sensuousness. And 
 this it is, added to his exquisite mastery in language 
 and verse, that makes it such a luxury to read him. 
 In reading Shelley, even when we admire him most, 
 there is always a sense of pain ; the influence of 
 Keats is uniformly soothing. In part, as I have said, 
 this arises from his exquisite mastery in language and 
 verse — which, in itself, is one form or result of his 
 sensuousness. There is hardly any recent poet in con- V 
 nexion with whom the mechanism of verse in relation 
 to thought may be studied more delightfully. Occa- 
 sionally, it is true, there is the shock of a horrible 
 Cockney rhyme. Thus : — 
 
 " I shall again see Phoebus iu the morning. 
 Or flushed Aurora in the roseate dawning." 
 
 Or worse still : — 
 
 " Couldst thou wish for lineage higher 
 Than twin-sister of ThaUa ? " 
 
 Throughout, too, there are ungainly traces of the de- 
 pendence of the matter upon the rhyme. But where, 
 on the whole, shall' we find language softer and 
 richer, verse more harmonious and sweetly-Hnked, 
 and, though usually after the model of some older 
 poet, more thoroughly novel and original; or where 
 
KB ATS. 
 
 1 — 
 
 shall we see more teautifuUy exemplified the power 
 of that high artifice of rhyme by which, as by little 
 coloured lamps of light thrown out in advance of the 
 prow of their thoughts from moment to moment, poets 
 steer their way so windingly through the fantastic 
 gloom ? 
 
 In virtue of that unusual and universal sensuous- 
 ness which all must discern in Keats (and which, 
 as being perhaps his most distinctive characteristic, 
 I have chosen chiefly to illustrate in the quotations 
 I have made), he would certainly have~Been very 
 memorable among English poets, even had there been 
 less in him than there was of that power of reflective 
 and constructive intellect by which alone so abundant 
 a wealth of the sensuous could have been ruled and 
 shaped into artistic forms. The earlier poems of 
 Shakespeare were, in the main, tissues of sensuous 
 phantasy ; • and I believe that, compared even with 
 these, the poems that Keats has left us would not 
 seem inferior, if the comparison could be impartially 
 made. The same might be said of certain portions of 
 Spenser's poetry, the resemblance of which to much 
 of Keats's would strike any reader acquainted with 
 both poets, even if he did not know that Keats was a 
 student of Spenser. Perhaps the likest poet to Keats 
 in the whole list of preceding English poets is William 
 Browne, the author of '' Britannia's Pastorals ; " but, 
 
KEATS. 189 
 
 ricli and pleasant as tte poetry of Browne is, beyond 
 mueli that capricions chance has preserved in greater 
 repute, that of Keats is, in. Browne's own qualities of 
 richness and pleasantness, itmneasurahly superior. 
 
 Neither sensuousness alone, however, nor sensuous- 
 ness governed by a reflective and fanciful intellect, 
 will constitute a great poet. However highly endowed 
 a youthful poet may be in these, his only chance of 
 real greatness is in passing on, by due transition and 
 gradation, to that more matured state of mind in 
 which, though the sensuous may remain and the cool 
 fancy may weave its tissues as before, human interest 
 and sympathy with the human heart and grand human 
 action shaU predominate in all Now, in the case of 
 Keats, there is evidence of the fact of this gradation. 
 There is evidence of a progress both intellectually and 
 morally; of a disposition, already consciously known 
 to himself, to move forward out of the sensuous or 
 merely sensuous-ideal mood,, into the mood of the 
 truly epic poet, the poet of hfe, sublimity and action. 
 Thus, in one of his prose letters, he says, " Although 
 I take Poetry to be the chief, yet there is something 
 else wanting to one who passes his life among books 
 and thoughts of books." And again, "I find earlier 
 days are gone by; I find that I can have no enjoy- 
 ment in the world but continual drinking of know- 
 ledge. I find there is no worthy pursuit but the idea 
 
190 KEATS. 
 
 of doing some good to the world. Some do it with 
 their society ; some with their art ; some with their 
 benevolence ; some with a sort of power of conferring 
 pleasure and good humour on all they meet — and, in 
 a thousand "ways, all dutiful to the command of nature. 
 There is but one way for me. The road lies through 
 application, study and thought. I will pursue it. I 
 have been hovering for some time between an ex- 
 quisite sense of the luxurious and a love for philo- 
 sophy. "Were I calculated for the former, I should be 
 glad ; but, as I am not, I shall turn all my soul to 
 the latter." In his poetry we have similar evidence. 
 Even in his earlier poems one is struck not only by 
 the steady presence of a keen and subtle intellect, but 
 also by frequent flashes of permanently deep mean- 
 ing, frequent lines of lyric thoughtfulness, and occa- 
 sional maxims of weighty historic generality. "What 
 we have quoted for our special purpose would fail 
 utterly to convey the proper impression of the merits 
 of Keats in these respects, or indeed of his poetic 
 genius generally, unless the memory of the reader 
 were to suggest the necessary supplement. From Un- 
 dyinion itself, sensuous to very wildness as the poem 
 is considered, scores of passages might be quoted 
 to prove that already, while it was being written, 
 intellect, feeling, and experience were doing their work 
 with Keats — that, to use his own figure, he had 
 
KEATS. 191 
 
 then already advanced for some time out of the Infant 
 Chamber, or Chamber of mere Sensation, into the 
 Chamber of Maiden Thought, and had even there 
 begun to distinguish the openings of the dark passages 
 beyond and around, and to be seized with the longing 
 to explore them. Seeing this, looking then at such of 
 his later poems as Lamia and The Eve of St. Agnes, 
 and contemplating last of all that wonderful fragment 
 of Hyperion which he hurled into the world as he 
 was leaving it, and of which Byron but expressed the 
 common opinion when he said "It seems actually in- 
 spired by the Titans, and is as sublime as -lEschylus," 
 we can hardly be wrong in believing that, had 
 Keats lived to the ordinary age of man, he would 
 have been one of the greatest of aU our poets. As 
 it is, though he died at the age of twenty-five, and 
 left only what in all does not amount to much more 
 than a day's leisurely reading, I believe we shall all 
 be disposed to place him very near indeed to our 
 very best. 
 
V. 
 THEORIES OF POETEY. 
 
THEORIES OF POETBT.^ 
 
 There have been hundreds of disquisitions on poetry 
 in all ages, long and short, good, bad, and indifferent ; 
 and, now-a-days, we cannot open a magazine or a re- 
 view without finding something new said about our 
 friend " TTie Poet," as distinguished from our other 
 friend "The Prophet" and the rest. But cant cannot 
 be helped ; and, if we are to abandon good phrases 
 because they have been used a great many times, 
 there is an end to all reviewing. 
 
 iluch, however, as has been spoken about poetry 
 and poets, it may be doubted whether the world, in 
 its meditations on this subject, has got far beyond 
 the antithesis suggested by what Aristotle said about 
 it two thousand years ago, on the one hand, and what 
 Eacon advanced two hundred and fifty years ago, on 
 
 ' North British Beview, August 1853. — "Poetics: an Essay on 
 Poetry." By E. S. Dallas. London, 1852. 
 
 2 
 
196 THEORIES OF POETRY. 
 
 the other. At least, acquainted as we are with a good 
 deal that Wordsworth, and Coleridge, and Goethe, and 
 Leigh Hunt, and now Mr. Dallas, have written about 
 Ijoetry by way of more subtle and insinuating investi- 
 gation, we still feel that the best notion of the thing, 
 for any manageable purpose, is to be beaten out of 
 the rough-hewn definitions of it, from opposite sides, 
 supplied by Aristotle and Bacon. In his Poetics, 
 Aristotle writes as follows : — 
 
 "Epic poetry and the poetry of tragedy, as well as 
 comedy and dithyrambic poetry, and most flute and 
 lyre music, all are, in their nature, viewed generally, 
 imitations (jiifii^crei^) ; differing from each other, how- 
 ever, in three things — either in that they imitate by 
 different means, or in that they imitate different things, 
 or in that they imitate differently and not in the same 
 manner. For, as some artists, either from technical 
 training or from mere habit, imitate various objects by 
 colours and forms, and other artists by vocal sqund, 
 so, of the arts mentioned above, all effect their imita- 
 tion by rhythm, and words, and melody, employed 
 either severally or in combination. I'or example, in 
 flute and lyre music, and in any other kind of music 
 having similar effect, such as pipe music, melody and 
 rhythm are alone used. In the dance, again, the imi- 
 tation is accomplished by rhythm by itself, without 
 melody ; there being dancers who, by means of rhythmi- 
 cal gesticulations, imitate even manners, passions, and 
 acts. Lastly, epic poetry produces its imitations either 
 by mere articulate words, or by metre superadded. . . . 
 
THEOBIES OF POETRY. 197 
 
 Since, in the second place, those who imitate copy 
 living characters, it behoves imitations either to be of 
 serious and lofty, or of mean and trivial objects. The 
 imitation must, ia fact, either be of characters and 
 actions better than they are found among ourselves, 
 or worse, or much the same ; just as, among painters, 
 Polygnotus represented people better-looking than they 
 were, Pauson worse-looking, and Dionysius exactly as 
 they were. Now, it is evident that each of the arts 
 above mentioned wOl have these differences, the dif- 
 ference arising from their imitating different things. 
 In the dance, and in flute and lyre music, these 
 diversities are visible ; as also in word-imitations and 
 simple metre. Homer, for example, really made men 
 better than they are ; Cleophon made them such as 
 they are ; whereas Hegemon, the first writer of paro- 
 dies, and Mcochares, made them worse. So also, in 
 dithyrambics and lyrics, one might, with Timotheus 
 and Philoxenus, imitate even Persians and Cyclopes. 
 By this very difference, too, is tragedy distinguished from 
 comedy. The one even now strives in its imitations to 
 exhibit men better than they are, the other worse. . . . 
 Still the third difference remains : namely, as to the 
 manner or form of the imitation. Por, even though the 
 means of imitation, and the things imitated, should be 
 the same, there might be this difference, that the imi- 
 tation might be made either in the form of a narration 
 (and that either through an alien narrator, as Homer 
 does, or in one's own person without changing) or by 
 representing the imitators as all active and taking part. 
 So that, though in one respect Homer and Sophocles 
 would go together as imitators, as both having earnest 
 subjects, in another Sophocles and Aristophanes would 
 
198 THEORIES OF POETRY. 
 
 go together, as both imitating dramatically. . . . Two 
 causes, both of them natural, seem to have operated 
 together to originate the poetic art. The first is that 
 the tendency to imitate is innate in men from child- 
 hood (the difference between man and other animals 
 being that he is the most imitative of all, acquiring 
 even his first lessons in knowledge through imitation) 
 
 and that all take pleasure in imitation In 
 
 the second place, just as the tendency to imitate is 
 natural to us, so also is the love of melody and of 
 rhythm ; and metre is evidently a variety of rhythm. 
 Those, therefore, who from the first were most strongly 
 inclined to these things by nature, proceeding by little 
 and little, originated poetry out of their impromptu 
 fancies. Poetry, thus originated, was broken into de- 
 partments corresponding to the peculiar characters of 
 its producers, the more serious imitating only beautiful 
 actions and their issues, while th*e more thoughtless 
 natures imitated mean incidents, inventing lampoons, 
 as others had invented hymns and eulogies. Before 
 Homer we have no poem of this kind to be mentioned, 
 though doubtless many existed." 
 
 Such, as indicated in those sentences of the treatise 
 which seem to be of most essential import, is the 
 general doctrine of Aristotle as to the nature of Poetry. 
 With this contrast Bacon's theory, as stated, cursorily 
 but profoundly, in the following sentences from the 
 Advancement of Learning : — 
 
 " The parts of Human Learning have reference to the 
 three parts of man's understanding, which is the seat 
 
TEEOBIES OF POETIiY. 199 
 
 of learning — History to his Memory ; Poesy to bis 
 Imagination ; and Philosophy to his Eeasoji. . . . Poesy 
 is a part of learning, in measure of words for the most 
 part restrained, but in all other points extremely 
 licensed, and doth truly refer to the imagination ; 
 which, being not tied to the laws of matter, may at 
 pleasure join that which Nature hath severed, and 
 sever that which Nature hath joiifcd, and so make 
 unlawful matches and divorces of^Piings. Ficforibus 
 atgue Poetis, &c. It [Poetry] is taken in two senses — 
 in respect of words, or matter. In the first sense, it is 
 but a character of style, and belongeth to the arts of 
 speech, and is not pertinent for the present; in the 
 latter, it is, as hath been said, one of the principal 
 portions of learning, and is nothing else but Peigned 
 History, which may be stjded as well in prose as in 
 verse. The use of this Feigned History hath been to 
 give some shadow of satisfaction to the mind of man in 
 the points wherein the nature of things doth deny it — 
 the world being in proportion inferior to the soul ; by 
 reason whereof there is agreeable to the spirit of man a 
 more ample greatness, a more exact goodness, and a 
 more absolute variety than can be found in the nature 
 of things. Therefore, because the acts or events of true 
 history have not that magnitude which satisfieth the 
 mind of man. Poesy feigneth acts and events greater 
 and more heroical; because true history propoundeth 
 the successes and the issues of actions not so agree- 
 able to the merits of virtue and vice, therefore Poesy 
 feigneth them more just in retribution, and more 
 according to revealed Providence; because true his- 
 tory representeth actions and events more ordinary 
 and less interchanged, therefore Poesy endueth them 
 
200 T3E0BIES OF POETRY. 
 
 with more rareness : so as it appeareth that Poesy 
 serveth and conferreth to magnanimity, morality, and 
 delectation. And, therefore, it was ever thought to 
 have some participation of divineness, because it 
 doth raise and erect the mind, hy submitting the shows 
 of things to the desires of the mind, whereas Eeason 
 doth buckle and bow the mind unto the nature of 
 things. ... In this third part of learning, which is 
 Poesy, I can report no dfeficience. For, being as a 
 plant that cometh of the lust of the earth without a 
 formal seed, it hath sprung up and spread abroad more 
 than any other kind." 
 
 Now, though it would be possible so to stretch and 
 comment upon Aristotle's theory of poetry as to make 
 it correspond with Bacon's, yet, primd facie, the two 
 theories are different, and even antithetical. If both 
 are true, it is because the theorists tUt at opposite 
 sides of the shield. Aristotle makes the essence of 
 Poetry to consist in its being imitative and truthful ; 
 Bacon, in its being creative and fantastical. According 
 to Aristotle, there is a natural tendency in men to the 
 imitation of what they see in nature ; the various arts 
 are nothing more than imitations, so to speak, with dif- 
 ferent kinds of imitating substance ; and poetry is that 
 art which imitates in articulate language, or, at most, 
 in language elevated and rendered more rich and ex- 
 quisite by the addition of metre. According to Bacon, 
 on the other hand, there is a natural tendency, and 
 
THEORIES OF POETRY. 201 
 
 a natural prerogative, in the mind of man to condition 
 the universe anew for its own intellectual satisfaction. 
 It may brood over the sea of actual existences, carry- 
 ing on the work of creation, with these existences for 
 the material, and its own phantasies and longings for 
 the informing spiiit; it may be ever on the wing 
 among nature's sounds and appearances, not merely 
 for the purpose of observing and co-ordinating them, 
 but also that it may delight itself with new ideal com- 
 binations, severing what nature has joined, and joining 
 what nature has put asunder. Poetry, in accordance 
 with this view, might perhaps be defined as the art of 
 producing, by means of articulate language, metrical 
 or unmetrical, a fictitious concrete, either like to some- 
 thing existing in natuare, or, if unlike anything there 
 existing, justifying that unlikeness by the charm of its 
 own impressiveness. 
 
 Amid all the discussions of all the critics as to the 
 nature of poetry, this antagonism, if such it is, be- 
 tween the Aristotelian and the Baconian theories, will 
 be found eternally reproducing itself. 
 
 "When Wordsworth defined poetry to be " emotion 
 recollected in tranquillity," and declared it to be the 
 business of the poet to represent out of real life, and 
 as nearly as possible in the language of real life, scenes 
 and events of an affecting or exciting character, he 
 reverted, and with good effect, to the imitation-theory 
 
202 THEORIES OF POETRY. 
 
 of Aristotle. All Coleridge's disquisitions, on the other 
 hand, even when his friend Wordsworth is the theme 
 and exemplar, are subtle developments of the imagina- 
 tion-theory of Bacon. His famous remark that the 
 true antithesis is not Poetry and Prose, but Poetry and 
 Science, is but another form of Bacon's remark, that, 
 whereas it is the part of Reason " to buckle and bow 
 the mind to the nature of things," it is the part of 
 Imagination, as the poetical faculty, " to raise the mind 
 by submitting the shows of things to its desires." And 
 so with the definitions, more or less formal, of other 
 writers. Thus Leigh Hunt: "Poetry 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." That this definition, not- 
 withstanding that it is constructed on the principle of 
 omitting nothing that any one would like to see in- 
 cluded, is yet essentially a glimpse from the Baconian 
 side of the shield, is obvious from the fact that its 
 author afterwards uses as synonymous with it the 
 abbreviations " Imaginative passion," " Passion for im- 
 aginative pleasure." Lastly, Mr. Dallas, M'ith all his 
 ingenuity, does not really get much farther in the end. 
 Beginning with an expression of dissatisfaction with all 
 existing definitions of poetry, Aristotle's and Bacon's 
 included, as being definitions of the thing not in itself. 
 
THEORIES OF POETRY. 203 
 
 but in its accidents, lie proceeds first, very properly, to 
 make a distinction between poetical feeling, "wliich all 
 men have, and the art of poetical expression, which is 
 the prerogative of those who are called poets. Both 
 are usually included under the term Poetry; hut, to 
 avoid confusion, Mr. Dallas proposes to use the general 
 term Poetry for the poetical feeling, and to call the art 
 which caters for that feeling Poesy. Then, taking for 
 his guide the fact that all have agreed that, whatever 
 poetry is, it has pleasure for its end, he seeks to work 
 his way to the required definition through a prior 
 analysis of the nature of pleasure. Having, as the 
 result of this analysis, defined pleasure to he "the har- 
 monious and unconscious activity of the soul," he finds 
 his way then clear. For there are various kinds of 
 pleasure, and poetry is one of these. It is " imagina- 
 tive pleasure;" or, if we write the thing more fully 
 out, it is the "imaginative harmonious aud uncon- 
 scious activity of the soul," or that kind of harmonious 
 and unconscious activity of the soul which consists in 
 the exercise of the imagination. Poesy, of course, is 
 the corresponding art, the art of producing what wiU 
 give imaginative pleasure. Now, with all our respect 
 for the ability with which Mr. Dallas conducts his 
 investigation, and our relish for the many lucid and 
 deep remarks which drop from his pen in the course 
 of it, we must say that, as respects the main matter 
 
204 T-HEORIES OF POETRY. 
 
 in discussion, his investigation does not leave us fully 
 satisfied. "Poetry is imaginative pleasure": very 
 weU; but Bacon had said substantially the same 
 thing when he described poetry as a kind of literature 
 having reference to the imagination; and Leigh Hunt 
 had, as we have seen, anticipated the exact phrase, 
 defining poetry to be " imaginative passion," and the 
 faculty of the poet to be the faculty of "producing 
 imaginative pleasure." In short, the whole difficulty, 
 the very essence of the question, consists not in the 
 word pleasure, but in the word imaginative. Had Mr. 
 Dallas bestowed half the pains on the illustration of 
 what is meant by imagination that he has bestowed 
 on the analysis of what is meant by pleasure, he would 
 have done the science of poetry more service. This — 
 the nature of the imaginative faculty — is "the vapor- 
 ous drop profound that hangs upon the corner of the 
 moon," and Mr. Dallas has not endeavoured to catch it. 
 His chapter upon the Law of Imagination is one of the 
 most cursory in the book ; and the total result, as 
 far as a fit definition of poetry is concerned, is that 
 he ends in finding himself in the same hut with 
 Bacon, after having refused its shelter. ^ 
 
 The antagonism between the Aristotelian theory, 
 which- makes poetry to consist in imitative passion, 
 and the Baconian theory, which makes it to consist in 
 imaginative passion, is curiously reproducing itself at 
 
TEEOJtIES OF POETRY. 205 
 
 present [1853] in the kindred art of painting. Pre- 
 Raphaelitism is in painting very much what the reform 
 led by Wordsworth was in poetical literature. Imitate 
 nature ; reproduce her exact and literal forms ; do 
 not paint ideal trees or vague recollections of trees, 
 ideal brick-waUs or vague recollections of brick-walls, 
 but actual trees and actual brick-walls; dismiss from 
 your minds the trash of Sir Joshua Reynolds about 
 " correcting nature," " improving nature," and the 
 like ; — such are the maxims addressed by the Pre- 
 Eaphaelites, both with brush and with pen, to their 
 fellow-artists. All this is, we say, a return to the theory 
 of Aristotle, which makes the essence of art to consist 
 in Imitation, and a protest against that of Bacon, 
 which makes the essence of art to consist in Ideali- 
 zation. Poor Sir Joshua Reynolds ought to fall back 
 upon Bacon, so that, when he is next attacked for 
 his phrases " improving nature " and the like, the Pre- 
 Raphaelites may see looming behind him the more 
 formidable figure of a man whose words no one dares 
 to call trash, and whose very definition of art was 
 couched in expressions like these : " There is, agree- 
 able to the spirit of man, a more ample greatness, a 
 more exact goodness, and a more absolute variety than 
 can be found in the nature of things " " The use of 
 feigned history is to give to the mind of man some 
 shadow of satisfaction in those points wherein the 
 
206 THEORIES OF POETRY. 
 
 nature of things dotli deny it." The battle, we say, 
 must be fought with these phrases. Nor is the battle 
 confined to the art of painting. There is a more 
 restricted kind of Pre-Eaphaelitism now making its 
 way in the department of fictitious literature. Admir- 
 ing the reality, the truthfulness, of Thackeray's deli- 
 neations of life and society, there are men who will 
 have nothing to do with what they call the phan- 
 tasies and caricatures of the Dickens school. The 
 business of the novelist, they say, is to represent men 
 as they are, with all their foibles as well as their 
 virtues; in other words, to imitate real life. Here 
 again comes in the Baconian thunder. "Because the 
 acts or events of true history have not that magnitude 
 which satisfieth the mind of man, poesy (and Bacon's 
 definition of poesy includes prose fiction) feigneth 
 acts and events greater and more heroical." Whether 
 Dickens can take the benefit of this authority, in 
 those cases where he is charged with unreality, we 
 need not inquire; it evidently points, however, to a 
 possible style of prose fiction different -from that of 
 Fielding and Thackeray, and yet as legitimate in the 
 view of art. 
 
 For ourselves, we hold the imitation-theory as 
 applied to poetry or art to be so inadequate in 
 essential respects that it would be time lost to try 
 to mend it; and we find no suitable statement of 
 
TREORIES OF POETRY. 207 
 
 what seems to be the very idea of poetry, except 
 in some definition like that of Bacon. 
 
 Only consider the matter for a moment. Take any 
 piece of verse from any poet, and in what single 
 respect can that piece of verse he said to he an imi- 
 tation of nature? In the first place, that it is verse 
 at all is a huge deviation in itself from what is, in 
 any ordinary sense, natural. Men do not talk in good 
 literary prose, much less in blank verse or rhyme. 
 Macbeth, in his utmost strait and horror — Lear, when 
 the lightnings scathed his white head — did not actually 
 talk in metre. Even Bruce at Bannockburn did not 
 address his army in trochees. Here, then, at the very 
 outset, there is a break-down in the theory of Imita- 
 tion, or literal truth to nature. And all prose literature 
 shares in this break-down. Not a single personage in 
 Scott's novels would have spoken precisely as Scott 
 makes them speak ; nay, nor is there a single character 
 in Thackeray himself strictly and in every respect a 
 fac-simile of what is real. Correct grammar, sentences 
 of varied lengths and of various cadences, much more 
 octosyllabic or pentameter verse, and still more rhymed 
 stanzas, are all artificialities. Literature has them, but 
 in real life they are not to be found. It is as truly 
 a deviation from nature to represent a king talking in 
 blank verse, or a lover plaimng in rhyme, as it is, in 
 an opera, to make a martyr sing a song and be encored 
 
208 THEORIES OP POETRY. 
 
 before being thrown into the flames. So far as truth 
 to nature is concerned, an opera, or even a ballet, is 
 hardly more artificial than a drama. Suppose, how- 
 ever, that, in order to escape from this difficulty, it 
 should be said that metre, rhyme, rhetorical consecu- 
 tiveness, and the like, are conditions previously and 
 for other reasons existing in the material in which 
 the imitation is to take place: would the theory of 
 imitation or truth to nature even then hold good ? Let 
 it be granted that grammatical and rhythmical prose is 
 a kind of marble, that blank verse is a kind of jasper, 
 and that rhymed verse is a kind of amethyst or 
 opaline; that the selection of those substances as the 
 materials in which the imitation is to be effected is 
 a thing already and independently determined on ; and 
 that it is only in so far as imitation can be achieved 
 consistently with the nature of those substances that 
 imitation and art are held to be synonymous. Will the 
 theory even then look the facts in the face ? It will 
 not. In • the time of Aristotle, indeed, when most 
 Greek poetry was, to a greater degree than poetry is 
 now, either directly descriptive or directly narrative, 
 the theory might have seemed less astray than it must 
 to us. Even then, however, it was necessarily at fault. 
 The Achilles and the Ajax of Homer, the CEdipus and 
 the Antigone of Sophocles, were, in no sense, imitations 
 from nature; they were ideal beings, never seen on 
 
TH]SORIES OF POETRY. 209 
 
 any jEgaean coast, and dwelling nowhere save in the 
 halls of imagination. Aristotle himself felt this ; and 
 hence, at the risk of cracking into pieces his own ' 
 fundamental theory, he indulges occasionally ia a 
 strain like that of Bacon when he maintains that 
 poetry " representeth actions and events less ordinary 
 and interchanged, and eudueth them with more rare- 
 ness," than is found in nature. " The poet's busi- 
 ness," says Aristotle, "is not to teU events as they 
 have actually happened, but as they possibly might 
 happen." And again: "Poetry is more philosophical 
 and more sublime than history." Very true : but what 
 then becomes of the imitation? In what possible 
 sense can there be imitation unless there is something 
 to be imitated ? If that somethiug is ideal, if it exists 
 not actually and outwardly, but only in the mind of 
 the artist, then imitation is the wrong word to use. 
 
 All this will be much more obvious if we refer to 
 modem poetry. Here is a stanza from Spenser — part 
 of his description of the access to Mammon's cave 
 He has just described Eevenge, Jealousy, Fear, Shame 
 and other entities. 
 
 '•' And over them sad Horror with grim hue 
 Did always soar, beating his iron wings ; ■ 
 And after him owls and night-ravens flew, 
 The hateful messengers of heavy things. 
 Of death and dolour telling sad tidings 
 
210 THEORIES OF POETRY. 
 
 While sad Celeno, sitting on a clift, 
 A song of bale and bitter sorrow sings, 
 That heart of iiint asunder could have rift ; 
 Which having ended, after him she fiieth swift." 
 
 This is true poetry ; and yet, by no possible ingenuity, 
 short of that which identified King Jeremiah with 
 pickled cucumbers, could it be shown to consist of 
 imitation. If it be said that it is mimic creation, and 
 that this is the sense in which Aristotle meant his 
 imitation, or fiifj.ija-i';, to be understood, we shall be 
 very glad to accept the explanation ; but then we shall 
 have to reply that, as the essence of the business lies in 
 the word " creation " as the substantive of the phrase, 
 it is a pity the brunt of the disquisition should have 
 been borne so long by the adjective. Aristotle, we 
 believe, did mean that poetry was, in the main, fiction, 
 or invention of fables in imitation of nature ; but, un- 
 fortunately, even then he misleads by making imita- 
 tion, which is but the jackal in the treatise, seem the 
 lion in the definition. ISTor even then will his theory 
 be faultless and complete. Spenser's grim-hued Horror, 
 soaring aloft, beating his iron wings, and with owls and 
 night-ravens after him, is certainly a creation ; but in 
 what sense it is a mimic creation, or a creation in 
 imitation of nature, it would take a critic, lost to all 
 reasonable use of words, to show. 
 
 In short, and to close this discussion with a phrase 
 
THEORIES OF POETBY. 211 
 
 which, seems to us to fall like a block of stone through 
 all our reasonings about art imitating nature, being 
 true to nature, and the like, "Ait is called art," said 
 Goethe, " simply because it is not nature." This, it 
 "will be seen, is identical with Bacon's poesy " sub- 
 mitting the shows of things to the desires of the 
 mind." Only in one sense can it be said that the art 
 itself comes under the denomination of nature. Thus, 
 Shakespeare — 
 
 " E'en that art. 
 
 Which, you say, adds to nature, is an art 
 
 That nature makes." 
 
 True, as Goethe would have been the first to admit ! 
 In this sense, Spenser's grim-hued Horror beating 
 his iron wings was a part of nature, because, in this 
 sense, the poet's own soul, with that very iinagination 
 starting out of it, was involved and contained in the 
 universal round. But in any sense in which the words 
 art and natiire are available for the purposes of critical 
 exposition, Goethe's saying is irrefragable : " Art . is 
 called art simply because it is Tiot nature." Dissolve 
 the poet through nature, regard the creative act itself 
 as a part of nature, and then, of course, poetry or 
 art is truth to nature. But keep them distinct, as 
 you must do if you talk of imitation, and then 
 the poet is nature's master, changer, tyrant, lover, 
 watcher, slave, and mimic, aU in one, his head now low 
 
 p 2 
 
212 THEORIES OF POETRY. 
 
 in her lap and again, a moment after, she scared and 
 weeping because, though he is with her, he minds 
 her not. 
 
 All this, we believe, it is very necessary to say. 
 Pre-Eaphaelitism in painting, like Wordsworth's re- 
 form in poetical literature (which reform consisted 
 in the precept and example of what may be called 
 Pre-Drydenism), we regard, so far as it is a recall of 
 art to truth and observation, as an unmixed good. But 
 it is essentially, in this particular respect, a reform only 
 in the language of art ; and art itself is not language, 
 but the creative use of it. We believe the Pre- 
 Eaphaelites know this ; for, though, in theorizing, they 
 naturally put forward their favourite idea of imitation 
 or truthfulness, yet in their practice they are as much 
 imaginative artists as imitative. While in any of the 
 higher Pre-Eaphaelite paintings the language of the 
 painting — that is, the flowers, grasses, foliage, brick- 
 walls, and costumes — may be more real and true to 
 fact than elsewhere, yet the thought which this language 
 is used to convey is as ideal, as much a supposition, 
 imagination, or recombination, as much a mere wish or 
 utinam, as in the majority of other pictures. Still, in . 
 our theory of art at the present day, or at least in our 
 theory of literary art, the notion of imitation is begin- 
 ning to exist in excess. The very power of that most 
 admirable novelist, Thackeray, is beginning to spoil tis. 
 
THEORIES OF POETRY. 213 
 
 We will have nothing but reality, nothiag hut true 
 renderings of men and women as they are ; no giants or 
 demigods any more, but persons of ordinary stature, 
 and the black and the white in character so mixed that 
 people shall neither seem crows nor white doves, but 
 all more or less magpies. Good, certainly, all this; 
 but, had the rule always been peremptory, where had 
 been our Achilleses, our Prometheuses, our Tancreds, 
 our Lears, our Hamlets, our Fausts, our Egmonts ; 
 these men that never were, these idealizations of what 
 might be — not copied from nature, but imagined and 
 full-fashioned by the soul of man, and thence disen- 
 chaiued into natiire, magnificent phantasms, to roam 
 amid its vacancies ? Nor will it do to exempt the epic 
 and the tragic muses, and to subject to the rule only 
 the muse of prose fiction. Where, in that case, had 
 been our Quixotes, our Pantagruels and Panua-ges, our 
 Ivanhoes and Eebeccas, our Fixleins and Siebenkaeses ? 
 These were sublimations of nature, not imitations; 
 suggestions to history by genius and an inspired phi- 
 losophy. The muse of prose literature is very hardly 
 dealt with. Why in prose may there not be much of 
 that license in the fantastic, that measured riot, that 
 right of whimsy, that unabashed dalliance with the 
 extreme and beautiful, which the world allows by pre- 
 scription to' verse ? Why may not prose chase forest- 
 nymphs, and see little green-eyed elves, and delight in 
 
214 THEORIES OF POETRY. 
 
 peonies and musk-roses, and invoke the stars, and roll 
 mists about the hills, and watch the seas thundering 
 through caverns and dashing against promontories? 
 Why, in prose, quaU from the grand or ghastly on the 
 one hand, or blush with shame at too much of the 
 exquisite on the other ? Is prose made of iron ? Must 
 it never weep, never laugh, never linger to look at a 
 buttercup, never ride at a gallop over the downs 1 
 Always at a steady trot, transacting only such business 
 as may be done within the limits of a soft sigh on the 
 one hand and a thin smile on the other, must it leave 
 all finer and higher work of imagination to the care 
 of Verse 1 Partly so, perhaps ; for prose soon becomes 
 ashamed, and, when highly inspired, lifts itself into 
 metre. Yet it is well for literature that there should 
 be among us such prose-poets as Kichter was to the 
 Germans : men avoiding nothing as too fantastic for 
 their element, but free and daring in it as the verse- 
 poet in his. All honour to Thackeray and the prose- 
 fiction of social reality ; but let us not so theorize as to 
 exclude from prose-fiction the boundless imagination of 
 another Eichter, or even the lawless zanyism of another 
 Eabelais. 
 
 Poetry, then, we must, after all, define in terms 
 tantamount to those of Bacon. With Bacon himself 
 we may define it vaguely as having reference to the 
 
THEORIES OF POETRY. 215 
 
 imaginatiou, " which faculty submitteth the shows of 
 things to the desires of the mind, whereas reason doth 
 buckle and bow the mind unto the nature of things." 
 Or we may vary the phrase, and, with Coleridge, call it 
 " the vision and faculty divine ; " or, with Leigh Hunt, ' 
 " imaginative passion," the passion for " imaginative 
 pleasure ; " or, with Mr. Dallas, more analytically, " the 
 imaginative, harmonious, and unconscious activity of 
 the soul." /in any case, imagination is the maia word, 
 the main idea. Upon this Shakespeare himself has put 
 his seal : 
 
 " The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, 
 Are of imagination all compact." 
 
 In short, poesy is what the Greek language recognised 
 ifc to be — •7roir)<xK, or creation. The antithesis, there- 
 fore, is between Poetry and Science — 7roi7]<n<s and 
 v6r](7ii!. Let the universe of all accumulated exist- 
 ence, inner and outer, material and mental, up to the 
 present moment, lie under one like a sea, and there 
 are two ways in which it may be intellectually dealt 
 with and brooded over. On the one hand, the intel- 
 lect of man may brood over it inquiringly, striving to 
 penetrate it through and through, to understand the 
 system of laws by which its multitudinous atoms are 
 held together, to master the mystery of its pulsations 
 and sequences. This is the mood of the man of 
 science. On the other hand, the man of intellect may 
 
216 THEOBIES OF POETRY. 
 
 brood over it creatively, careless how it is held to- 
 gether, or whether it is held together at all, and 
 regarding it only as material to be submitted farther 
 to the operation of a combining energy, and lashed and 
 beaten up into new existences. This is the mood of 
 the poet. The poet is emphatically the man who con- 
 tinues the work of creation ; who forms, fashions, com- 
 bines, imagines; who breathes his own spirit into 
 things; who conditions the universe anew according 
 to his whim and pleasure ; who bestows heads of brass 
 on men when he likes, and sees beautiful women with 
 arms of azure; who walks amid Nature's appear- 
 ances, divorcing them, rematching them, interweaving 
 them, starting at every step flocks of white-winged 
 phantasies that fly and flutter into the ether of the 
 future. 
 
 All very well ; but, in plain English, what is meant 
 by this imagination, this creative faculty, which is 
 allowed by aU to be the characteristic of the poet? 
 Mr. Dallas tells us that psychologists differ in their 
 definitions of imagination. Dugald Stewart, and others, 
 . he says, have regarded it solely as the faculty which 
 looks to the possible and unknown, which invents hip- 
 pogriffs and the like ideal beasts — in short, the creative 
 faculty proper. Mr. Dallas maintains that this is not 
 sufficient, and that the faculty unphilosophically called 
 Conception, the faculty which mirrors or reproduces the 
 
THEORIES OF POETRY. 217 
 
 real, must also be included in the poetic imagination. 
 And this is nearly all that he says on the subject. 
 
 Now, if we were to venture on a closer definition, 
 such as might be found applicable over the whole 
 domain of poetry, we should perhaps affirm something 
 to the following effect : — The poetic or imaginative 
 faculty is the power of intellectually producing a new or 
 artificial concrete; and the poetic genius or tempera- 
 ment is tJuit disposition of mind which leads hdhiiuaXly, 
 or Ijy preference, to this kind of intdleduai exercise. 
 
 There is much in this statement that might need 
 explanation. In the first place, we would call attention 
 to the words "intellectually producing," "intellectual 
 exercise." These words are not needlessly inserted. 
 It seems to us that the distinct recognition of what is 
 implied in them would save a great deal of confusion. 
 The phrases "poetic fire," "poetic passion," and the 
 Mke, true and useful as they are on proper occasion, 
 are calculated sometimes to mislead. There may be 
 fire, there may be passion in the poet ; but that which 
 is peculiar to the poet, that which constitutes the poetic 
 tendency as such, is a special intellectual habit, distinct 
 from the intellectual habit of the man of science. The 
 poetic process may be set in operation by, and accom- 
 panied by, any amoimt of passion or feeling; but 
 the poetic process itseU, so far as distinctions are of 
 any value, is an irdellectual process. Parther, as to its 
 
218- THJEOEIJSS OF POETRY. 
 
 kind, it is the intellectual process of produciag a new 
 or artificial concrete. This distinguishes poetry at once, 
 in all its Tarieties, and whether in verse or in prose, 
 from the other forms of literature. In scientific or 
 expository literature the tendency is to the abstract, 
 to the translation of the facts and appearances of 
 nature into general intellectual conceptions and forms 
 of language. In oratorical literature, or the literature 
 of moral stimulation, the aim is to urge the mind in 
 a certain direction, or to induce upon it a certain state. 
 There remains, distinct from either of these, the litera- 
 ture of the concrete, the aim of which is to represent 
 the facts and appearances of nature and life, or to form 
 out of them new concrete combinations. There are men 
 who delight in things simply because they have hap- 
 pened, or because they can imagine them to happen: 
 men, for example, to whom it is a real pleasure to 
 know that at such and such a time a knight in armour 
 rode along that way and' across that bridge ; who dwell 
 with relish on such a fact as that Sulla had a face 
 mottled white and red, so that an Athenian wit com- 
 pared it to a mulberry dipped in meal; who can go 
 back to that moment, and re-arrest time there, as in a 
 picture, when Manlius hung half-way from the top of 
 the Tarpeian rock, and had his death of blood yet 
 beneath him, or when Marie Antoinette lay under the 
 axe and it had not fallen; to whom also the mere em- 
 
THEORIES OF POETRY. 219 
 
 bodiments of their own fancy or of the fancy of others 
 are visions they never tire to gaze on. These are the 
 votaries of the concrete. Now, so far as that literature of 
 the concrete whose business it is to gratify such feelings 
 deals merely with the actual facts of the past as delivered 
 to it by memory, it resolves itself into the department 
 of History; but, so far as it remains unexhausted by 
 such a subduction, it is Poetry or Creative Literature. 
 In practice, as we all know, the two shade into each 
 other, the historian often requiring and displaying the 
 imagination of the poet, and the poet, on the other hand, 
 often relapsing into the describer and the historian. 
 And here a part of our definition may be found fault 
 with. Inasmuch as the poet does not necessarily, in 
 every case, invent scenes and incidents totally ideal, 
 but often treats poetically the actual fields and land- 
 scapes of the earth and the real incidents of life — 
 so that, in fact, much of our best and most genuine 
 poetry is descriptive and historical — why define poesy 
 to be the production of a new or artificial concrete ? 
 Why not call it either the reproduction of an old or 
 the production of a new concrete ? The objection is 
 that the division which would be thus established is 
 not fundamental. In every piece of poetry, even the 
 most descriptive and historical, that which makes it 
 poetical is not the concrete as furnished by sheer recol- 
 lection, but the concrete as shaped and bodied forth 
 
220 THEORIES OF POETRJ. 
 
 anew by the poet's thought — that is, as factitious and 
 artificial. Shelley, indeed, very sweetly calls poetry 
 "the record of the best and happiest moments of the 
 best and happiest minds ; " but then this only refers 
 us farther back in time for the poetry, which certainly 
 does not consist in the act of recording, if it he only 
 recording, but already lay in the good and happy 
 moments that are recorded. Thus, if it be said that the 
 beautiful passage in "Wordsworth describing a winter 
 landscape, with the lake on which he skated with his 
 companions in his boyhood, is a mere transcript of a 
 scene from recollection, it may be replied that, if this 
 is the case (which we do not admit), then the poetry of 
 the passage was transacted along with the skating, and 
 the critic, instead of watching the man at his writing- 
 table, must keep by the side of the boy on the ice. In 
 short, in every case whatever, poetry is the production 
 of an artificial concrete — artificial either in toto, or in 
 so far as it is matter of sense or memory worked 
 into form by the infusion of a meaning. The word 
 " artificial " has bad associations connected with it ; 
 ■ but, as Hazlitt said of Allegory, it is really a harmless 
 ■word, and " won't bite you." It is only necessary to 
 see what it means here to like it well enough. 
 
 The poetical tendency, then, is the tendency to that 
 kind of mental activity which consists in the produc- 
 tion (one might almost say secretion) by the mind of 
 
THEORIES OF POETRY. 221 
 
 aa artificial concrete; and the poetic genius is that 
 kind or condition of mind to which this kind of 
 activity is constitutionally most delightful and easy. 
 Of the legitimacy of such a mode of activity what 
 need to say anything? With some theorists, indeed, 
 poets are little better than privileged liars, and poetry 
 is little better than the art of lying so as to give plea- 
 sure. Even Bacon, with his synonyms of " feigned 
 history" and the like, evidently means to insinuate a 
 kind of contempt for poetry as compared with philo- 
 sophy. The one he calls " the theatre," where it is not 
 good to stay long; the other is the "judicial place or 
 palace of the mind." This is natural enough in a man 
 the tenor of whose own intellectual work must have 
 inclined him, apart even from the original constitu- 
 tional bias which determined that, to prefer the 
 exercise which "buckled and bowed the mind to the 
 nature of things" to the exercise which "elevates 
 the mind by submitting the shows of things to its 
 desires." But recognising, as he did, that the one 
 exercise is, equally with the other, the exercise of a 
 faculty which is part and parcel of the human con- 
 stitution, he was not the man to go very far with the 
 joke about poets being a species of liars. That, we 
 believe, was Bentham's fun. One can see what a good 
 thing might be made of it. "Why was that poor 
 feUow transported ? Why, the fact is, at last assizes, 
 
222 THEORIES OF POETRY. 
 
 he originated a piece of new concrete, which the law 
 calls perjury.'' But the joke may be taken by the other 
 end. "When that deity of the Grecian mythology (if the 
 Grecian mythology had such a deity) whose function 
 it was to create trees, walked one sultry day over the 
 yet treeless earth, and when, chancing to lie down 
 in a green spot, the creative phrenzy came upon him, 
 his thought rushed forth, and, with a whirr of earthy 
 atoms all round and a tearing of turf, the iirst of oaks 
 sprang up completed, that also was the origination of 
 a new piece of concrete, bat one could hardly say that 
 it was telling a lie. Had his godship been a philo- 
 sopher instead of a poet, had he buckled and bowed 
 his mind to the nature of things instead of accom- 
 modating the shows of things to his desires, the world 
 might have been without oaks to this very day. 
 
 Poetical activity being defined generally to be that 
 kind of intellectual activity which resiilts in the pro- 
 duction of new matter of the concrete, it foUo^vs that 
 there are as many varieties in the exercise of this 
 activity as there are possible forms of an intellectual 
 concrete. To attempt a complete^ enumeration of the 
 various ways in which imaginative activity may show 
 ■itself would be tedious ; but an instance or two may 
 bring some of the more common of them before the 
 mind. 
 
THEORIES OF POETRY. 223 
 
 '"' The sun had just sunk below the tops of the moun- 
 tains, whose long shadows stretched athwart the valley ; 
 but his sloping rays, shooting through an opening of 
 the cliffs, touched with a yellow gleam the summits of 
 the forest that hung upon the opposite steeps, and 
 streamed in full splendour upon the towers and battle- 
 ments of a castle that spread its extensive ramparts 
 along the brow of a precipice above. The splendour 
 of these illuminated objects was heightened by the con- 
 trasted shade which involved the valley below." 
 
 Mks. Eadcliffe. 
 " Almost at the root 
 Of that tall pine, the shadow of whose bare 
 And slender stem, while here T sit at eve. 
 Oft stretches towards me, like a long straight path. 
 Traced faintly on the greensward — there, beneath 
 A plain blue stone, a gentle dalesman lies." 
 
 WOEDSWOETH. 
 
 These are plain instances of that kind of imaginative 
 exercise which consists in the imagination of scenes or 
 objects. A large proportion of the imaginative activity 
 of men generally, and of authors in particular, is of 
 this kind. It includes pictures and descriptions of all 
 varieties, from "the most literal reproductions of the 
 real, whether in country or town, to the most absolute 
 phantasies in form and colour, and from the scale of a 
 single object, such as the moon or a bank of violets, 
 to lihe scale of a "Wordsworthian landscape, or of a 
 Milton's universe with its orbs and interspaces. It 
 may be called descriptive imagination. 
 
224 THEORIES OF POETRY. 
 
 " And Priam then alighted from his chariot, 
 Leaving Idseus with it, who remained 
 Holding the mules and horses ; and the old man 
 Went straight in-doors, where the beloved of Jove, 
 Achilles sat, and found him. In the room 
 Were others, but apart; and two alone — 
 The hero Automedon and Alcinous, 
 A branch of Mars — stood by him. They had been 
 At meals, and had not yet removed the board. 
 Great Priam came, without their seeing him. 
 And, kneeling down, he clasped Achilles' knees. 
 And kissed those terrible homicidal hands 
 Which had deprived him of so many sons." 
 
 HOMEE. 
 
 This is the imagination of incident, or narrative imagi- 
 nation. The instance is plain even to baldness ; it is 
 direct Homeric narration: but for this very reason it 
 will better stand as a type of that department of 
 imaginative activity to which it belongs. In this 
 department are included all narrations of incidents, 
 whether historical and real, or fictitious and super- 
 natural, from the scale of a single incident as told 
 in a ballad, up to the sustained unity of the epos or 
 drama, as in Crusoe, Bon Quixote, the Iliad, the Divine 
 Comedy, the Faery Queens, Macbeth, or Paradise Lost. 
 It is hardly necessary to point out that the narration 
 of incident always involves a certain amount of de- 
 scription of scenery. 
 
THEOBIES OF POETRY. 225 
 
 " The Eeve was a slender colerike man. 
 His beard was a shave as nigh as ever he can, 
 His hair was hy his eares round yshorn. 
 His top was docked like a priest befome. 
 Full longe were his legges and full lean, 
 Ylike a staff; there was no calf yseen." 
 
 Chattcee. 
 This may stand as a specimen of what is in reality a 
 sub-variety of the imaginative exercise first mentioned, 
 but is important enough to be adverted to apart. It 
 may be called the imagination of physiogTwmy and 
 costwne ; under which head might be collected an im- 
 mense number of passages from all quarters of our 
 literature. This department, too, will include both the 
 real and ideal — ^the real, as in Chaucer's and Scott's 
 portraits of men and women ; the ideal, as in Spenser's 
 personifications, in Ariosto's hippogriff, or in Dante's 
 Mmrod in a pit in hell, with his face as large as the 
 dome of St. Peter's, and his body in proportion, blow- 
 ing a horn, and yelling gibberish. 
 
 Connected with this in practice, but distinguishable 
 from it, is another variety of imaginative exercise, 
 which may be called the imagination of states of feel- 
 ing. Here is an example : — 
 
 " A fig for those by law protected ! 
 Liberty 's a glorious feast ; 
 Courts for cowards were erected ; 
 Churches built to please the priest." 
 
 BuKNS's Jolly Beggars. 
 Q 
 
22(5 THEOBIES OF POETRY. 
 
 This stanza, it will be observed (and we have chosen it 
 on purpose), is, in itself, as little poetical as may be ; it 
 is mere harsh Chartist prose. But, in so far as it is an 
 imagined piece of concrete — that is, in so far as it is 
 an imagination by the poet of the state of feeling of 
 another mind, or of his own mind in certain circum- 
 stances — it is poetical. This is an important con- 
 sideration, for it links the poet not only with what 
 is poetical in itself, but with a whole, much larger, 
 world of what is unpoetical in itself. The poet may 
 imagine opinions, doctrines, heresies, cogitations, de- 
 bates, expositions ; there is no limit to his traffic with 
 the moral any more than with the sensuous appear- 
 ances of the universe : only, as a poet, he deals with 
 all these as concrete things, existing in the objective 
 air, and from which his own mind stands disentangled, 
 as a spade stands loose from the sand it digs, whether 
 sand of gold or sand of silex. The moment any of the 
 doctrines he is dealing with melts into his own per- 
 sonal state of being (which is happening continually), 
 at that moment the poet ceases to be a poet pure, and 
 becomes so far a thinker or moralist in union with the 
 poet. As regards the literary range of this kind of 
 imaginative exercise, — the imagination of states of 
 feeling, — it is only necessary to remember what a 
 large proportion it includes of our lyric poetry, and 
 how far it extends into the epic and the drama, where 
 
THEORIES OF POETRY. 227 
 
 (and especially in the drama) it forms, together with 
 the imagination of physiognomy and costume, the 
 greater part of what is called invention of character. 
 
 The foregoing is but a slight emimeration of some of 
 the various modes of imaginative exercise as they are 
 popularly distinguishable; and, in transferring them 
 into creative literature at large, they must be con- 
 ceived as incessantly interblended, and as existing in 
 all varieties and degrees of association with personal 
 thought, personal purpose, and personal calm or storm 
 of feeling. It is matter of common observation, how- 
 ever, that some writers excel more in one and some 
 more in another of the kinds of imagination enume- 
 rated. One writer is said to excel in descriptions, but 
 to be deficient in plot and incident; nay, to excel in 
 that kind of description which consists in the imagina- 
 tion of form, but to be defi:cient in tha.t which consists 
 in the imagination of colour. Another is said to excel 
 in plot, but to be poor in the invention of character, 
 and in other particulars. In short, the imagination, 
 though in one sense it acts loose and apart from the 
 personality, flying freely round and round it, like a sea- 
 bird round a rock, seems, in a deeper sense, restricted 
 by the same law as the personality in its choice and 
 apprehension of the concrete. The organ of ideality, as 
 the phrenologist would say, is the organ Igr which man 
 freely bodies forth an ideal objective ; and yet, were 
 
 Q 2 
 
228 THEORIES OF POETRY. 
 
 ideality never so large in a man's head, it would be of 
 no use to apply it, after Keats or Milton, in the direc- 
 tion of white pinks, pansies freaked with jet, sapphire 
 battlements, and crimson-lipped shells, unless there 
 were also a little knot on the eyebrow over the organ 
 of colour. 
 
 The poetical tendency of the human mind being this 
 tendency to the ideal concrete, to the imagination of 
 scenes, incidents, physiognomies, states of feeling, and 
 so on — and all men having more or less of this ten- 
 dency, catering for them in, the ideal concrete, very 
 much in the . same way as their senses cater for them 
 in the real (so that the imagination of a man might 
 be said to be nothing more than the ghosts of his 
 senses wandering in an unseen world) — it follows that 
 the poet, par excellence, is simply the man whose intel- 
 lectual activity is consumed in this kind of exercise. 
 !AA.11 men have imagination; but the poet is "of imagi- 
 nation all compact." He lives and moves in the ideal 
 concrete. He teems with imaginations of forms, 
 colours, incidents, physiognomies, feelings, and charac- 
 ters. The ghosts of his senses are as busy in an 
 unseen world of sky, sea, vegetation, cities, highways, 
 thronged markets of men, and mysterious beings be- 
 longing even to the horizon of that existence, as his 
 real senses are with all the nearer world of nature and 
 
THEORIES OF POETRY. 229 
 
 life. But the notable peculiarity lies in ttis, that 
 every thought of his in the interest of this world is 
 an excursion into that. In this respect, the theory 
 which has been applied to the exposition of the Grecian 
 mythology applies equally to poetic genius in general. 
 The essence of the mythical process, it is said, lay 
 in this, that, the earlier children of the earth having 
 no abstract language, every thought of theirs, of what- 
 ever kind, and about whatever matter, was necessarily 
 a new act of imagination, a new excursion in the ideal 
 concrete. If they thought of the wind, they did not 
 think of a fluid rushing about, but of a deity blowing 
 from a cave ; if they thought of virtue rewarded, they 
 saw the idea in the shape of a visible transaction, 
 in some lone place, between beings human and divine. 
 And so with the poetical mode of thought to this day. 
 Every thought of the poet, about whatever subject, 
 is transacted not mainly in prepositional language, 
 but for the most part in a kind of phantasmagoric or 
 representative language, of imaginary scenes, objects, 
 incidents, and circumstances. To clothe his feelings 
 with circumstance; to weave forth whatever arises 
 in his mind into an objective tissue of imagery and 
 incident that shall substantiate it and make it visible : 
 such is the constant aim and art of the poet. Take 
 an example. The idea of life occurs to the poet 
 Keats, and how does he express it ? 
 
230 THEORIES OF POETRY. 
 
 " Stop and consider ! Life is but a day ; 
 A fragile dew-drop on its perilous way 
 Froiii a tree's summit ; a poor Indian's sleep, 
 While his boat hastens to the monstrous steep 
 Of Montmorenci. "Why so sad a moan ? 
 Life is the rose's hope while yet unblown ; 
 The reading of an ever-changing tale ; 
 The light uplifting of a maiden's veil ; 
 A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air ; 
 A laughing school-boy, without grief or care. 
 Biding the springy branches of an elm." 
 
 This is true Tj-oirja-i^. What with the power of innate 
 analogy, what with the occult suasion of the rhyme, 
 there arose first in the poet's mind, contemporaneous 
 with the idea of life, nay, as incorporate with that 
 idea, the imaginary object or vision of the dew-drop 
 falling through foliage. That imagined circumstance 
 is, therefore, flung forth as representative of the idea. 
 But even this does not exhaust the creative force. The 
 idea bodies itself again in the new imaginary circum- 
 stance of the Indian in his boat ; and that, too, is flung 
 forth. Then there is a rest. But the idea still buds, 
 still seeks to express itself in new circumstance; and 
 five other translations of it follow. And these seven 
 pictures, these seven morsels of imagined concrete, 
 if we suppose them all to be intellectually genuine, 
 aie as truly the poet's thoughts about life as any seven 
 scientific definitions would be the thoughts of the 
 
THEORIES OF POETRY. 231 
 
 physiologist or the metaphysician. And so in other 
 instances. Tennyson's Vision of Sin is a continued 
 phantasmagory of scene and incident representative of a 
 meaning ; and, if the meaning is not plain throughout 
 it is because it would he impossible for the poet him- 
 self to translate every portion of it out of that language 
 of phantasmagory in. which alone it came into exist- 
 ence. Again, Spenser's personifications — ^his grim-hued 
 Horror soaring on iron wings, his Jealousy seated apart 
 and biting his lips, and the rest — are aU thoughts 
 expressed in circumstance, the circumstance in this 
 case being that of costume and physiognomy. In 
 short, every thought of the poet is an imagination of 
 concrete circumstance of some kind or other — circum- 
 stance of visual scenery, of incident, of physiognomy, 
 of feeling, or of character. The poet's thought, let 
 the subject be what it may, brings him to 
 
 " Visions of all places : a bowery nook 
 Will be elysium — an eternal book 
 Whence he may copy many a lovely saying' 
 About the leaves and flowers — about the playing 
 Of nymphs in woods and fountains, and the shade 
 Keeping a silence round a sleeping maid ; 
 And many a verse from so strange influence 
 That we must ever wonder how and whence 
 It came." 
 
 Regarding the poet, then, considered in his nature, 
 we may sum up by saying that the act of cogitation 
 
232 THEORIES OF POETRY. 
 
 with him is nothing else than the intellectual secretion 
 of fictitious circumstance — ^the nature of the circum- 
 stance in each case depending on the operation of 
 those mysterious affinities which relate thought to the 
 world of sense. In regarding the poet more expressly 
 as a literary artist, all that we have to do is to 
 vary the phrase, and say — the intellectual invention 
 of fictitious circumstance. This will apply to all that 
 is truly poetical in literature, whether on the large 
 scale or on the small. In every case what is poetical 
 in literature consists of the embodiment of some notion 
 or feeling, or some aggregate of notions and feelings, in 
 appropriate imagined circumstances. Thus, in historical 
 or biographical writing, the poetic faculty is shown by 
 the skill, sometimes conscious and sometimes uncon- 
 scious, with which the figures are not only portrayed 
 in themselves, but set against imagined visible back- 
 grounds, and made to move amid circumstances having 
 a pre-arranged harmony with what' they do. The 
 achievement of this, in consistency with the truth of 
 record, is the triumph of the descriptive historian. In 
 fictitious prose-narrative the same poetic art has still 
 freer scope. That a lover should be leaning over a stile 
 at one moment, and sitting under a tree at another; 
 that it should be clear, pure moonlight when Henry 
 is happy, and that the moon should be bowling through 
 clouds, and a dog be heard howling at a farmhouse 
 
THEORIES OF POETRY. 233 
 
 near, when the same Henry means to commit suicide — 
 are artifices of which every ordinary novelist is master 
 who knows his trade. The giant Grangonsier, in Eahe- 
 lais, sitting by the fixe, very intent upon the broiling of 
 some chestnuts, drawing scratches on the hearth with 
 the end of a burnt stick, and telling to his wife and 
 children pleasant stories of the days of old, is an in- 
 stance of a higher kind, paralleled by many in Scott 
 and Cervantes. And, then, in the epic and the 
 drama ! Hamlet with the skull in his hand, and 
 Homer's heroes walking by the iro\v<f>\oia-$oio ! It is 
 the same throughout the whole literature of fiction: 
 always thought expressed and thrown off in the lan- 
 guage of representative circumstance. Indeed, Goethe's 
 theory of poetical or creative literature was that it is 
 nothing else than the moods of its practitioners objec- 
 tivized as they rise. A man feels himself oppressed 
 and agitated by feelings and longings, now of one kind, 
 now of another, that have gathered upon him tUl they 
 have assumed the form of definite moral uneasiness. 
 If he is not a literary man, he contrives to work off the 
 burden, in some way or other, by the ordinary activity 
 of life — ^which, indeed, is the great preventive esta- 
 blished by nature; but, if he is a literary man, then 
 the uneasiness is but the motive to creation, and the 
 result is a song, a drama, an epic, or a noveL Scheming 
 out some plan or story, which is in itself a kind of 
 
234 THEOEIES OF POETRY. 
 
 allegory of his mood as a whole, he fills up the sketch 
 with minor incidents, scenes, and characters, ■which are 
 nothing more than the breaking up of the mood into 
 its minutiae, and the elaboration of these minutiae, one 
 by one, into the concrete. This done, the mood has 
 passed into the objective ; it may be looked at as some- 
 thing external to the mind, which is therefore from 
 that moment rid of it, and ready for another. Such, 
 at least, was Goethe's theory ; which, he said, would 
 apply most rigidly to all that he had himself written. 
 Nor would it be difficult, with due explanation, to 
 apply the theory to the works of all other masters of 
 creative or poetical literature. Dante may be said to 
 have slowly translated his whole life into one repre- 
 sentative performance. 
 
 Several supplementary considerations must be now 
 adduced. The form of the poet's cogitation, we have 
 said, is the evolution not of abstract po'opositions but of 
 representative concrete circumstances. But in this, too, 
 there may be degrees of better and worse, of greater 
 and less. Precisely as, of two writers thinking in the 
 language of abstract speculation, we can say, without 
 hesitation, which has the more powerful mind> so of 
 two writers thinking in the other language of concrete 
 circumstance, one may be evidently superior to the 
 other. There is room, in short, for all varieties of 
 greater and less among poets as among other people. 
 
THEORIES OF POETBT. 235 
 
 Hence the folly of the attempts to exalt poetical 
 genius, merely as such, above other kinds of intel- 
 lectual manifestation. A man may be constitutionally 
 formed so that he thinks his thoughts in the language 
 of concrete circumstance; and still his thoughts may 
 be very little thoughts, hardly worth having in any 
 language. Both poets and men of science must- be 
 tried among their peers. "Whether there is a comnion 
 measure, and what it is ; whether there is an intrinsic 
 superiority in the mode of cogitation of the poet over 
 that of the philosopher, or the reverse ; and whether and 
 how far we may then institute a comparison of absolute 
 greatness between Aristotle and Homer, between Milton 
 and Kant : these are questions of a high calculus, 
 which most men may leave alone. There is no diffi- 
 culty, however, when the question is between a Kirke 
 White and a Kant ; and when a poor poet, never so 
 genuine in a small way, tells people that his intellect 
 is " genius," while theirs is " talent," he runs a risk of 
 being very unceremoniously treated. 
 
 " This palace standeth in the air, 
 By necromancy placed there. 
 That it no tempest needs to fear, 
 
 "Wliich way soe'er it blow it : 
 And somewhat southward toward the noon 
 There lies a way up to the moon, 
 And thence the fairy can as soon 
 Pass to the Earth below it." 
 
236 THEORIES OF POETRY. 
 
 This is very sweet, and nice, and poetical (it is by 
 Drayton, not a small poet, but a considerable one) ; 
 and yet surely, call it genius or what you will, there 
 was less commotion of the elements when it was 
 produced than when Fewton excogitated one of his 
 physical theories. 
 
 We may pass to another point. The imagination 
 following the law of the personality, some imaginations 
 are strong where others are weak, and weak where 
 others are strong. In other words, though all poets, 
 as such, express themselves in the language of concrete 
 circumstance, some are greater adepts in one kind 
 of circumstance, others in another. Some are great in 
 the circumstance of form, which is the sculptor's 
 favouiite circumstance ; others can produce admirable 
 compositions in chiaroscuro ; others have the whole rain- 
 bow on their pallet. And so, some express themselves 
 better in incident, others better in physiognomy and 
 character. ' All this is recognised in daily criticism. 
 Kow, the consequence of the diversity is that it is very 
 difiicult to compare poets even amongst themselves. 
 It is not every poet that exhibits an imagination 
 absolutely universal, using with equal ease the lan- 
 guage of form, of colour, of character, and of incident. 
 Shakespeare himself, if we may infer anything from his 
 minor poems, and from the carelessness with which he 
 took ready-made plots for his dramas from any quarter, 
 
THEORIES OF POETRY. 237 
 
 was not so great a master of incident as of other kinds 
 of circumstance, and could hardly have rivalled Homer, 
 or Scott, purely as a narrative poet. How, then, 
 establish a comparative measure, assigning a relative 
 value to each kind of circumstance? How halance 
 what Chaucer has and has not against what llilton ]/ 
 has and has not — Chaucer, so skilful in physiognomy, 
 against Milton, who has so little of it, hut who 
 has so much else ; or how estimate the chiaroscuro 
 of Byron as against the richly coloured vegetation of 
 Keats ? Here, too, a scientific rule is undiscoverahle, 
 and a judgment is only possible in very decided cases, 
 or by the peremptory verdict of private taste. 
 
 "Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro' the 
 mellow shade. 
 Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled ia a silver 
 braid." 
 
 Who will venture to institute a sure comparison of 
 merit between this exquisite bit of colour from Tenny- 
 son and the following simple narrative lines from the 
 same poet ? 
 
 * All the man was broken with remorse ; 
 And aU his love came back a hundredfold ; 
 And for three hours he sobbed o'er William's child. 
 Thinking of WiUiam." 
 
 There is yet a third thing that has to be taken into 
 consideration. Be a man as truly a poet as it is 
 
238 THEORIES OF POETRY. 
 
 possible to be, and be the kind of circumstance in 
 which his imagination excels as accurately known as 
 possible, it is not always that he can do his best. The 
 poet, like other men, is subject to inequalities of mood 
 and feeling. Now he is excited and perturbed, because 
 the occasion is one to rouse his being from its depths ; 
 now he is placid, calm, and commonplace. Hence 
 variations in the interest of the poetical efforts of one 
 and the same poet. As he cannot choose but think 
 poetically, whether roused or not, even the leisurely 
 babble of his poorest hours, if he chooses to put it 
 forth, will be poetical. But he is not to be measured 
 by this, any more than the philosopher by his casual 
 trifles, or the orator by his speeches on questions that 
 are insignificant. It is even important to remark that 
 it is only at a certain pitch of feeling that some men 
 become poets. Though the essence of poetry consists in 
 a particular mode of intellectual exercise, yet the emo- 
 tional moment at which different minds adopt this 
 mode of exercise may not be the same. The language 
 of concrete circumstance is natural to all men when 
 they are very highly excited : aU ,joy, aU sorrow, all 
 rage, expresses itself in imaginations. The question 
 then not unfrequently ought to be : At what level of 
 feeling does a man become or profess to be a poet? 
 On this may depend, not the verdict as to the genuine- 
 ness of his poetry, but the disposition to spare time to 
 
THEORIES OF POETRY. 239 
 
 listen to it. The most assiduous members of Parlia- 
 ment do not feel bound to be in the House, even when 
 a leader is speaking, unless it is on a Cabinet question 
 or a question of some considerable interest. Some 
 orators know this and reserve themselves ; others, de- 
 lighting in their profession, speak on every question. 
 It is the same with poets, and with the same result. 
 A Keats, though always poetical, may often be poetical 
 with so small a stimulus that only lovers of poetry for 
 its own sake feel themselves sufficiently interested. 
 "Why are Milton's minor poems, exquisite as they are, 
 not cited as measures of his genius ? Because they are 
 not his speeches on Cabinet questions. Why is Spenser 
 the favourite poet of poets, rather than a popidar 
 favourite like Byron ? For the same reason that a 
 court of law is crowded during a trial for life or death, 
 but attended only by barristers during the trial of an 
 intricate civil case. The subject chosen by a poetical 
 writer is a kind of allegory of the whole state of his 
 mental being at the moment; but some writers are 
 not moved to allegorize so easily as others, and it is 
 a question with readers what states of mind they care 
 most to see allegorized. This, then, is to be taken into 
 account, in comparing poet with poet. Precisely as an 
 orator is remembered by his speeches on great ques- 
 tions, and as the position of a painter among painters 
 is determined in part by the interest of his subjects, so 
 
240 THEORIES OF POETRY. 
 
 in a comparison of poets, or of the same poet with 
 himself, the seriousness of the occasion always goes 
 for something. Shakespeare's Venvs and Adonis, though 
 fine as a poetical study, does not affect one with the 
 same human interest as his plays; and there is a 
 gradation of interest in advancing from leisurely com- 
 positions of the sweet sensuous order, such as Keats's 
 Endymion and Spenser's FMry Queene, to the severe 
 splendour of a Divina Gommedia or a Prometheus 
 Vinctus. True, on the one hand, poets choose their 
 own subjects, so that these themselves are to be taken 
 into the estimate ; and, on the other, the very practice 
 of the art of poetical expression on any subject, like 
 the glow of the orator when he begins to speak, leads 
 into unexpected regions. Yet, after all, in weighing a 
 poem against others, this consideration of the emotional 
 level at which it was produced, and of its interest in 
 connexion with the general work and sentiment of the 
 world, is a cause of much perplexity. 
 
 " Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly. 
 Most musical, most melancholy ! 
 Thee, chantress, oft the woods among 
 I woo, to hear thy even-song ; , 
 And, missing thee, I walk unseen 
 On the dry, smooth- shaven green, 
 To behold the wandering moon 
 Eiding near her highest noon, 
 Like one that hath been led astray 
 
THEORIES OF POETRY. 241 
 
 Through the heaven's wide pathless Wcay, 
 And oft, as if her head she bowed, 
 Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 
 Oft, on a plat of rising ground, 
 I hear the far-off curfew sound. 
 Over some wide-watered shore, 
 Swinging slow with sullen roar." 
 
 How decide between this from Milton's Penseroso and 
 this, in so different a key, from Shakespeare's Lear ? — 
 
 " Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks ! rage ! blow ! 
 You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout 
 'J'ill you have drenched our steeples, drowned the 
 
 cocks ! 
 Ynu sulphurous and thought-executing fires, 
 \'iiint-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts, 
 SM;p,e my white head ! and thou, all-shaking thunder, 
 Stiike flat the thick rotundity o' the world." 
 
 A fourth consideration, which intrudes itself into the 
 question of oui- appreciation of actual poetry, and which 
 is not sufficiently borne in mind, is that in almost 
 every poem there is much present besides the pure 
 poetry. Poetry, as such, is cogitation in the language of 
 concrete circumstance. Some poets excel constitution- 
 ally in one kind of circumstance, some in another ; some 
 are moved to this mode of cogitation on a less, others 
 on a greater, emotional occasion; but, over and above 
 all this, it is to be noted that no poet always and 
 invariably cogitates in the poetical manner. Specu- 
 
 R 
 
242 THEORIES OF POETRY. 
 
 lation, information, mental produce and mental activity 
 of all kinds, may be exhibited in tlie course of a work 
 whicli is properly called a poem on account of its 
 general character; and, as men are liable to be im- 
 pressed by greatness in every form wherever they 
 meet it, all that is thus precious in the extra-poetical 
 contents of a poem is included in the estimate of 
 the greatness of the poet. One example will suffice. 
 Shakespeare is as astonishing for the exuberance of, 
 his genius in abstract notions, and for the depth of 
 his analytic and philosophic insight, as for the scope 
 and minuteness of his poetic imagination. It is as if 
 into a mind poetical in fm'm there had been poured all 
 the matter that existed in the mind of his contem- 
 porary Bacon. In Shakespeare's plays we have thought, 
 history, exposition, and philosophy, all within the 
 roimd of the poet. The only difference between him 
 and Bacon sometimes is that Bacon writes an essay 
 and calls it his own, while Shakespeare writes a 
 similar essay and puts it into the mouth of a Ulysses 
 or a Polonius. It is only this fiction of a speaker 
 and an audience that retains many of Shakespeare's 
 noblest passages within the pale of strict poetry. 
 
 Hitherto we have made no formal distinction be- 
 tween the poet, specifically so called, and the general 
 praotitioners of creative literature, of whatever variety. 
 
THEORIES OF POETItY. 243 
 
 Our examples, iudeed, have been taken in the main 
 from those whom the world recognises as poets ; but, 
 as far as our remarks have gone, poetry still stands 
 synonymous with the whole literature of imagination. 
 All who express their meaning by the literary repre- 
 sentation of scenes, incidents, physiognomies, and cha- 
 racters, whether suggested by the real world or wholly 
 imaginary, are poets. All who, doing this, do it 
 grandly, and manifest a rich and powerful nature, are 
 great poets. Those who excel more in the language of 
 one kind of circumstance are poets more especially 
 of that kind of circumstance — poets of visual scenery, 
 poets of incident and narration, poets of physiognomy, 
 or poets of character and sentiment, as the case may be. 
 Those who are poetical only at a high key, and in the 
 contemplation of themes of large human interest, are 
 the poets who take the deepest hold on the memory of 
 the human race. Finally, those who, having the largest 
 amount of poetic genius, and of the best kind, associate 
 therewith the most extensive array of other intellectual 
 qualities, are the poets of the strongest momentum and 
 the greatest universal chance. 
 
 Not a word in all this to exclude imaginative prose- 
 writers. So far. Homer, Plato, Sophocles, Aristophanes, 
 Vii'gil, Dante, Boccaccio, Chaucer, Cervantes, Spenser, 
 Shakespeare, Milton, Tasso, Moliere, Goethe, Eichter, 
 Scott, Defoe, and a host of others, are all huddled to- 
 
 k2 
 
244 TREOBIES OF POETRY. 
 
 gether, the principal figures of a great crowd, including 
 alike poets and prose-writers. These indeed may, in 
 accordance with considerations already suggested, be 
 distributed into groups, and that either by reference to 
 degree or by reference to kind. But no considerations 
 have yet been adduced that would separate the ima- 
 ginative prose-writers, as such, from the imaginative 
 verse-wmters, as such. Now, though this is good pro- 
 visionally — though it is well to keep together for a 
 while in the same field of view all writers of imagina- 
 tion, whether bards or prose-writers — yet the universal 
 instinct, not to say the prejudice of association and 
 custom, demands that the poets, as a brotherhood, shall 
 be more accurately defined. How, then, lead out the 
 poets, in the supreme sense, from the general throng 
 where they yet stand waiting ? By what device call 
 the poets by themselves into the foreground, and leave 
 the prose-writers behind ? By a union of two devices ! 
 Go in front of the general crowd, you two : you, flag- 
 bearer, with your richly-painted flag, and you, fluter, 
 with your silver flute! Flap the flag, and let them 
 see it ; sound the flute, and let them hear ! Lo ! 
 already the crowd wavers : it sways to and fro ; 
 some figures seem to be pressing forward from the 
 midst ; and at last one sUver-headed old serjeant steps 
 out in front of all, and begins to march to the sound of 
 the flute. Who is it but old Homer? He is blind 
 
THEORIES OF POETRY. 245 
 
 and cannot see the flag ; but he knows it is there, and 
 the flute guides him. Others and others follow the 
 patriarch, some looking to the flag, and others listening 
 to the flute, hut all marching in one direction. Shake- 
 speare comes with the rest, stepping lightly, as if but 
 half in earnest. And thus at last, lured by the flag and 
 by the flute, all the poets are brought out into the fore- 
 ground. The flag is Imagery; the flute is Verse. In 
 other words, poets proper are distinguished from the 
 general crowd of imaginative writers by a peculiar rich- 
 ness of language, which is called imagery, and by the 
 use, along with that language, of a measured arrange- 
 ment of words known as verse. 
 
 It is, as Mr. Dallas observes, a disputed point whether 
 Imagery or Verse is to be regarded as the more essential 
 element of poetry. It has been usual, of late, to give 
 the palm to imagery. Thus, it was a remark of Lord 
 Jefirey — and the remark has almost passed into a pro- 
 verb — that a want of relish for such rich sensuous poetry 
 as that of Keats would argue a want of true poetical 
 taste. The same would probably be said of Spenser. 
 Mr. Dallas, on the other hand, thinks Verse more 
 essential than Imagery, and in this Leigh Hunt 
 would probably agree with him. The importance 
 attached to a sensuous richness of language as part 
 of poetry is, Mr. Dallas thinks, too great at present; 
 and in opposition to Lord Jeffrey, or at least by way of 
 
•246 THEOniES OF POETRY. 
 
 corrective to his remark about Keats, he proposes that 
 a power of appreciating such severe literary beauty as 
 that of Sophocles shall, more than anything else, be 
 reckoned to the credit of a man's poetical taste. Mr. 
 Dallas, on the whole, is in the right ; and this will 
 appear more clearly if we consider what Imagery and 
 Verse respectively are, in relation to poetry. 
 
 Imagery in poetry is secondary concrete adduced by 
 the imagination in the expression of prior concrete. 
 Thus, in the simile, — 
 
 " The superior Piend 
 Was moving toward the shore, his ponderous shield, 
 Ethereal temper, massy, large, and round, 
 Behind him cast : the broad circumference 
 Hung on his shoulders like the moon, whose orb 
 Through optic glass the Tuscan artist views 
 At evening from the top of Fesole." 
 
 Here the primary object in the imagination of the 
 poet is Satan with his shield hung on his shoulders. 
 While imagining this, however, the poet strikes upon 
 a totally distinct visual appearance, that of the ,moon 
 seen through a telescope, and his imagination, en- 
 amoured with the likeness, imparts the new picture to 
 the reader as something additional to the first. Again, 
 take the metaphor : — 
 
 " Sky lowered, and, muttering thunder, some sad drops 
 Wept at completing of the mortal sin 
 Original" 
 
TSEOBIES OF POETRY. 247 
 
 Here the process is the same as in the simile, hut more 
 nnconscioTis and complete. The concrete object first in 
 the mind (so far at least as these lines are concerned) 
 is the sky dropping rain : in the imagination of this 
 another imagined object, that of a being shedding 
 tears, intrudes itself ; the two objects are combined by a 
 kind of identifying flash ; and the double concrete is 
 presented to the reader. So, again, with that highest 
 species of metaphor, the personification or vivification, 
 of which, indeed, the metaphor quoted is an ex- 
 ample. 
 
 Almost all so-called images may be reduced under 
 one or other of the foregoing heads ; and, in any case, 
 all imagery will be found to consist in the use of con- 
 crete to help out concrete. Now, as the very essence of 
 the poet consists in the incessant imagination of con- 
 crete circumstance, a language rich in imagery is in 
 itself a proof of the possession of poetical faculty in a 
 high degree. Cceteris paribus, the more of subsidiary 
 circumstance evolved in intellectual connexion with the 
 main one the higher the evidence of poetical power. 
 There is a likeness, in this respect, between poetical and 
 scientific writers. Some scientific writers, e.g. Locke, 
 attend so rigorously to the main thought they are 
 pursuing as to give their style a kind of nakedness and 
 iron straightness ; others, e.c/. Bacon, without being 
 indifferent to the main thought, are so full of intel- 
 
248 THEORIES OF POETBT. 
 
 lectual matter of all kinds that they enrich every 
 sentence with a detritus of smaller propositions related 
 to the one immediately on hand. So with poets. 
 Some poets — as Keats, . Shakespeare, and Milton in 
 much of his poetry — so teem with concrete circum- 
 stance, or generate it so fast, as their imagination works, 
 that every imagined circumstance as it is put forth 
 from them takes with it an accompaniment of parasitic 
 fancies. Others, as the Greek dramatists and Danje, 
 sculpture their thoughts massively in severe outline. 
 It seems probable that the tendency to excess of im- 
 agery is natural to the Gothic or Eomantic as distinct 
 from the Hellenic or Classical imagination; but it is 
 not unlikely that the fact that poetry is now read 
 instead of being merely heard, as it once was, has 
 something to do with it. As regards the question 
 when imagery is excessive, when the richness of a poet's 
 language is to be called extravagance, no general prin- 
 ciple can be laid down. The judgment on this point 
 in each case must depend on the particular state of 
 the case. A useful distinction, under this head, might 
 possibly be drawn between the liberty of the poet and 
 the duty of the artist. Keats's Endymion one might 
 safely, with reference to such a distinction, pronounce 
 to be too rich ; for in that poem there is no proportion 
 between the imagery, or accessory concrete, and the 
 main stem of the imagined circumstance from which 
 
THEORIES OF POETRY. 249 
 
 the poem derives its name. In the Eve of St. Agnes, 
 on the other hand, there is no such fault. 
 
 Of Verse, as connected with poetry, various theories 
 have been given. Wordsworth, whose theory is always 
 more narrow than his practice, makes the rationale of 
 verse to consist in this, that it provides for the mind a 
 succession of minute pleasurable surprises in addition 
 to the mere pleasure communicated by the meaning. 
 Others regard it as a voluntary homage of the mind 
 to law as law, repaid by the usual rewar(is of dis- 
 interested obedience. Mr. Dallas sets these and other 
 theories aside, and puts the matter on its right basis. 
 Verse is an artificial source of pleasure ; it is an incen- 
 tive to attention, or a device for economizing attention ; 
 and it is an act of obedience to law, if you choose so to 
 regard it. AU these, however, are merely statements 
 respecting verse as something already found out and 
 existing ; not one of them is a theory of verse in its 
 origin and nature. Such a theory, if it is to be sought 
 for at all, must clearly consist in the assertion of this, 
 as a fundamental fact of nature — that, when the mind 
 of man is either excited to a certain pitch, or engaged 
 in a certain kind of exercise, its actions adjust them- 
 selves, in a more express manner than usual, to time as 
 meted out in beats or intervals. Mr. Dallas, giving to 
 the statement its most transcendental form, says that 
 the rationale of metre is to be deduced from the fact 
 
250 TIJEOEIES OF POETRY. 
 
 that, inasmucli as Time, according to Kant, is but a 
 leading form of Sense, it must fall under the law of 
 Imagination, the faculty representative of Sense. Quite 
 independent of this philosophic generalization, which it 
 ■would at least require much time to work down to the 
 ordinary apprehension, there are many facts, some of 
 which Mr. Dallas very acutely points out, all tending 
 to indicate the existence of such a law as we have 
 described. The swinging of a student to and fro in his 
 chair during a fit of meditation, the oratorical see-saw, 
 the evident connexion of mental states with the breath- 
 ings and the pulse-beats, the power of the tick-tick of a 
 clock to induce reverie, and of the clink-clank of a bell 
 to make' the fool think words to it, are all instances 
 of the existence of such a law. Nay, the beginnings 
 of pqetical metre itself are to be traced in speech far 
 on this side of what is accounted poetry. There is a 
 visible tendency to metre in every articulate expres- 
 sion of strong feeling ; and the ancient Greeks, we are 
 told, used to amuse themselves with scanning passages 
 in the speeches of their great orators. 
 
 Without trying to investigate this question farther, 
 we would refer to a consideration connected with it 
 which seems important for our present purpose. The 
 law, as stated hypothetically, is that the mind, either 
 when excited to a certain pitch, or when engaged in a 
 particular kind of exercise, takes on a marked con- 
 
THEORIES OF POETRY. 251 
 
 cordance with time as measured by beats. Now, 
 whether is it the first or the second mental con- 
 dition that necessitates this concordance ? Poetry 
 we have all along defined as a special mode of 
 intellectual exercise, possible under all degrees of 
 emotional excitement — the exercise of the mind ima- 
 ginatively, or in the figuring forth of concrete circum- 
 stance. Is it, then, poetry as such that requires metre, 
 or only poetry by virtue of the emotion with which 
 it is in general accompanied — that emotion either 
 preceding and stimulating the imaginative action, or 
 being generated by it, as heat is evolved by friction ? 
 The question is not an easy one. On the whole, how- 
 ever, one might incline to the belief that, though poetry 
 and passion have metre for their common servant, it is 
 on passion, and not on poetry, that metre holds by 
 original tenure. Is not metre found in its highest and 
 most decided form in lyrical poetrj^, narrative poetry 
 having less, and dramatic poetry still less of it? and 
 wherever, in the course of a poem, there is an unusual 
 metrical boom, is not the passage so characterized 
 always found to be one not so much of pure concrete 
 richness as of strong accompanying passion? What, 
 then, if song, instead of being, as common language 
 makes it, the complete and developed form of poetry.^ 
 should have to be scientifically defined as the complete ' 
 and developed form of oratory, passing into poetry only 
 
253 TEEORIES OF POETRY. 
 
 in as far as passion, in its utterance, always seizes and 
 whirls with it shreds and atoms of imagined circum- 
 stance ? If this is the true theory. Verse belongs, by 
 historical origin, to Oratory, and lingers with Poetry 
 only as an entailed inheritance. 
 
 Prose, then, may, as we have said, make inroads upon 
 that region of the literature of the concrete which has 
 hitherto been under the dominion of verse. But, on the 
 other hand, verse, whatever it may have been in its origin, 
 exists now, like many other sovereignties, by right of 
 expediency, constitutional guarantee, and the voluntary 
 submission of those who are its subjects. And here 
 it is that the theories of Wordsworth and others have 
 their proper place. They are theories of verse, not in 
 its origin, but in its character as an existing institution 
 in the literature of the concrete. They tell us what we 
 can now do intellectually by means of verse which we 
 could not do if her royalty were abolished. They point 
 to the fact thatlmjjterature, as in other departments of 
 activity, law and order, and even the etiquette of arti- 
 ficial ceremonial, though they may impose intolerable 
 burdens on the disaffected and the boorish, are but con- 
 ditions of liberty and development to all higher, and 
 ' finer, and more cultured natures. In short (and this is 
 the important fact), metre, rhyme, and the like, are not 
 only devices for the sweet and pleasant conveyance 
 of the poet's meaning after it is formed; they are 
 
TSEOBIES OF POETRY. 253 
 
 devices assisting beforehand in the creation of that 
 meaning. They are devices so spurring and delighting 
 the imagination, while they chafe and restrain it, that 
 its thoughts and combinations in the world of concrete 
 circumstance are more rich, more rare, more occult, 
 more beautiful, than they would otherwise be. Like 
 the effect of the music on the fountain and the com- 
 pany of Bacchanals in Teimyson's strange vision is the 
 effect of verse on poetical thought : 
 
 " Then methought I heard a mellow sound. 
 Gathering up from all the lower ground ; 
 Narrowing in to where they sat assembled, 
 Low, voluptuous music winding trembled, 
 Wov'n in circles : they that heard it sigh'd. 
 Panted hand in hand with faces pale. 
 Swung themselves, and in low tones replied, 
 TiU the fountain spouted, showering wide 
 Sleet of diamond-drift and pearly hail." 
 
 Here we must stop our discussion of the Theory of 
 Poetry. For much that we have left undiscussed, and 
 especially for a philosophical division of poetry accord- 
 in" to its kinds we must refer to Mr. Dallas. We 
 recommend his book highly and cordially. There is 
 perhaps a stronger dash of what may be called Okenism 
 in his style of speculation than some readers may like : 
 as, for example, in his systematic laying out of every- 
 thing into corresponding threes or triads. Poetry 
 
254 THEORIES OF POETRY. 
 
 figures throTigliout this treatise as a compound result 
 of three laws — the laws of unconsciousness, the law of 
 harmony, and the law of imagination ; which laws are 
 supreme respectively in three kinds of poetry — lyrical 
 poetry, epic poetry, and dramatic poetry; which three 
 kinds of poetry, again, correspond historically with 
 Eastern, primitive, or divine art, Grecian, antique, or 
 classical art, and Western, modern, or romantic art; 
 which historical division, again, corresponds philoso- 
 jjliically with such trinities as these — I, he, thou ; time 
 future, time past, time present; immortality, God, 
 freedom; the good, the true, the beautiful All this, 
 stated thus abruptly and without explanation, may 
 seem hopeless matter to some ; but even they will find 
 in the book much that will please them, in the shape 
 of shrewd observation and lucid and deep criticism, 
 valuable on its own account, and very different from 
 what used to be supplied to the last age by its 
 critics. 
 
VI. 
 
 PROSE AND VERSE : DE QUINOEY. 
 
VI. 
 
 PROSE AND VERSE: DE QUINCEY} 
 
 In the Preface to this series of volumes (which is in- 
 tended to be a more perfect accomplishment, under the 
 author's own editorship, of a scheme of literary collect- 
 ion already executed very creditably by an American 
 publisher) Mr. De Quiacey ventures on something 
 rather unusual. He ventures on a theoretical classifi- 
 cation of his own writings for the benefit of critics. 
 The following is the passage in which he states this 
 classification and the grounds of it : — 
 
 "Taking as the basis of my remarks the collective 
 American edition, I wOl here attempt a rude general 
 classification of all the articles which compose it. I 
 distribute them grossly into three classes : — 
 
 "First, into that class which proposes primarily to 
 amuse the reader ; but which, in doing so, may or 
 may not happen occasionally to reach a higher station, 
 at which the amusement passes into an impassioned 
 interest. Some papers are merely playful ; but others 
 
 ' British Quarterly Beview, July, 1854. — "Selections Grave and 
 Gay, from Writinga published and unpublished." By Thomas De 
 Quincey. Vols. I. and II., containing "Autobiographic Sketches." 
 Edinburgh, 1853-4. 
 
 S 
 
258 PROSE AND VERSE: BE QUINCEY. 
 
 have a mixed character. These present Autobiographic 
 Sketches illustrate what T mean. Generally, they pre- 
 tend to little beyond that sort of amusement which 
 attaches to any real story, thoughtfully and faithfully 
 related, moving through a succession of scenes suf- 
 ficiently varied, that are not suffered to remain too long 
 upon the eye, and that connect themselves at every 
 stage with intellectual objects. But, even here, I do 
 not scruple to claim from the reader, occasionally, a 
 higher consideration. At times, the narrative rises into 
 a far higher key. . . . 
 
 "Into the second class I throw those papers which 
 address themselves purely to the understanding as an 
 insulated faculty, or do so primarily. Let me call 
 them by the general name of essays. These, as in 
 other cases of the same land, must have their value 
 measured by two separate questions. A. — What is 
 the problem, and of what rank in dignity or use, 
 which the essay undertakes ? And next — that point 
 being settled — B. — What is the success obtained ? and 
 (as a separate question) What is the executive ability 
 displayed in the solution of the problem ? This latter 
 question is naturally no question for myself, as the 
 answer would involve a verdict upon my own merit. 
 But, generally, there will be quite enough in the answer 
 to Question A for establishing the value of any essay 
 ■on its soundest basis. Prudens interrogatio est dimi- 
 divm scienticB : skilfully to frame your question is 
 half-way towards insuring the true answer. Two or 
 three of the problems treated in these essays I will 
 here rehearse [Mr. De Quincey here cites, as examples 
 of the kind of writings which he refers to the second 
 
PROSE AND VERSE: DE QUINCEY. 259 
 
 class, his essays on the following subjects : — Essenism, 
 The Ccesars, and Cicero]. These specimens are sufficient 
 for ihe purpose of informing the reader that I do not 
 -yvrite without a thoughtful consideration of my subject; 
 and, also, that to think reasonably upon any question has 
 never been allowed by me as a sufficient ground for writ- 
 ing upon it, unless I believed myself able to offer some 
 considerable novelty. Generally, I claim (not arrogantlj^ 
 but with firmness) the merit of rectification applied to 
 absolute errors, or to injurious limitations of the truth. 
 " Finally, as a third class, and, in virtue of their aim, 
 as a far higher class of compositions, included in the 
 American collection, I rank The Confessions of an 
 Opium-Eater, and also (but more emphatically) the 
 Suspiria de Profundis. On tliese, as modes of im- 
 passioned prose, ranging under no precedents that I 
 am aware of in any literature, it is much more difficult 
 to speak justly, whether in a hostile or a friendly cha- 
 racter. As yet neither of these two works has ever 
 received the least degree of that correction and pruning 
 which both require so extensively ; and of the ISuspiria 
 not more than perhaps one-third has yet been printed. 
 When both have been fully revised, I shall feel myself 
 entitled to ask for a more determinate adjudication on 
 their claims as works of art. At present I feel author- 
 ized to make haughtier pretensions in right of their 
 conception than I shall venture to do under the peril 
 of being supposed to characterize their execution. Two 
 remarks only I shall address to the equity of my reader. 
 First, I desire to remind him of the perilous difficulty 
 besieging all attempts to clothe in words the visionary 
 scenes derived from the world of dreams, where a single 
 
 s 2 
 
260 FBOSE AND VUBSM : DE ^UINGEY. 
 
 false note, a single word in a wrong key, ruins the whole 
 music; and, secondly, I desire him to consider the utter 
 sterility of universal literature in this odc department 
 of impassioned prose — which certainly argues some 
 singular difficulty, suggesting a singular duty of 
 indulgence in criticising any attempt that even im- 
 perfectly succeeds. The sole Confessions, belonging 
 to past times, that have at aU succeeded in engaging 
 the attention of men, are those of St. Austin and of 
 Eousseau. The very idea of hreathiag a record of 
 human passion, not into the ear of the random crowd, 
 but of the saintly confessional, argues an impassioned 
 theme. Impassioned, therefore, should be the tenor of 
 the composition. Now, in St. Augustine's Confessions 
 is found one most impassioned passage — viz., the 
 lamentation for the death of his youthful friend in the 
 fourth book; one, and no more. Parther, there is 
 nothing. In Eousseau there is not even so much. 
 In the whole work there is nothing grandly affecting 
 but the character and the inexplicable misery of the 
 writer." 
 
 No one acquainted with Mr. De Quincey's writings 
 will deny the soundness and the completeness of this 
 classification ; nor do we think that a critic, proposing 
 to himself so ambitious a task as an appreciation of 
 Mr. De Quincey's genius as a whole, could do better 
 than quietly assume it, and proceed to examine Mr. De 
 Quincey's merits, first as a writer of interesting memoirs, 
 secondly, as an essayist or elucidator of difficult 
 historical and other problems, and, lastly, as an almost 
 
PROSE AND VERSE: DE QUINCEY. 261 
 
 unique practitioner of a peculiar style of imaginative or 
 highly impassioned prose. Such an examination, con- 
 ducted never so rigorously, if by a competent person, 
 would confirm the impression, now entertained on all 
 hands, that among the most remarkable names in the 
 history of English literature for many a day must be 
 ranked that of Thomas De Quincey. Our purpose, 
 however, is by no means so extensive. We do not 
 mean to comment on Mr. De Quincey as a writer of. 
 memoirs and narratives, nor to cuU from his numerous 
 contributions in that department — the present two 
 volumes included — any of the delightful reminiscences 
 with which they abound. We do not mean, either, to 
 follow Mr. De Quincey through any of the various 
 tracks of speculation into which his pure intellectual 
 activity has led him, and thus to exhibit the delicacy 
 and subtlety of his thinking faculty, the range of his 
 observation and knowledge, and the value of his con- 
 clusions on obscure and vexed questions. In this 
 department, we believe, he would be found fully 
 entitled to the praise which he has claimed for him- 
 self — ^the praise of having been practically faithful to 
 that theory of literature which maintains that no man 
 is entitled to write upon a subject merely by having 
 something reasonable to say about it, unless that some- 
 thing is also, to some extent, new. It is with Mr. De 
 Quincey, however, in the last of the three aspects in 
 
262 PBOSM AND VEBSE : DE QUINCEY. 
 
 which he has presented himself to notice in the fore- 
 going passage that we propose exclusively to concern 
 ourselves. We thank Mr. De Quincey for having so 
 presented himself. Not only, in so doing, has he 
 indicated, with all due modesty, what he esteems his 
 peculiar and characteristic place in English literature, 
 and the scene and nature of his highest triumphs as 
 a writer ; he has also, at the same time, suggested a 
 very curious subject for critical discussion. 
 
 By the established custom of aU languages, there is a 
 great interval between the mental state accounted proper 
 in prose writing and that allowed, and even required, 
 in verse. A man, for the most part, would be ashamed 
 of permitting himself in prose the same freedom of 
 intellectual whimsy, the same arbitrariness of com- 
 bination, the same riot of imagery, the same care for 
 the exquisite in sound and form, perhaps even the 
 same depth and fervour of feeling, that he would exhibit 
 unabashed in verse. There is an idea that, if the 
 matter lying in the mind waiting for expression is of 
 a very select and rare kind, or if the mood is peculiarly 
 fine and elevated, a writer must quit the platform of 
 prose, and ascend into the region of metre. To use a 
 homely figure, the feeling is that, in such circumstances, 
 one must not remain in the plainly- furnished apartment 
 on the ground-floor where ordinary business is transacted, 
 
PROSE AND VERSE: DE QUINCET. 263 
 
 but must step up-stairs to the place of elegance and 
 leisure. Take, for example, the following passage 
 from Comus : — 
 
 " Sabrina fair, 
 
 Listen where thou art sitting, 
 Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave, 
 
 In twisted briads of lilies knitting 
 The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair ; 
 Listen for dear honour's sake. 
 Goddess of the silver lake — 
 Listen and save." 
 
 If any man, having preconceived exactly the tissue of 
 meaning involved in this passage, had tried to express 
 it in prose, he would have had a sense of shame in 
 doing so, and would have run the risk of being regarded 
 as a coxcomb. Only in verse will men consent, in 
 general, to receive such specimens of the intellectually 
 exquisite ; but offer them never so tiny a thing of the 
 kind in verse, and they are not only satisfied, but 
 charmed. Nor is it only with regard to the pecu- 
 liarly exquisite, or the peculiarly luscious in meaning, 
 that this is true; it is true, also, to a certain extent, 
 of the peculiarly sublime, or the peculiarly magnificent. 
 Thus Samson, soliloquizing on his blindness — 
 
 " The vilest here excel me ; 
 They creep, yet see : I, dark, in light exposed 
 To daily fraud, contempt, abuse, and wrong ; 
 
264 FROSE AND VERSE : BE QUINCET. 
 
 Within doors, or without, still as a fool 
 
 In power of others, never in my own ; 
 
 Scarce half I seem to live, dead more than half. 
 
 dark, dark, dark ; amid the blaze of noon 
 
 Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse, 
 
 Without all hope of day ! 
 
 0, first-created beam, and thou great Word, 
 
 Let there be light, and light was over all ; 
 
 Why am I thus bereaved thy prime decree ? 
 
 The sun to me is dark 
 
 And silent as the moon, 
 
 When she deserts the night, 
 
 Hid in her vacant interlunar cave." 
 
 In prose something equivalent to this might have been 
 permitted by reason of the severe impressiveness of the 
 theme ; but, to render the entire mass of thoughts and 
 images acceptable precisely as they are, without re- 
 trenchment or toning down, one almost requires to see 
 the golden cincture of the enclasping verse. Take a 
 passage where, this cincture having been purposely re- 
 moved in the process of translation, the sheer meaning 
 may be seen by itself in a prose-heap. The following is 
 a description from jEschylus, literally translated : — 
 
 "So Tydeus, raving and greedy for the fight, wars 
 like a serpent in its hissings beneath the noon-tide heat, 
 and he smites the sage seer, son of Oicleus, with a 
 taunt, saying that he is crouching to death and battle 
 out of cowardice. Shouting out such words as these, 
 he shakes their shadowy crests, the hairy honours of 
 
PROSE AND VERSE: BE QUINCEY. -265 
 
 his helm, while beneath his buckler bells cast in brass 
 are shrilly pealing terror. On his buckler, too, he has 
 this arrogant device — a gleaming sky tricked out with 
 stars, and in the centre a brilliant full moon conspicuous, 
 most august of the heavenly bodies, the eye of night. 
 Chafing thus in his vaunting harness, he wars beside 
 the bank of the river, enamoured of conflict, like a steed 
 champing his bit with rage, that rushes forth when he 
 hears the voice of the trumpet." 
 
 Knowing that this is translated from verse, we admire 
 it ; but, if it were presented to us as an original effort of 
 description in prose, we should, though still admiring it, 
 feel that it went beyond bounds. What we should feel 
 would be, not that such a description ought not to be 
 given, but that prose is not good enough and leisurely 
 enough to have the honour of containing it. And, 
 so, generally, when a man launches forth in a gi'and 
 strain, or when he begins to put forth matter more 
 than usually rich and luscious, our disposition is to 
 interrupt him and persuade him to exchange the style 
 for that of metre. " Had we not better step up-stairs ? " 
 is virtually what we say on such occasions ; and this not 
 ironically, but with a view to hear out what has to be 
 said with greater pleasure. Id short, we allow all 
 
 / ordinary business of a literary kind — plain statement, 
 equable narrative, profound investigation, strong direct 
 appeal — to be transacted in prose ; we even permit a 
 
 \ moderate amount of beauty, of enthusiasm, and of ima- 
 
266 PROSE AND VERSE: DE QUINCEY. 
 
 ginative play, to intermingle with the current of prose- 
 composition ; but there is a point, marked either by the 
 unusual fineness of the matter of thought, its unusual 
 arbitrariness and luxuriance, its unusual grandeur, or 
 its unusually impassioned character, at which, by a law 
 of custom, a man must either consent to be silent, or 
 must Ufb himself into verse. On such occasions it is as 
 when a speaker is expected to leave his ordinary place 
 in the body of the house and mount the tribune. 
 
 There is an element in the philosophy of this matter 
 which it may be well to attend to before going farther. 
 We have spoken as if the meaning to be uttered were 
 generally already in the mind before the form of utter- 
 ance is chosen. We have represented the case as if 
 there were already internally prepared by a writer a 
 certain tissue or series of thoughts and images, and as 
 if it were then capable of being made a deliberate 
 question whether he should emit the intellectual whole 
 thus prepared in metre or in prose. But this is not the 
 actual state of the fact. The actual fact is that the 
 meaning that will in any case exist to be expressed is 
 conditioned beforehand by the form of expression 
 selected — in other words, that the matter cogitated does, 
 not precede the form of expression and engage this or 
 that form of expression at its option, but that the form 
 of expression assists from the outset in determining the 
 kind of matter that shall be cogitated. This removes a 
 
PBOSE A2^J) VERSE: DE QUINCEY. 267 
 
 practical difficulty. A man who writes in prose is, bj 
 the fact that he does so, kept within the bounds of prost 
 in the character of his mental combinations. Those 
 peculiar finenesses and flights of intellectual activitj 
 which are native to verse are then simply not developed 
 His thoughts stop short precisely at that point of rich- 
 ness, quaiutuess, or luxuriance, where prose ceases to bs 
 prose. That this point wiU vary according to a writer'! 
 taste and faculty does not for the present matter. Oi 
 the other hand, the writer who uses metre and rhym( 
 does not prosecute his train of meaning independently 
 of them, ,but partly by their very aid in leading him thi; 
 way or that. A man who has made up his mind to adi 
 to aU the other conditions of his thinking these two- 
 first, that he shall think in synchronism with certaii 
 metrical beats, and, secondly, that he shall think forwarc 
 to that point in his mental horizon where he sees th 
 glimmer of a certain predetermined rhyme — such i 
 writer necessarily accustoms himself to a more comple: 
 law of cogitation than rules the prose- writer, and move 
 through an atmosphere of more arbitrary and exquisit 
 and occult suggestions. This may look mechanical 
 but it is the very rationale of verse and its function! 
 Versifiers are men who have voluntarily, in accordanc 
 with some original bent in their nature, submitted thei 
 thoughts to a more complex mechanism than ordinar 
 prose- writers, and whose reward is that, when they ar 
 
268 PROSM AND VERSE: DE QUINCEY. 
 
 such masters of the mechanism as no longer to think of 
 its existence, they can revel in combinations more in- 
 timate, extreme, and exquisite than their prose thoughts 
 would be. In reading a passage of verse, therefore, we 
 have to bear in mind that the meaning came in part to 
 be what it is because the verse assisted to create it. 
 Thus, in the passage quoted from Comus, it is unneces- 
 sary to trouble ourselves with fancying what reception 
 such a dainty little picture would have met with if 
 offered originally in prose ; for it is what it is simply 
 because metre and rhyme conspired in the production 
 of it. So, also, in the passage from Samson Agonistes, 
 the mass of thoughts and images would have stood 
 somewhat different from the first, had it not been 
 shaped implicitly to fiU the mould of the precise metre. 
 Again, in the description from jEschylus, whatever 
 passes the degree of imaginative richness deemed suit- 
 able to prose is justified by the recollection that these 
 excesses were perpetrated in verse. 
 
 This last instance suggests an observation of some 
 importance. It may happen, and does often happen, 
 that the metrical form may have been necessary to the 
 evolution of a particular piece of meaning, and may yet 
 not be so necessary to the preservation and perpetuation 
 of it, after it has been produced. Only under the con- 
 dition of metre may a thought of special splendour or 
 beauty have been actually produced ; and yet, once it 
 
FBOSE AND VERSE: DE QUINGEY. 26£ 
 
 is fairly on this side of the Styx, the metrical moulc 
 necessary for its safe conveyance hither may be frac- 
 tured, and the thought wiU still stand appreciable or 
 its own merits. And thus it is that much of the great' 
 ness of the highest poetry is indestructible by even th( 
 rudest process of transmutation into literal prose. Th( 
 actual matter of Homer's Iliad and of the great Greel 
 tragedies might never have existed but for the sugges 
 tive power in the minds of the poets of those precisi 
 hexameters and iambic and choral measures in whicl 
 it was imagined and delivered; but much of what i 
 noble in it survives yet in the baldest prose translatioi 
 The preciousness of the thought is to be recognise{ 
 even after the fabric of the verse has been crumblei 
 into the mere form of unmetrical powder. 
 
 All this, however, does not affect the practical im 
 portance of the fact that custom has established ; 
 distinction between what is lawful in prose and wha 
 is lawful ha. verse. True, for the reasons above statec 
 the distinction causes no one any personal inconveni 
 ence. He who prefers to write in prose does so becaus 
 he finds he can make prose sufficient. The necessit; 
 for writing in verse exists only where there is the prio 
 habit, if we may so call it, of thinking in verse. Whe: 
 the thoughts of a prose-writer reach a degree of es 
 quisiteness, or lusciousness, or imaginative grandeur, a 
 which prose refuses to contain them, nature provide 
 
270 PROSE AND VERSE: BE QUINCE Y. 
 
 the remedy by simply whirling him into verse. He has 
 the option of allowing himself to be so whirled, or of 
 restraining himself, and refusing to go on whenever the 
 said point is reached. He may choose never " to go up- 
 stairs," never to put himself into such a strain that it 
 shall be necessary for him to ascend the tribune in 
 order to speak. But here lies the question. Where is 
 that ideal point at which a man must either smother 
 what is in his mind or ascend the tribune and speak in 
 verse ? "What are the limits and capabilities of prose ; 
 and through what series of gradations does prose pass 
 into technical and completed verse ? If a man refuses 
 to be whirled past the extreme prose point, what 
 amount of farther intellectual possibility, and of what 
 precise kinds, does he thus forego? Is the ulterior region 
 into which verse admits co- extensive with that which it 
 leaves behind ; and, if not, what is its measure ? Does 
 it overhang the realm of prose like a superior ether, 
 nearer the empyrean, or does it only softly round it to 
 a small measurable distance ? Is the relation of prose 
 to verse that of absolute inferiority, or of inferiority in 
 some respects counterbalanced by superiority in others ? 
 In short,. what is it that verse can do and prose cannot, 
 and what is the value of this special kind of intellectual 
 work which only verse can transact ? "We have spoken 
 vaguely of the boundary between prose and verse as 
 being marked by a certain degree of fineness, or ex- 
 
PBOSE AND VERSE: DE QUINCE Y. 271 
 
 quisiteness, or occultness, or luseiousness, or arbitrari- 
 ness, or grandeur, or passionateness, in the matter of 
 thought to be expressed ; but we must now seek for a 
 more exact definition, so as to see what proportion of 
 just human thought prose at its utmost will contain, 
 and what residue must either be foregone or relegated 
 to verse. 
 
 It will be admitted that for all the purposes of what 
 is called investigation, speculation, generalization, philo- 
 sopliical discussion and exposition, prose is sufficient. 
 There is no need for a man " to step up-stairs " so long 
 as he deals with matter pertaining to what is called 
 the pure understanding. A Kant, a Leibnitz, or a Sir 
 William Hamilton, so far as their pure reasonings are con- 
 cerned, need never find themselves whirled'past the prose 
 point, notwithstanding that the matters about which 
 their reasoning is employed may be the generalities on 
 which the universe rests, and that their conclusions in 
 such matters may be the result of vast force of intellect, 
 and may set the whole world in amaze. The actual 
 reasonings of even a half-inspired Plato may be de- 
 livered to their last link without the aid of verse. This, 
 then, is much to say in behalf of poor prose. It ought 
 to silence the absurd chatter of many a versifier, exult- 
 ing in his technick without any just knowledge of what 
 it really is. The large world-shaking abstraction, the 
 profound of all-penetrating stroke of intellect, the rich 
 
272 PBOSE AND VBBSE : DE QUINCEY. 
 
 shower of fructifying propositions, the iron chain of 
 conquering syllogisms : ' all these are possible to the 
 prose-writer in a manner and to an extent beyond the 
 legitimate or usual powers of verse. The verse of a 
 Shakespeare, it is true, will teem with matter secreted 
 by the purely intellectual organ, the same being so 
 interfused with the poetic that the superfluity does 
 not seem a fault ; and a Wordsworth may, in beautiful 
 metre, reproduce the phUosophizings of a Spinoza. But 
 even those masters of verse could do nothing in this 
 department by the help of their iambics which equal 
 power could not have done more rigorously and sys- 
 tematically with the iambics away. In passing into 
 verse, the poet may take such matter with him ; but he 
 must treat it in such a way that, from the point of 
 view of the pure thinker, there is a loss of the logical 
 virtue. With all the reverence that exists for verse as 
 distinct from prose, no one wiU deny that at the present 
 moment there lies imbedded in the prose-treatises of 
 the world a mass of most precious substance distinct 
 from all that can be found in verse. 
 
 Again, prose is sufficient for the expression of at 
 least a large proportion of all possible human feeling. 
 It would be difficult to say at what pitch of mere feel- 
 ing it would be absolutely necessary to go " up-stairs " 
 for the means of adequate expression. Joy, sorrow, 
 indignation, rage, love, hatred — there is ample scope 
 
PBOSE AND VERSE: DE QUINCET. 273 
 
 for the expression of these passions within the limits 
 of prose. Impassioned prose oratory can show as 
 splendid renderings of some of these passions as any 
 that can be found in verse. Indeed there are some 
 passions — as, for example, those of laughter and indig- 
 nation — ^which find a more natural utterance in prose. 
 And yet it is precisely in this matter of the expres- 
 sion of feeling or passion that we first come in S'ight 
 of the natural origin of metre. At a certain pitch of 
 fervour or feeling the voice does instinctively lift itseK 
 into song. Intense grief breaks into a wail, great joy 
 biirsts into a measured shout, pride moves to a slow 
 march; all extreme passion tends to cadence. "And 
 the king was much moved, and went up to the 
 chamber over the gate and wept ; and, as he went, thus 
 he said, Oh, my son Absalom, my son, my son Absa- 
 lom ! Would God I had died for thee ; Oh, Absalom, 
 my son, my son!" Wherever there is emotion like 
 this, we have a rudimentary metre in its expression; 
 and verse in all its forms is nothing else than the pro- 
 longation and extended ingenious application of this 
 hint of nature. It may be laid down as a principle, 
 therefore, that impassioned writing tends to the metri- 
 cal, and that, though this tendency may gratify itself 
 to a great length within the limits of such wild 
 metrical prose as it wiU itself create for the passing 
 occasion, yet at a certain point in all feelings, and 
 
274 FB08E AND VERSE: 1)E QUINCE7. 
 
 more particularly in such feelings as joy, sorrow, and 
 love, it wUl overleap the boundary of what in any 
 sense can be called prose, and will seize on that 
 artifice of verse which past custom has provided and 
 consecrated. Walking by the river-side, full of thought 
 and sadness, even the homely rustic minstrel wiU find 
 it natural to pour forth his feelings to the estab- 
 lished cadence of some well-known melody: — 
 
 " But minstrel Burn cannot assuage 
 
 His woes while time endureth. 
 To see the changes of this age. 
 
 Which fleeting Time procureth : 
 Pull many a place stands in hard case 
 
 Where joy was wont beforrow, 
 With Humes that dwelt on Leader braes. 
 
 And Scotts that dwelt on Yarrow." 
 
 Here the very tune of the thought seems to keep time 
 with the arm as it moves the bow of an imaginary 
 violin. And so with more modern and more cultured 
 poets. Thus Tennyson : — 
 
 " Break, break, break, 
 
 On thy cold grey stones, sea ! 
 And I would that my tongue could utter 
 The thoughts that arise in me ! 
 
 0, well for the fisherman's boy. 
 
 That he shouts with his sister at play ; 
 
 0, well for the sailor-lad. 
 
 That he sings in his boat on the bay. 
 
PB08B AND VERSJE: DM QUINCE Y. 27: 
 
 And the stately ships go on 
 
 To their havea under the hill ; 
 But for the touch of a vanished hand, 
 
 And the sound of a voice that is still ! 
 
 Break, break, break, 
 
 At the foot of thy crags, sea ! 
 But the tender grace of a day that is dead 
 
 Will never come back to me." 
 
 This is not a case in which the same feeling, to the sam^ 
 intensity, could have been expressed in any form o 
 metrical prose, and in which, therefore, the verse is onl; 
 adopted to increase the beauty of the form ; it is a casi 
 in which the feeling had to overleap the bounds o 
 possible prose, on pain of being mutilated. 
 
 There remains now only the field of representativ( 
 literature, the literature of the concrete. How fa 
 does prose stretch over this field; and what portioi 
 of it, if any, is the exclusive possession of verse 1 Th( 
 field divides itself theoretically into two halves o: 
 sections — the domain of mere history and description 
 in which the business of the writer is with the actua 
 concrete, the actual scenes and events of the world 
 and the high domain of imagination or fiction, ii 
 which the business of the writer is with concrete 
 furnished forth by his own creative phantasy. 
 
 Is prose sufficient for all the purposes of historical 
 or descriptive writing, viewed as separately as maj 
 
 T 2 
 
276 FSOSE AND VERSE: BE QUINCE Y. 
 
 be from that department of imaginative writing into 
 which it shades off so gradually ? We should say 
 that it is. For all the purposes of exact record, of 
 exact reproduction of fact in all its vast variety of 
 kinds — fact of scenery, fact of biography, fact of 
 history, fact even of transacted passion — prose is 
 suflScient, and verse unnecessary, or even objectionable. 
 For the true and accurate retention and representation 
 of all that man can observe (and a large and splendid 
 function this is) prose is superior to verse ; and, when 
 this function is committed to verse, there is an in- 
 evitable sacrifice of the pure aim of the function, though 
 that sacrifice may at times be attended with the gain of 
 something supposed to be better. That this statement 
 may not be immediately assented to will arise from 
 a confusion of the descriptive and the imaginative. 
 Thomson's Seasons and much of Wordsworth's poetry 
 are called descriptive compositions ; but, properly 
 considered, they are not records, but the imaginative 
 use of records. Again, Homer is a narrative poet ; 
 but narration with him is but a special use of the 
 imaginative faculty. Isolate strictly the department 
 of historical or descriptive writing proper from that 
 into which it so readily shades off, and prose is the 
 legitimate king of it. We can conceive but two 
 apparent exceptions — first, where verse itself is one 
 of the facts to be recorded; and, secondly, where the 
 
PBQSf! AND VERSE: BE QUINCEY. 277 
 
 historian or the describer waxes so warm in the act 
 of description that he approaches the singing point. 
 In the first case, verse must be treated as any other 
 fact; that is, it mnst be represented accurately by 
 being quoted — which, however, is a prose feat. In the 
 second case, it is not the facts that the historian sings, 
 but his own impassioned feeling about them : a matter 
 already provided for under another head. 
 
 And now for the real tug of war. What are the 
 relative capabilities of Prose and Verse in the great 
 field of fictitious or imaginative literature? It is 
 needless to say that here it is that, by the universal 
 impression of mankind, Verse is allowed the superior 
 rank of the two sisters. The very language we use 
 implies this. The word poetry literally means creation 
 or fiction, and is thus co^extensive with the whole 
 field of literature under notice. And yet it is by a 
 deviation from the common usage of speech that we 
 use the word poetry in this its wide etymological 
 sense. "When we speak of a poet, we mean, unless 
 we indicate otherwise, a man who writes in verse ; 
 when we speak of English poetry, we mean the 
 library of English books written in verse. This is 
 significant. lb indicates the belief that the essential 
 act of woltjaiis is somehow connected with the metrical 
 tendency, and best transacts itself in alliance with 
 that tendency. In other words, it implies a conviction 
 
278 PBOSH AND VERSE: BE QUINCEY. 
 
 that, when the mind sets itself to work in that 
 peculiar manner which we designate hy the term 
 imagination or imaginative exercise, the assumption 
 of the metrical form of expression is natural, and 
 perhaps in some cases essential, to it. And yet this 
 is contradicted at once, to some extent, by palpable 
 fact. In the prose literature of . all languages there 
 is a vast proportion of works in which the prevailing 
 intention of the authors is that of strict Troifijo-ts, 
 the strict invention and elaboration of an imaginary 
 or fictitious concrete. There is the novel; there is 
 the prose romance; there is a prose literature of 
 imagination in various forms. BoMnson Crusoe, Bon 
 Quixote, the Waverley Novels, are prose efforts of a 
 kind as strictly falling under the head of Tro/iyo-ts or 
 creation, in its widest sense, as the Prometheus Vinctus, 
 Paradise Lost, or Tennyson's Princess. Accordingly, 
 we do sometimes rank the writers of imaginative 
 prose among poets or "makers." The question, then, 
 arises : can we, by philosophical investigation, or by 
 the examination of actual instances, determine in what 
 precise conditions it is that the generic act of •jroiijai';, 
 or imaginative exercise, disdains the level ground of 
 prose, and even its highest mountain-tops, and rises 
 instinctively and necessarily on the wings of verse ? 
 
 There are various kinds of Troirjan, or imaginative 
 exercise, according to the species of concrete imagined. 
 
PBOSE AND VERSE: BE QUINCEY. 279 
 
 There is the voiija-K of mere inaniniate objects and 
 scenery, as in mucli of Thomson ; there is the •jrolrja-K 
 of physiognomy and costume, as in much of Scott and 
 Chaucer; there is the irolijaK of incident and action, 
 as in narrative poetry ; there is the trolri<7i<i of feelings 
 and states of mind, as in songs; there is, as an extension 
 of this last, the Troirjcrii of character. From the 
 masterly exercise of these different kinds of iroiTjait 
 in different forms of comhination arise the great 
 kinds of poetry — the descriptive, the epic, the dra- 
 matic, and the lyric. But out of this objective 
 classification of the varieties of imaginative exercise 
 can we derive the clue we seek ? At first sight not. 
 If Thomson and Wordsworth describe imaginary scenes 
 in verse, so do Dickens and Scott and a thousand 
 others in prose; if we have admirable delineations of 
 physiognomy and costume in the Canterbury Pilgrim- 
 age, so also have we in the Waverley Novels; if the 
 Iliad is an effort of narrative imagination, so also is 
 Don Quixote ; if feelings and characters are represented 
 in song and the Iambic drama, so are they also in 
 prose iietion. And yet, as was hinted at the outset^ 
 there does seem to be a condition of the matter 
 imagined such that prose will not generally contain 
 and convey that matter. What is that condition? 
 The instances cited at the outset served vaguely to 
 indicate it. In the quotation from Milton, and in 
 
280 PBOSE AND VEBSE: BE QUINCEY. 
 
 that from -^chylus, it was felt that there was some- 
 thing in the actual matter presented by the passages 
 that would have had to be parted with if the medium 
 h^d been prose. Thus, in the first passage, it was 
 felt that the image of Sabrina 
 
 " Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave. 
 In twisted braids of lilies knitting 
 The loose train of her amber-dropping hair," 
 
 was too dainty for prose. Again, in the "passage from 
 .^schylus, it was felt that the description in the follow- 
 ing sentence would have sustained some reduction if 
 the composition had originally been in the prose form : 
 
 " On his buckler, too, he had this arrogant device — a 
 gleaming sky tricked out with stars, and in the centre 
 a brilliant full moon conspicuous (most august of the 
 heavenly bodies, the eye of night)." 
 
 Prose might have given all of this as far as the paren- 
 thesis, but there it would have stopped. 
 
 So far as we had come to any conclusion from these 
 instances as to the precise character of that concrete 
 which prose instinctively refuses to carry, and which is 
 yet welcome if it is presented in verse, we defined it 
 as consisting in a certain unusual degree of richness, 
 lusciousness, ex(iuisiteness, arbitrariness, occultness, 
 grandeur, or passionateness. We will now limit the 
 catalogue of qualities to these two, richness and arbi- 
 
PBOSE AND VERSE: BE QUINCET. 281 
 
 trariness ; and we will aver, as an approximation to 
 the truth, that the character of a combination by the 
 imaginative faculty which determines that it must take 
 place in verse is either an unusual degree of richness 
 or an unusual degree of arbitrariness. This may not 
 appear to reserve for verse a sufficient monopoly of 
 the great intellectual function of irolrjai^; but, duly 
 interpreted, it will be found to correspond with the 
 fact. It is not, we believe, the mere grandeur or 
 magnificence of a phantasy, it is not its mere fine- 
 ness, or delicacy, or exquisiteness, that necessarily renders 
 prose incapable of it; it is chiefly its richness, or its 
 arbitrariness. The limits of prose as regards the quality 
 of passionateness have already been suggested under a 
 former head. What we call an " impassioned imagina- 
 tion" is a mixed thing, consisting of an objective 
 phantasy, with a peculiar subjective mood breathed 
 through it : it is iroirjo-K in conjunction with ■jrafftjiTK} ; 
 and, having already considered when it is that iradrjffi,^ 
 breaks out into singing, we are now concerned only 
 with the distinct inquiry at what point, if at any, 
 TTOM/o-es itself insists on becoming metrical. 
 
 In the first place, then, there is a peculiar richness of 
 literary concrete of which prose seems to be incapable. 
 By richness of concrete we mean very much what is 
 meant by excess of imagery. Let there be a splendid 
 single combination of the poetical faculty — a splendid 
 
282 PEOSE AND VEBSE : BE QUINCEY. 
 
 imaginary scene, a splendid imaginary incident or 
 action, a splendid imaginary state of feeling or 
 character — and prose will surely and easily compass 
 it. The severe story of a Greek drama may be told 
 in outline in noble prose; nay, each, incident in such 
 a drama may be rendered in a prose narrative so 
 as to be impressive and effective. The visual fancy 
 of the blind Earl and his guide on the cliff at Dover, 
 or of MUton's Satan alighting on the orb of the sun 
 and darkening it like a telescopic spot, may also be 
 outlined in prose so as finely to affect the Imagina^ 
 tion. And so, universally, a single imagined circum- 
 stance, however grand, or a moderately sparse tissue 
 of imagined circumstances, may be delivered in prose. 
 But, when the outline is thickly filled in with 
 imagery ; when, in the expression of the main circum- 
 stance already imagined, masses of subsidiary circum- 
 stance are adduced; when the stem of the original 
 poetic thought does not proceed straight and shaft- 
 like, but is clustered round with rich parasitic fancies : 
 then prose begins to despair. Thus, in Alexander 
 Smith's image descriptive of the commencement of a 
 friendship between one youth, the speaker, and another 
 whom he admired : — 
 
 " An opulent soul 
 Dropt in my path like a great cup of gold. 
 All rich and rough with stories of the gods." 
 
PROSE AND VERSE: BE QUINCEY. 283 
 
 Here the main fancy, the cup of gold dropped in the 
 youth's path, is perfectly within the compass of 
 imaginative prose ; hut only a daring prose-"writer 
 would have turned the cup so lovingly to show its 
 diasing — or, as we say, would have so dallied with 
 the image. Again, in the fine stanza from Keats's 
 Eve of St. Agnes : — 
 
 "And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep. 
 In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd ; 
 While he from forth the closet brought a heap 
 Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd ; 
 With jellies soother than the creamy curd. 
 And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon ; 
 Manna and dates, in argosy transferred, 
 From Fez ; and spiced dainties, every one. 
 From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon." 
 
 In some very luscious prose, such as we find in the 
 Arabian Nights, we might have had the picture as 
 elaborately finished, and even the same express cata- 
 logue of dainties ; but one or two of the touches of 
 subsidiary circumstance, as in the first, seventh, and 
 last Hues, would have been almost certainly omitted. 
 Again, much more visibly, in the following passage 
 from Paradise Lost, describing Satan defying Gabriel 
 and his host of warrior-angels. 
 
 " While thus he spake, the angelic squadron bright 
 Turned fiery red, shai-pening in mooned horns 
 
284 FB08E AND VEMSM : DS QUINCEY. 
 
 Their phalanx, and began to hem him round 
 
 With ported spears, as thick as when a field 
 
 Of Ceres, ripe for harvest, waving bends 
 
 Her bearded grove of ears, which way the wind 
 
 Sways them : the careful ploughman doubting stands, 
 
 Lest on the threshing-floor his hopeful sheaves 
 
 Prove chaff. On the other side, Satan alarmed. 
 
 Collecting all his might, dilated stood, 
 
 Like Teneriffe, or Atlas, unremoved : 
 
 His stature reached the sky, and on his crest 
 
 Sat Horror plumed." 
 
 Here, it is obvious, verse has left prose caught in the 
 thicket. The maia circumstance could have been 
 represented in prose ; and prose might have dared 
 one or two of the strokes of subsidiary imagination; 
 but sueh a profusion of simile and metaphor in so 
 short a space would have bewildered and encumbered 
 it. And so, generally, we may consider it as made 
 out that prose is incapable of so rich a literary con* 
 Crete as Verse may justly undertake, and that, where 
 prose deals with pure poetic matter, a certain com- 
 parative thinness or sparseness is requisite in the 
 texture of that matter, however bold or fine or grand 
 may be the separate imaginations which compose it. 
 Hence it is, we think, that ancient classical poetry, 
 and especially Greek epic and dramatic poetry, is 
 more capable, as a whole, of retaining its impres- 
 siveness when translated into prose than most modem 
 
PBOSS AND VERSE: BE QUINCEl. 285 
 
 poetry when similarly treated. The ancient poetry 
 ■was more severe, delighting in imaginations clearly 
 and separately sculptured; the modern muse favours 
 richness of subsidiary imagery, and delights in orna- 
 menting even its largest creations with minute 
 tracery. 
 
 In the second place, a certain degree of arbitrari- 
 ness in an imaginative combination seems to place it 
 beyond the capacity of ordinary prose. Our meaning 
 will be best seen by an example or two. When 
 SheUey says, 
 
 " Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass. 
 Stains the white radiance of eternity,'' 
 
 he presents to the mind a singularly beautiful image 
 or combination, which is at once accepted and 
 enjoyed. Yet it is a combination so different from 
 anything Hkely to have suggested itself to the logical 
 understanding, or even to the imagination as swayed 
 and directed by the logical understanding, that we 
 question if it could have been arrived at but for 
 that extraordinary nimbleness in seizing remote 
 analogies which is communicated to the mind when it 
 thinks under the complex law of metre. A prose- 
 writer of great imaginative power will often strike 
 out combinations of a high degree of arbitrariness, 
 but rarely will he feel himself entitled to such an 
 
286 PBOSE AND VJBliSM .- BE QUINCEY. 
 
 excursion into the occult as the above. So, also, in 
 the following passage from Keats : — 
 
 "0 Sorrow! 
 
 Why dost borrow 
 The natural hue of health from vermeil lips ? 
 
 To give maiden blushes 
 
 To the white-rose bushes ? 
 Or is it thy dewy hand the daisy tips ? 
 
 Sorrow ! 
 
 Why dost borrow 
 The lustrous passion from a falcon-eye? 
 
 To give the glow-worm light 1 
 
 Or, on a moonless night. 
 To tinge, on siren shores, the salt sea-spry?" 
 
 Here, also, the links of association between idea ■ and 
 idea seem to be too occult, and the entire tissue of 
 images too arbitrary, for prose to have produced a 
 passage exactly equivalent ; and yet, as it is presented 
 to us in verse, we have no doubt as to the legitimacy 
 of the combination, and are thankful for it. And the 
 reason again is that the mind, rising and falling on 
 the undulation of metre — poised, so to speak, on 
 metrical wings — is enabled to catch more fantastic and 
 airy analogies, and to dart to greater distances with 
 less sense of difficulty, than when pacing never so 
 majestically the terra firma of prose. The following 
 from Tennyson is a fine instance of the same : — 
 
PBOSM AND VEHSE: BE QUINOEY. 287 
 
 " The splendour falls on castle waUs, 
 And snowy summits old in story ; 
 The long light shakes across the lakes. 
 And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
 Blow, bugle, blow ; set the wild echoes flying : 
 Answer, echoes, answer — dying, dying, dying." 
 
 Here is a combination the coherence of which is felt 
 by every imaginative mind, and which possesses a 
 singular representative, as distinct from mere ex- 
 pository, power; and yet it almost defies analysis. 
 Tennyson, as one of those poets who have most 
 remarkably restrained themselves to the essential 
 domain of verse, not caring to write what prose might 
 have had the power to execute, abounds with similar 
 instances. In Shakespeare, too, who has by no means 
 so restricted himself, but has torn up whole masses of 
 the rough prose-world, and submitted them, as well as 
 the finer matter of poetic phantasy, to the all-crushing 
 power of his verse, we find examples of the same kind, 
 hardly paralleled in the rest of literature. Thus, ad 
 aperturam, — 
 
 " Thou remember'st 
 Since once I sat upon a promontory, 
 And heard a mermaid on a dolphin's back. 
 Uttering such dtdcet and harmonious breath 
 That the rude sea grew civH at her song, 
 And certain stars shot madly from their spheres. 
 To hear the sea-maid's music." 
 
288 PBOSE AND VERSE; DE QUINCE Y. 
 
 Again : — 
 
 " Sit, Jessica ; look how the floor of heaven 
 Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold. 
 There's not the smallest orb that thou behold'st 
 But in his motion like an angel sings, 
 StiU quiring to the young-eyed cherubims." 
 
 We will close this series of examples with a very apt 
 one from Milton, -describing the loathsome appearance 
 of Sin and her brood at the gates of Hell. 
 
 " Far less abhorred than these 
 Vexed ScyUa, bathing in the sea that parts 
 Calabria from the hoarse Trinacrian shore ; 
 Nor uglier follow the night-hag, when, called 
 In secret, riding through the air she comes. 
 Lured with the smell of infant blood, to dance 
 With Lapland witches, while the labouring moon 
 Eclipses at their charms." 
 
 AU these examples seem to make it clear that there 
 belongs to verse a certain extreme arbitrariness of 
 imaginative association, sometimes taking the character 
 of mere light extravagance, sometimes leading to a 
 ghastly and unearthly effect, and often surprising the 
 mind with unexpected gleams of beauty and grandeur. 
 For, though we have already claimed for prose the 
 capability of pure grandeur and sublimity, we must 
 note here, in the interest of verse, that one source 
 of grandeur is this very license of most arbitrary 
 combination which verse gives. 
 
PROSE AND VERSE: DE QUINCEY. 289 
 
 Some light might, perhaps, be cast on this whole 
 question of the relative and essential capabilities of 
 verse and prose by a study of the law of Shakespeare's 
 instiactive shiftings in his dramas between the two 
 modes of writing. In such a study it would require 
 to be premised that, as Shakespeare stands, by birth- 
 right and choice, on the verse side of the river, and 
 only makes occasional excursions to the prose side, 
 it is to be expected that his practice wiU indicate 
 rather the range within which prose has the sole title 
 than the extent of ground over which it may expatiate 
 as joint-proprietor. Forbearing for the present, how- 
 ever, any such interesting inquiry, let us be content with 
 the approximate conclusions to which we have indepen- 
 dently come. These may be recapitulated as follows : — 
 That in the whole vast field of the speculative and 
 didactic, prose is the legitimate monarch, receiving verse 
 but as a visitor and guest, who wUl carry back bits of 
 rich ore and other specimens of the land's produce ; 
 that in the great business of record, also, prose is 
 pre-eminent, verse but voluntarily assisting; that iu 
 the expression of passion, and the work of moral 
 stimulation, verse and prose meet as co-equals, prose 
 undertaking the rougher and harder duty, where passion 
 intermingles with the storm of current doctrine, and 
 with the play and conflict of social interests — some- 
 times, when thus engaged, bursting forth into such 
 
 u 
 
290 PROSE AND VERSE: DE QUINGEY. 
 
 strains of irregular music that verse takes up the echo 
 and prolongs it in measured modulation, leaving prose 
 rapt and listening to hear itself outdone ; and, lastly, 
 that in the noble realm of poetry or imagination 
 prose also is capable of all exquisite, beautiful, power- 
 ful, and magnificent effects, but that, by reason of a 
 greater ease with fancies when they come in crowds, 
 and of a greater range and arbitrariness of combination, 
 verse here moves with the more royal gait. And thus 
 Prose and Verse are presented as two circles or spheres, 
 not entirely separate, as some would make them, but 
 intersecting and interpenetrating through a large por- 
 tion of both their bulks, and disconnected only in 
 two crescents outstanding at the right and left, or, 
 if you adjust them differently, at the upper and lower 
 extremities. The left or lower crescent, the peculiar 
 and sole region of prose, is where we labour amid the 
 sheerly didactic or the didactic combined with the 
 practical and the stern; the right or upper crescent, 
 the peculiar and sole region of verse, is where Trddijans 
 at its utmost thrill and ecstasy interblends with the 
 highest and mos't daring iroirja-K. 
 
 What Mr. De Quinoey, in his clear and modest self- 
 appreciation, claims as one of his titles to a place in 
 English literature, if not as his most valued title, is 
 that, being expressly a prose writer, he has yet ad- 
 
PROSE AND VERSE: BE QUINOEY. 291 
 
 vanced farther into the peculiar and established domain 
 of verse, as we have just defined it, than almost any- 
 other prose writer in the language. In the passage we 
 quoted from him at the beginning of the paper, he 
 represents himself as almost a unique artificer in 
 at least one department of impassioned and imagi- 
 native prose — that which partakes of the character of 
 personal confessions. In universal literature he can 
 refer but to one passage, in the Confessions of St. 
 Augustine, as . coming within the same literary defini- 
 tion as parts of his own Opium Eater and of his Suspiria 
 de Profundis. This is likely to be true, because Mr. 
 De Quincey says it ; but it is well to bear in mind (more 
 especially as there is a certain ambiguity in Mr. De 
 Quincey's expression — "the utter sterility of universal 
 literature in this one department of impassioned prose") 
 • — ^that, if there has not been much of impassioned prose- 
 writing of this one species, the literature of aU lan- 
 guages contains noble specimens of impassioned and 
 imaginative prose of one kind or another. To name 
 the first example that occurs to us, Milton's prose 
 works contain passages of such grandeur as almost to 
 rival his poetry. Let the following stand as a speci- 
 men : it is the concluding passage of his pamphlet on 
 the Causes that have hindered the Beformation in 
 England, written in the form of ian epistle to a friend. 
 " Oh ! Sir, I do now feel myself enwrapt on the 
 
 u 2 
 
292 PROSE AND VE&BE : DE QVINOEY. 
 
 sudden into those mazes and labyrinths of dreadful and 
 hideous thoughts that which way to get out or which 
 way to end I know not, unless I turn mine eyes, and, 
 with your help, lift up my hands, to that eternal and 
 propitious Throne where nothing is readier than grace 
 and refuge to the distresses of mortal suppliants ; and 
 as it were a shame to leave these serious thoughts less 
 piously than the heathen were wont to conclude their 
 graver discourses — 
 
 "Thou, therefore, that sitst in light and glory un- 
 approachable, Parent of Angels and Men,! next, thee I 
 implore. Omnipotent King, Eedeemer of that lost rem- 
 nant whose nature thou didst assume. Ineffable and 
 Everlasting Love ! and Thou, the third subsistence 
 of Divine Infinitude, Illumining Spirit, the joy and 
 solace of created things ! — one tri-personed Godhead ! 
 look upon this thy poor and almost spent and expiring 
 Church ; leave her not thus a prey to these importunate 
 wolves, that wait and think long till they devour thy 
 tender flock — these wild boars that have bioke into thy 
 vineyard, and left the print of their polluting hoofs on 
 the souls of thy servants. Oh! let them not bring 
 about their damned designs that now staaid at the 
 entrance of the bottomless pit, expecting the watchward 
 to open and let out those dreadful locusts and scorpions 
 to reinvolve us in that pitchy cloud of infernal dark- 
 ness, where we shall never more see the sun of thy 
 truth again, never hope for the cheerful dawn, never 
 more hear the bird of morning sing. Be moved with 
 pity at the afflicted state of this our shaken monarchy, 
 that now lies labouring under her throes, and struggling 
 against the grudges of more dreaded calamities. 
 
 "Oh! Thon, that after the impetuous rage of five 
 
PROSE AND VERSE: BE QUINCEY. 293 
 
 bloody inundations and the succeeding sword of intes- 
 tine war, soaking the land in her own gore, didst pity 
 the sad and ceaseless revolution of our swift and thick- 
 coming sorrows — when we were quite breathless, didst 
 motion peace and terms of covenant with us, and, 
 having first well-nigh freed us from anti-Christian thral- 
 dom, didst build up this Britannic empire to a glorious 
 and enviable highth, with all her daughter islands about 
 her — stay us in this felicity ; let not the obstinacy of 
 our half-obedience and will-worship bring forth that 
 viper of sedition that for these fourscore years hath 
 been breeding to eat through the entrails of our peace ; 
 but let her cast her abortive spawn without the danger of 
 this travailing and throbbing kingdom, that we may still 
 remember, in our solemn thanksgivings, how for us the 
 northern ocean, even to the frozen Thule, was scattered 
 with the proud shipwracks of the Spanish Armada, and 
 the very maw of hell ransacked, and made to give xvp 
 her concealed destruction, ere she could vent it in that 
 horrible and damned blast. 
 
 " Oh, how much more glorious will those former 
 deliverances appear, when, we shall know them not only 
 to have saved us from greatest miseries past, but to 
 have reserved us for greatest happiness to come ! 
 Hitherto Thou hast but freed us, and that not fully, 
 from the unjust and tyrannous chain of thy foes ; now 
 unite us entirely, and appropriate us to Thyself; tie us 
 everlastingly in willing homage to the prerogative of 
 thy Eternal Throne. 
 
 " And now we know, Thou, our most certain hope 
 and defence, that thine enemies have been consulting 
 all the sorceries of the Great Whore, and have joined 
 their plots with that sad intelligencing tyrant that 
 
294 PROSE AND VERSE: BE QUINCET. 
 
 miscliiefs the world with his mines of Ophir, and lies 
 thirsting to revenge his naval ruins that have larded 
 our seas : but let them all take counsel together, and 
 let it come to nought; let them decree and do Thou 
 cancel it ; let them gather themselves and be scattered ; 
 let them embattle themselves and be broken ; let them 
 embattle and be broken, for Thou art with ns. 
 
 " Then, amidst the hymns and halleluiahs of saints, 
 some one may perhaps be heard offering at high strains, 
 in new and lofty measures, to sing and celebrate thy 
 divine mercies and marvellous judgments in this land 
 throughout all ages ; whereby this great and warlike 
 nation, instructed and inured to the fervent and con- 
 tinual practice of truth and righteousness, and casting 
 far from her the rags of her old vices, may press on 
 hard to that high and happy emulation, to be foimd the 
 soberest, wisest, and most Christian people, at that day, 
 when Thou, the Eternal and shortly-expected King, 
 shalt open the clouds to judge the several kingdoms of 
 the world, and, distributing national honours and re- 
 wards to religious and just commonwealths, shalt put 
 an end to all earthly tyrannies, proclaiming the uni- 
 versal and mild monarchy through Heaven and Earth. 
 When they undoubtedly, that by their labours, counsels, 
 and prayers, have been earnest for the common good of 
 religion and their country, shall receive, above the in- 
 ferior orders of the Blessed, the regal addition of Prin- 
 cipalities, Legions, and Thrones, into their glorious 
 titles, and, in supereminence of beatific vision progres- 
 sing the dateless and irrevoluble circle of eternity, shall 
 clasp inseparable hands with joy and bliss in over mea- 
 sure for ever. But they, contrary, that by the impairing 
 and diminution of the true faith, the distresses and 
 
PROSE AND VERSE : DE QUINCEY. 295 
 
 servitude of their country, aspii-e to high dignity, rule, 
 and promotion here, after a shameful end in this life 
 (which God grant them !) shall be thrown down 
 eternally into the darkest and deepest gulf of Hell, 
 where, under the despiteful control, the trample and 
 spurn of all the other Damned, that in the anguish of 
 their tortures shall have no other ease than to exercise 
 a raving and bestial tyranny over them as their slaves 
 and negroes, they shall remain in that plight for ever, 
 the basest, the lowermost, the most dejected, most 
 underfoot and down-trodden vassals of Perdition." 
 
 This may pass as a specimen of impassioned prose 
 hardly to be matched in the English language. Por speci- 
 mens of what may more properly be called imaginative 
 prose we might refer also to English writers, and to some 
 English writers now living. But in this connexion it is 
 perhaps fairest to name that foreign writer who, by the 
 general consent of literary Europe, is accounted facile 
 ■princeps among all prose invaders of the peculiar do- 
 minion of verse — the German Jean Paul. All who are 
 acquainted with the writings of Jean Paul must be aware 
 that, whatever is to be said of his genius as a whole or in 
 comparison with that of his compatriot Goethe, in the 
 single faculty of wild and rich prose-poesy he is the most 
 astonishing even of German writers. Passages verify- 
 ing this might be quoted in scores from his fictions. 
 The famous dream of Christ and the Universe is perhaps 
 his grandest and most daring phantasy of the kind; 
 
296 PSOSE AND VEBSB : BE QUINCEY. 
 
 and, had we space, we should quote it. We will quote 
 instead, a shorter and less awful passage — the singu- 
 larly beautiful conclusion of the novel of Quintus Fins- 
 lein, describing the solitary walk homewards of a man 
 who has just left two dear friends. 
 
 " We were all of us too deeply moved. We at last 
 tore ourselves asunder from repeated embraces; my 
 friend retired with the soul whom he loves. I re- 
 mained alone behind him with the Night. 
 
 " And I walked without aim through woods, through 
 valleys, and over brooks, and through sleeping villages, 
 to enjoy the great Night like a Day. I walked, and 
 still looked, like the magnet, to the region of midnight, 
 to strengthen my heart at the gleaming twilight, at this 
 upstretching aurora of a morning beneath our feet. 
 While night butterflies flitted, white blossoms fluttered, 
 white stars fell, and the white snow-powder hung 
 silvery in the high shadow of the Earth, which reaches 
 beyond the Moon, and which is our Night. Then began 
 the -/^olian harp of creation to tremble and to sound, 
 blown on from above ; and my immortal soul was a 
 string in this harp. The heart of a brother, everlasting 
 Man, swelled under the everlasting Heaven, as the seas 
 swell under the sun and under the moon. The distant 
 village clock struck midnight, mingling, as it were, 
 with the ever-pealing tone of ancient Eternity. The 
 limbs of my buried ones touched cold on my soul, and 
 drove away its blots, as dead hands heal eruptions of 
 the skin. I wallied silently through little hamlets, 
 and close by their outer churchyards, where crumbled 
 upcast coffin-boards were glimmering, while the once- 
 bright eyes that had lain in them were mouldered into 
 
PBOSi; AND VERSE: BE QUINCE Y. 297 
 
 grey ashes. Cold thought ! clutch not like a cold 
 spectre at my heart : I look up to the starry sky, aud 
 an everlasting chain stretches thither, and over, and 
 below ; and all is life, and warmth, and light, and all 
 is Godlike or God. 
 
 " Towards morning I descried thy late lights, little 
 city of my dwelling, which I belong to on this side the 
 grave ; I returned to the earth ; and in the steeples, 
 behind the by-advanced great midnight, it struck half- 
 past two. About this hour, in 1794, Mars went down 
 in the west, and the moon rose in the east ; and my 
 soul desired, in grief for the noble warlike blood which 
 is still streaming on the blossoms of spring: 'Ah, 
 retire, bloody War, like red Mars ; and thou, still Peace, 
 come forth, like the mild divided moon.' "• — Mk. Cae- 
 lyle's Translation. 
 
 Even after such a passage as this there are passages 
 in Mr. De Quincey's writings the power of which, as 
 specimens of skill in impassioned and imaginative 
 prose, would be felt as something new. His Confessions, 
 his Suspiria de Profundis, and even his present volumes 
 of Autoliographic Sketches, contain passages which, for 
 weird beauty, and for skUl in embodying the impal- 
 pable and the visionary, are not surpassed anywhere in 
 poetry. Take the following as an example : it is an 
 attempt to impersonate and generalize in distinct living 
 shapes those various forms or powers of sorrow that hold 
 dominion over man and human life. As there are 
 three Graces, three Fates, and three Furies, so, says 
 De Quincey, there are three Ladies of Sorrow : — 
 
PMOSi; AND VERSE: I)E QUWCEY. 
 
 "THE THKEE LADIES OF SORROW. 
 
 •■'The eldest of the three is named Mater Lachry- 
 marwrn, Our Lady of Tears. She it is that night and 
 day raves and moans, calling for vanished faces. She 
 stood in Eama, when a voice was heard of lamentation 
 — ' Eachel weeping for her children and refusing to be 
 comforted.' She it was that stood in Bethlehem on the 
 night. when Herod's sword swept its nurseries of inno- 
 cents, and the little feet were stiffened for ever, which, 
 heard at times as they tottered along floors overhead, 
 woke pulses of love in household hearts that were not 
 unmarked in heaven. Her eyes are sweet and subtle, 
 wild and sleepy by turns; oftentimes rising to the 
 clouds ; oftentimes challenging the heavens. She wears 
 a diadem round her head. And I knew by childish 
 memories that she could go abroad upon the winds, when 
 she heard the sobbing of litanies or the thundering of 
 organs, and when she beheld the mustering of summer 
 clouds. This sister, the elder, it is that carries keys 
 more than Papal at her girdle, which open every cottage 
 and every palace. She, to my knowledge, sate all last 
 summer by the bedside of the blind beggar, him that 
 so often and so gladly I talked with, whose pious 
 daughter, eight years old, with the sunny countenance, 
 resisted the temptations of play and village mirth to 
 travel all day long on dusty roads with her aflicted 
 father. For this did God send her a great reward. In the 
 spring-time of the year, and whilst yet her own spring 
 was budding, He took her to Himself But her blind 
 father mourns for ever over her; still he dreams at 
 midnight that the little guiding hand is locked within 
 his own ; and stiU he wakens to a darkness that is now 
 within a second and a deeper darkness. This Mater 
 
PEOSE AND VERSE; DE QUINCEY. 299 
 
 Lachrymarum also has been sitting all this winter of 
 1844-45 within the bedchamber of the Czar, bringing 
 before his eyes a daughter (not less pious) that vanished 
 to God not less suddenly, and. left behind her a darkness 
 not less profound. By the power of her keys is it that 
 Our Lady of Tears glides, a ghostly intruder, into the 
 chambers of sleepless men, sleepless women, sleepless 
 children, from Ganges to the Nile, from Nile to Missis- 
 sippi; and her, because she is the first-born of her 
 house, and has the widest empire, let us honour with 
 the title of ' Madonna.' 
 
 " The second sister is called Mater Sus^iriorum, Our 
 Lady of Sighs. She neither scales the clouds, nor 
 walks abroad upon the winds. She wears no diadem. 
 And her eyes, if they were ever seen, would 'he neither 
 sweet lior subtle ; no man could read their story ; they 
 would be found filled with perishing dreams and with 
 wrecks of forgotten delirium. But she raises not her 
 eyes ; her head, on which sits a dilapidated turban, 
 droops for ever — for ever fastens on the dust. She 
 weeps not. She groans not. But she sighs inaudibly 
 at intervals. Her sister, Madonna, is oftentimes stormy 
 and frantic — raging in the highest against heaven, and 
 demanding back her darlings. But Our Lady of Sighs 
 never clamours, never defies, dreams not of rebellious 
 aspirations. She is humble to abjectness. Hers is the 
 meekness that belongs to the hopeless. Murruur she 
 may, but it is in her sleep. Whisper she may, but it is 
 to herself in the twilight. Mutter she does at times, 
 but it is in solitary places that are desolate as she is 
 desolate, in ruined cities, and when the sun has gone 
 down to rest. This sister is the visitor of the Pariah, 
 of the Jew, of the bondsman to the oar in Mediterranean 
 
300 PBOSE AND VERSE: BE QUINCE Y. 
 
 galleys, of the Englisli criminal in Norfolk Island, 
 blotted out from remembrance in sweet far-off England, 
 of the baffled penitent reverting his' eye for ever upon 
 a solitary grave, which to him seems the altar over- 
 thrown of some past and bloody sacrifice, on which 
 altar no oblations can now be availing, whether towards 
 pardon that he might implore, or towards reparation 
 that he might attempt. Every slave that at noonday 
 looks up to the tropical sun with timid reproach, as he 
 points with one hand to the earth our general mother, 
 but for him a stepmother, as he points with the other 
 hand to the Bible, our general teacher, but against 
 him sealed and sequestered ; — every woman sitting in 
 darkness, without love to shelter her head, or hope to 
 illume her solitude, because the heaven-born instincts 
 kindling in her nature germs of holy affections, which 
 God implanted in her womanly bosom, having been 
 stifled by social necessities, now burn sullenly to waste, 
 like sepulchral lamps among the ancients ; — every nun 
 defrauded of her unreturning May-time by wicked 
 kinsmen, whom God will judge : — every captive in 
 every dungeon ; — all that are betrayed, and all that are 
 rejected, outcasts by traditionary law, and children of 
 hereditary disgrace — all these walk with ' Our Lady of 
 Sighs.' She also carries a key ; but she needs it little. 
 For her kingdom is chiefly among the tents of shame, 
 and the houseless vagrant of every clime. Yet in the 
 very highest ranks of men she finds chapels of her own ; 
 and even in glorious England there are some that, to 
 the world, carry their heads as proudly as the reindeer, 
 who yet secretly have received her mark upon their 
 foreheads. 
 
 '' But the third sister, who is also the youngest — ' 
 
PROSE AND VERSE: BE QUINOEY. 301 
 
 Hush ! whisper, whilst; we talk of her ! Her kingdcm 
 is not large, or else no flesh should live ; but within 
 that kingdom all power is hers. Her head, turreted 
 like that of Cybele, rises almost beyond the reach of 
 night. She droops not ; and her eyes, rising so high, 
 might be hidden by distance. But, being what they 
 are, they cannot be hidden ; through the treble veil of 
 crape which she wears, the fierce light of a blazing 
 misery, that rests not for matins or for vespers — for 
 noon of day, or noon of night — for ebbing or for flow- 
 ing tide — may be read from the very ground. She is 
 the defier of God. She is also the mother of lunacies 
 and the suggestress of suicides. Deep lie the roots of 
 her power ; but narrow is the nation that she rules. For 
 she can approach only those in whom a profound nature 
 has been upheaved by central convulsions ; in whom the 
 heart trembles and the brain rocks under conspiracies of 
 tempest from without and tempest from within. Ma- 
 donna moves with uncertain steps, fast or slow, but still 
 with tragic grace. Our Lady of Sighs creeps timidly 
 and stealtliily. But this youngest sister moves with 
 incalculable motions, bounding, and with tiger's leaps. 
 She carries no key ; for, though coming rarely amongst 
 men, she storms all doors at which she is permitted to 
 enter at all. And her name is Mater Tenebrarum, Our 
 Lady of Darkness." 
 
 In this noble piece of prose, as in the passages from 
 Milton and Eichter, no one can fail to remark, in exact 
 accordance with what has been advanced in the course 
 of this essay, that, precisely -as the passion gains in 
 force and intensity, and the pure process of poetic 
 
302 FBOSH AND VERSE: BE QVINGEY. 
 
 combination transacts itself with ease and vigour, the 
 language acquires and sustains a more decided metrical 
 cadence. It would not be difficult to arrange parts of 
 the passages so that what has been printed as prose 
 should present to the eye the appearance of ii-regular 
 verse. And so, generally, a peculiar rhythm or music 
 will always be found in highly impassioned or imagi- 
 native prose. The voice swells with its burthen ; the 
 hand rises and falls ; the foot beats time. And thus, 
 as we have more than once said, prose passes into verse 
 by visible gradations. Still, there is a clear line of 
 separation between the most metrical prose and what 
 is conventionally recognised as verse ; and with all the 
 great effects that may be produced on this side of the 
 line of separation, Prose, as such, is entitled to be 
 credited. And why should not prose do its utmost ? 
 Why should we not have more men like Eichter and 
 De Quincey, to teach prose its uses and capabilities ? 
 "The muse of prose-literature," we have ventured to 
 say on another occasion, "has been very hardly dealt 
 with. We see not why, in prose, there should not be 
 much of that license in the fantastic, that measured 
 riot, that right of whimsy, that unabashed dalliance 
 with the extreme and the beautiful, which the world 
 allows, by prescription, to verse. Why may not prose 
 chase forest-nymphs, and see little green-eyed elves, 
 and delight in peonies and musk-roses, and invoke the 
 
PROSE AND VERSE: DE QUINCEY. 303 
 
 stars, and roll mists about the hills, and watch the seas 
 thundering through caverns and dashing against the 
 promontories ? Why, in prose, quail from the grand 
 or ghastly on the one hand, or blush with shame at too 
 much of the exquisite on the other ? Is Prose made 
 of iron? Must it never weep, never laugh, never 
 linger to look at a buttercup, never ride at a gallop over 
 the downs ? Always at a steady trot, transacting only 
 such business as may be done within the limits of a 
 soft sigh on the one hand and a thin smile on the other, 
 must it leave all finer and higher work of imagina- 
 tion to the care of Verse ? " All speed, then, to the 
 prose invasion of the peculiar realm of verse ! The 
 farther the conquest can proceed, perhaps the better in 
 the end for both parties. The time is perhaps coming 
 when the best prose shall be more like verse than it 
 now is, and the best verse shall not disdain a certain 
 resemblance to prose. 
 
 A word in conclusion, to prevent misconception. We 
 have tried to define the special and peculiar domain of 
 Verse ; but we have scrupulously avoided saying any- 
 thing that would imply an opinion that Verse may not, 
 both lawfully and with good effect, go beyond that 
 domain. We have all along supposed the contrary. 
 Verse, merely as a form of expression, has charms of 
 its own. A thought, an incident, or a feeling, which 
 
304 PBOSM ANB VERSE: BE QUINCEY. 
 
 may be perfectly well expressed in prose, may be 
 rendered more pleasing, more impressive, and more 
 memorable, by being expressed in metre or rhyme. If 
 a man has some doctrine or theory which he wishes to 
 expound, there is no reason, if he finds it possible, and 
 chooses to take the trouble, why he should not make 
 the exposition a metrical one ; and, if his verses are 
 good, there is every probability that, on account of the 
 public relish for metre in itself, his exposition will 
 take a more secure place in literature than would have 
 been attained by a corresponding piece of didactic 
 prose. So also a witticism, or a description, or a plain, 
 homely story, may often be delivered more neatly, 
 tersely, and delightfully, if it comes in the garb of 
 verse. In the same way, a man may often impress 
 more powerfully some strongly-felt sentiment by throw- 
 ing it into a series of nervous and hearty lines. In 
 short, we ought to be ready to accept wit in metre, 
 or narrative in metre, or politics in metre, or anything 
 else in metre, when we can get it ; and we ought, in 
 every such case, to allow all the additional credit to the 
 author which is due to his skUl in so delightful an art 
 as versification. Much of the poetry of Horace, all 
 the satires of Juvenal, the Hudihras of Butler, Pope's 
 metrical essays, and many other compositions of toler- 
 ably diverse kinds, may be cited as examples of that 
 order of poetry which consists of shrewdness, wit, 
 
PE08B AND VEBSE: BE QUINCET. 305 
 
 manly feeling, and general intellectual vigour, mani- 
 festing themselves in metre. Who does not admire the 
 literary felicity displayed in such works, and who, 
 having them in his mind, can remain insensible to the 
 claims of verse to range at large wherever it chooses to 
 go? "What we wish to make clear, however, is that a 
 distinction may and must be drawn between verse con- 
 sidered as an essential condition of a peculiar kind of 
 thought and verse considered as an optional form of 
 expression which may be chosfen, in almost any case, 
 for the sake of its fine and elegant effects. The fact 
 that verse may be regarded in this latter aspect is 
 perhaps the sole justification of nine-tenths of what is 
 called poetry in all languages. 
 
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