THE POETIC FEELING AWAKENED BY THE WORLD OF NATURE.
If the view taken in the former chapter of the genesis of Poetry be
true, if any existence keenly realized may awaken it, must not that
material framework which encompasses us from the cradle to the grave
enter most intimately into our earliest and most permanent feelings,
and color all the poetry which expresses them? For are not the visible
earth and skies the storehouse from which imagination furnishes herself
with her earliest forms, and draws her broadest as well as most delicate
resemblances? Are these not the substance round which the affections
twine many of their first and finest tendrils? Next to the household
faces, is not the visible world the earliest existence that we know, the
last we lose sight of in our earthly sojourn? All his life long man is
encompassed with it, and never gets beyond its reach. He lies an infant
in the lap of Nature before he has awakened to any consciousness. When
consciousness does awaken within him, the external world is the occasion
of the awakening, the first thing he learns to know at the same time
that he learns his mother’s look and his own existence. For the growing
boy she is the homely nurse that, long before schools and school-masters
intermeddle with him, feeds his mind with materials, pouring into him
alike the outward framework of his thought and the colors that flush
over the chambers of his imagery. The expressive countenance of this
earth and of these heavens, glad or pensive, stern or dreary, sublime
or homely, is looking in on his heart at every hour and mingling with
his dreams. Nature is wooing his spirit in manifold and mysterious ways,
to elevate him with her vastness and sublimity, to gladden him with her
beauty, to depress him with her bleakness, to restore him with her calm.
This quick interchange of feeling between the world without and the
world within, this vast range of sympathy, so subtle, so unceasing, so
mysterious, is a fact as certain and as real as the flow of the tides or
the motion of the earth. Yet, though truth it be, it is one which Science
cannot recognize, and which she has left wholly to the poet. It is his
to witness to the fact of this intimacy—kinship, I might say—between the
movements of Nature and the heart of Man, to represent the relation and
interpret it. And though he may never be able fully to compass or exhaust
all the import of these relations, or to penetrate to the bottom of the
secret, yet it is one chief office of the poet to express it, to get it
recognized, to keep alive the sense of among his fellow-men, and to
interpret to them, as best he may, those enduring yet tender intimacies
that exist between their hearts and the wide world of eye and ear that
surrounds him.
This mighty process of influencing man, not only through his corporeal
needs, but in the more delicate recesses of the heart, the outward world,
it is clear, must have been carrying on unremittingly since the earliest
appearance of man on the earth. But what may have been the phases of
it in primeval times, before history finds man, is a question I do
not propose to enter on. No doubt, even in the most remote eras, when
savage men dwelt naked in caves, or cowered in abject worship before the
blind forces of Nature, and lived in terror of wild beasts, or of each
other, even then there must have been moments when their hearts were
imaginatively touched, as either the hurricane or the thunder awed them,
or Nature looked on them more benignly through the sunset or the dawn. In
that later stage, when the Aryan family had reached their mythologizing
era, and owing to the weakness of their abstracting powers and the
strength of untutored imagination, were weaving the appearances of earth
and sky into their hierarchies of gods, Nature and Imagination were face
to face, and were all in all.
The other intellectual powers of man were as yet comparatively dormant.
He had not yet learned consciously to disengage the thoughts of
himself and of God from the visible appearances in which they were
still entangled. But to trace the movements of Imagination through that
primeval time forms no part of my present task. Even without attempting
this, there is more than enough to detain our thoughts, if we attempt to
trace, even in outline, some of the ways in which the human and poetic
imagination has worked on the outward world in that later stage when
the three great entities, God, Man, and Nature, were in thought clearly
distinguished. Though in studying our present subject it may be necessary
for clearness’s sake, in some measure to isolate Nature in thought from
the other two great objects of contemplation, with which in reality it
is so closely interwoven, we must never conceive of it as if it were
really a separate and independent existence. However we may for a moment
regard Nature by herself, we must not forget that in reality we can never
contemplate it apart from the other two entities on which it depends;
that Nature as mere isolated appearance, without a mind to contemplate
and a power to support it, is meaningless; that all the three objects
of knowledge coexist at every moment, interpenetrate and modify each
other at every turn of thought; and that it is to the light reflected on
Nature from the other two that she owes large part of her meaning, her
tenderness, her suggestiveness, her sublimity.
The tendency to isolate Nature and to regard it as a self-subsisting
thing cut off from other existence, has been strong ever since man came
to be clearly conscious of his own distinctness from the world. In this,
as in every other realm of thought, progress is slow; it requires long
ages to get to the right mental attitude. Among the ethnic races, at
least, there were first the two periods already noticed—one in which man
crouched in blind abject terror in presence of the elements; another
marked by that brighter Nature-worship embodied in the Aryan mythology,
which, though past its prime, was still surviving when the Homeric poems
were composed. Then succeeded the time when, on the one hand, the mind of
man separated itself from the world and asserted its distinct existence;
and when, on the other, the thought of Deity, under the guidance of
reflection and philosophy, gradually extracted itself from the visible
appearances in which it had been so long imbedded.
When this great change had made itself felt, and when, at the same time,
out-of-door life gave place to life in cities, Nature in a great measure
lost its hold on man’s regards, and retired into the background as a
lifeless mechanical thing, without interest or beauty or any intimacy
with man. The material world, indeed, had still its utilitarian value.
It ministered to man’s bodily wants in the thousand ways that immemorial
usage handed down, and which science in recent times has so greatly
multiplied. If the refreshing presence of Nature still blended unawares
with the animal spirits of men, and cheered them when they were weary,
yet the multitudes cast on it no imaginative regards, and cared nothing
for the poetry which mediates between the eye and the heart. This seems a
true account of the mental attitude of the great civilized communities,
down even to recent times. And, notwithstanding the great movement toward
Nature which is said to characterize this modern era, one may well doubt
whether the sentiment has really penetrated the hearts of even the most
cultivated men. Such things must always be difficult to gauge. Yet one
cannot but sometimes wonder, if from the modern love of Nature, and
the much talk about it, there could be deducted all that may be set
down to love of change, imitation, fashion, and the desire to meet the
expectations of refined society, how much would remain of feeling that
was native, genuine, and spontaneous.
A few, we may believe, there have been in every age, and more perhaps in
this than in former ages, to whom, in spite of the prosaic atmosphere
that surrounded them, Nature was something more than a dead machine,
something even worthy of affection. Poets, too, were born from age to
age, favorite children of
“Gaudentes rure Camœnæ,”
who had their hearts opened in a preëminent degree to receive the love
of Nature themselves, and to awaken it in other hearts by the music
which they lent to it. Yet neither the poets, nor the few apprehensive
spirits who sympathized with them, could do much to make head against
the prosaic ways of thinking by which they were surrounded. It was only
with furtive and occasional glances that even the poets of past ages were
allowed to look at Nature as they would, only by a kind of sufferance
that they were allowed to express the tender love they felt for her. The
feelings which they had in her presence were put down to imagination,
which was a faculty of falsehood, and the words which they used regarding
her were supposed to be tropes and hyperboles that had no meaning. The
science and the philosophy, as well as the common belief which surrounded
them, had settled it, that Nature was as inanimate as any piece of man’s
manufacture. And what were a few poets, with their weak singing, a few
dreamers, with their flimsy fancies, that they could withstand the tyrant
tradition, even though, half unconsciously, all their highest inspiration
witnessed against it? The instinctive faith of the poet cannot be
vindicated till, not in Poetry only, but by Science and Philosophy also,
the unity and the life that is in Nature are fully recognized,—till the
whole visible world, not in trope and figure, but in literal truth, is
felt to be the embodied thought of a mind which is in Nature and above
it, and which fills the Universe. Not till this conviction has come home
to man as a sober truth of reason, can we feel that Nature is intended
to minister no furtive, but a legitimate delight to the eye, to furnish
an interest to the understanding, beauty and suggestiveness to the
imagination, calm and restoration to the heart. Otherwise she becomes,
none the less for all her beauty, to those who fain would love her, a
cruel and all-devouring Sphinx.
Not, however, that the poet busies himself with the question as to the
essential nature of the material world, or inquires whether there can
be found in matter any ultimate and permanent element. The analytic
scrutiny of appearances is no part of his concern; this he willingly
leaves to the physicist and the metaphysician to settle between them.
Whether matter be ultimately resolvable into indestructible atoms out
of which all visible forms are composed, or whether all that impinges
on our senses be not at bottom one only force manifesting itself in
infinite change, or whether in the last resort matter may be only “a
permanent possibility of sensation,” or whether all force may not be
regarded as the direct and immediate action of the Divine Will,—all these
are questions with which, as poet, he does not intermeddle, though his
knowledge that such questions can be asked may quicken his sense of the
mystery of Creation which he contemplates. When poets have ventured to
make such abstract questions the subject of their poetry, they have not
generally succeeded. The poetic strength of Lucretius is not seen in his
expositions, able though they are, of the atomic philosophy, but in his
vivid representation of the manifold appearances of Nature, and in his
broad and profound sense of the one universal life that pervades them
all. The poet is in his proper place, not when he scrutinizes nature as
an analyst, but when he unreservedly accepts all her concrete appearances
as they come to him. Forms and colors are given him through the eye;
sounds as they reach him through the ear; fragrances as wafted to his
sense of smell. On this side of analysis there is enough, and more than
enough, for him. The outward appearances he feels more intensely, and
renders into words more graphically than ordinary men,—no other describes
them so to the quick,—yet he does not rest in them, but passes with them
inward and brings them into relation with his own being, or rather with
the universal heart of man. The ethereal blue of the sky on a fine spring
day delights every man, and something of the delight is no doubt due to
the mere eye, to the adaptation of the object to the visual organ; but
how much more—who shall say?—is due to the endless suggestiveness of the
sight, even though of its manifold meaning nothing may shape itself into
words. But it is the poet’s privilege not only to describe the outward
image, but to draw out some of the many meanings that lie hid in it,
and so render them as to win response from his fellow-men. It matters
not, therefore, if it be true, that all men can know of Nature is the
sensations it produces in himself. Even if this be all, it is enough
for the poet. Leaving to others to deal with its physical uses as the
feeder and supporter of the body, it is his to note how it exhilarates
the animal spirits; how it passes into the imagination and there becomes
rich in suggestiveness; how it entwines itself round the affections;
how fruitful it is in resemblances and contrasts to human destiny; what
large contemplations and high truths it presents to the reason; how even
for conscience, though it contains no direct teaching of moral law, it
supplies in its order and harmony the best visible images thereof. In
fact, quite endless is the wealth of meaning that lies hid in Nature, the
interchange of appeal and response that is possible between the world
without and the world within. There is in Nature just as much, or as
little, as the soul of each can see in her. And in order to see, the soul
must have been trained for it both by habitual converse with the outward
world, and also by converse with other regions of being, with other
teachers. For other teachers are not less necessary than the beauty which
lies in the face of Nature.
Poetry, we saw, is the emanation, the golden exhalation, as it were,
which arises from the close and vivid meeting of the soul and the outward
object. If this be so, the soul must needs contribute to the result not
less than the object which appeals to it. What then must be the power
and quality of that soul which is capable of taking in and making full
and harmonious response to the whole appeal which Nature is continually
making? There must be in the first place an eye to observe accurately
what it sees, combined with the power to describe this faithfully in
words uncolored and undeflected; in the first instance, by feelings or
habits of thought which may be peculiar to the observer. There must be
besides a sensibility to all outward appearances, as keenly alive to the
vast as to the minute in Nature; to the great movements of the heavens
and the breadths of light and shadow which they cast, not more than to
the delicate veinings that are in the tiniest leaf, to the sighings
that are among the reeds, and to the silent openings of the daisy and
the celandine. These two qualities are mostly found among those whose
childhood has passed in the country, who have known Nature as a household
friend that has entwined itself among their first affections. No doubt
there are cases of city-bred poets, such as Keats, who, having been shut
out from free access to Nature till they were full-grown men, have then
taken to it with an instinctive passion.[5] But even in these rare cases
there will generally be felt in their descriptions something exaggerated,
that shows the want of habitual familiarity with the ways of Nature,
and makes us feel that it has been approached rather on set purpose
as an object of artistic study, than known with the easy intimacy of
early friendship. If to these two qualities we add imagination; even as
penetrative as that of Keats, which went to the core of all it saw, even
this outfit of qualities would not be sufficient adequately to render all
that Nature contains of high and noble.
Such sensuous enjoyment of Nature, quickened by imagination, but
unbalanced by deeper qualities, has led more than one, and especially
in our own day, to an attempted revival of vanished Paganism, which, if
made the key-note of any Poetry, is destructive of true manliness and of
the highest human worth. By such a sensuous temperament, the forms and
colors and fragrancies of the outward world may be deliciously enjoyed
and vividly rendered. But this is all. The deeper tones that lie in the
silences of Nature will be all inaudible, unless the ear be overhearing
at the same time the deep music of the heart.
For the soul to apprehend all that Nature contains of meaning, there must
be present not only the eye keenly observing, and tenderly sensitive
to natural beauty, but behind this must be a heart feelingly alive
to all that is most affecting in human life, sentiment, and destiny.
And not only this, but in all survey of created things the upward
look, unexpressed it may be, yet ever present, toward the Uncreated.
It cannot but affect even the poet’s feeling about the most common
material things, what may be his regards toward that Unseen Presence
on which, not Nature only, but the spirit of man reposes. As he looks
on the face of earth, sea, and sky, the thought, whence come these
things, whither tend they, what is their origin and their end, must
habitually enter in and color that which the eye beholds. It can hardly
be but that a man’s inner thoughts about these things will find their
way out and color the observation of his eye. Even the ethereal beauty
of Shelley’s descriptions—his perception of the motion of clouds and
shadows and sunbeams—his delight in all skyey and evanescent things
too delicate for grosser eyes,—you cannot read them long without being
crossed by some breath blown from his own distempered moral atmosphere.
The “sky-cleaving” crags suggest to him heaven-defying minds, and
his mountains have a voice “to repeal large codes of fraud and woe.”
Byron,—though his later poetry contains noble passages on mountain
scenery, even the high Alps are hardly strong enough to lure him into
temporary forgetfulness of his own unhappy self, and his quarrel with
mankind. In fact, so closely and deeply united are all the parts of the
universe, that no one can apprehend the full compass of its manifold
harmonies, whose own heart is not filled with that central harmony which
sets it right with God and man.