idle sweets for him; the _spire peeps_ for him; sod-seats, forests,
clouds, nature's charities, and babbling brooks, all are to him luxury
and friendship. He is the happiest of mortals, and plods, is forlorn,
and has a wounded heart. How often shall we in vain advise those, who
are so delighted with their own thoughts that they cannot forbear from
putting them into rhyme, to examine those thoughts till they themselves
understand them? No man will ever be a poet, till his mind be
sufficiently powerful to sustain this labour.--_The Monthly Review_.
_An Evening Walk_. An Epistle; in Verse. Addressed to a Young Lady, from
the Lakes of the North of England. By W. Wordsworth, B.A. of St. John's,
Cambridge. 4to. pp. 27. 2s. Johnson. 1793.
In this Epistle, the subject and the manner of treating it vary but
little from the former poem. We will quote four lines from a passage
which the author very sorrowfully apologizes for having omitted:
'Return delights! with whom my road beg_un_,
When _Life-rear'd_ laughing _up her_ morning _sun_;
When Transport kiss'd away my April tear,
"Rocking as in a dream the tedious year."
Life _rearing_ up the sun! Transport kissing away an _April_ tear and
_rocking_ the year as in a dream! Would the cradle had been specified!
Seriously, these are figures which no poetical license can justify. If
they can possibly give pleasure, it must be to readers whose habits of
thinking are totally different from ours. Mr. Wordsworth is a scholar,
and, no doubt, when reading the works of others, a critic. There are
passages in his poems which display imagination, and which afford hope
for the future: but, if he can divest himself of all partiality, and
will critically question every line that he has written, he will find
many which, he must allow, call loudly for amendment.--_The Monthly
Review_.
_Lyrical Ballads, with a few other Poems_. _Small 8vo. 5s. Boards._
Arch. 1798.
The majority of these poems, we are informed in the advertisement, are
to be considered as experiments.
'They were written chiefly with a view to ascertain how far the language
of conversation in the middle and lower classes of society is adapted to
the purposes of poetic pleasure.' P. i.
Of these experimental poems, the most important is the Idiot Boy, the
story of which is simply this. Betty Foy's neighbour Susan Gale is
indisposed; and no one can conveniently be sent for the doctor but
Betty's idiot boy. She therefore puts him upon her poney, at eight
o'clock in the evening, gives him proper directions, and returns to take
care of her sick neighbour. Johnny is expected with the doctor by
eleven; but the clock strikes eleven, and twelve, and one, without the
appearance either of Johnny or the doctor. Betty's restless fears become
insupportable; and she now leaves her friend to look for her idiot son.
She goes to the doctor's house, but hears nothing of Johnny. About five
o'clock, however, she finds him sitting quietly upon his feeding poney.
As they go home they meet old Susan, whose apprehensions have cured her,
and brought her out to seek them; and they all return merrily together.
Upon this subject the author has written nearly five hundred lines. With
what spirit the story is told, our extract will evince.
[Quotes lines (322-401) of _The Idiot Boy_.]
No tale less deserved the labour that appears to have been bestowed upon
this. It resembles a Flemish picture in the worthlessness of its design
and the excellence of its execution. From Flemish artists we are
satisfied with such pieces: who would not have lamented, if Corregio or
Rafaelle had wasted their talents in painting Dutch boors or the humours
of a Flemish wake?
The other ballads of this kind are as bald in story, and are not so
highly embellished in narration. With that which is entitled the Thorn,
we were altogether displeased. The advertisement says, it is not told in
the person of the author, but in that of some loquacious narrator. The
author should have recollected that he who personates tiresome
loquacity, becomes tiresome himself. The story of a man who suffers the
perpetual pain of cold, because an old woman prayed that he might never
be warm, is perhaps a good story for a ballad, because it is a
well-known tale: but is the author certain that it is '_well
authenticated?_' and does not such an assertion promote the popular
superstition of witchcraft?
In a very different style of poetry, is the Rime of the Ancyent
Marinere; a ballad (says the advertisement) 'professedly written in
imitation of the _style_, as well as of the spirit of the elder poets.'
We are tolerably conversant with the early English poets; and can
discover no resemblance whatever, except in antiquated spelling and a
few obsolete words. This piece appears to us perfectly original in style
as well as in story. Many of the stanzas are laboriously beautiful; but
in connection they are absurd or unintelligible. Our readers may
exercise their ingenuity in attempting to unriddle what follows.
'The roaring wind! it roar'd far off,
It did not come anear;
But with its sound it shook the sails
That were so thin and sere.
The upper air bursts into life,
And a hundred fire-flags sheen
To and fro they are hurried about;
And to and fro, and in and out
The stars dance on between.
The coming wind doth roar more loud;
The sails do sigh, like sedge:
The rain pours down from one black cloud,
And the moon is at its edge.
Hark! hark! the thick black cloud is cleft,
And the moon is at its side:
Like waters shot from some high crag,
The lightning falls with never a jag
A river steep and wide.
The strong wind reach'd the ship: it roar'd
And dropp'd down, like a stone!
Beneath the lightning and the moon
The dead men gave a groan.' P. 27.
We do not sufficiently understand the story to analyse it. It is a Dutch
attempt at German sublimity. Genius has here been employed in producing
a poem of little merit.
With pleasure we turn to the serious pieces, the better part of the
volume. The Foster-Mother's Tale is in the best style of dramatic
narrative. The Dungeon, and the Lines upon the Yew-tree Seat, are
beautiful. The Tale of the Female Vagrant is written in the stanza, not
the style, of Spenser. We extract a part of this poem.
[Quotes lines (91-180) of _The Female Vagrant_.]
Admirable as this poem is, the author seems to discover still superior
powers in the Lines written near Tintern Abbey. On reading this
production, it is impossible not to lament that he should ever have
condescended to write such pieces as the Last of the Flock, the Convict,
and most of the ballads. In the whole range of English poetry, we
scarcely recollect anything superior to a part of the following passage.
[Quotes lines (66-112) of _Lines Written a few Miles above Tintern
Abbey_.]
The 'experiment,' we think, has failed, not because the language of
conversation is little adapted to 'the purposes of poetic pleasure' but
because it has been tried upon uninteresting subjects. Yet every piece
discovers genius; and, ill as the author has frequently employed his
talents, they certainly rank him with the best of living poets.--_The
Critical Review_.
_Poems, in Two Volumes_. _By_ WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, _Author of the Lyrical
Ballads._ 8vo. pp. 320. London, 1807.
This author is known to belong to a certain brotherhood of poets, who
have haunted for some years about the Lakes of Cumberland; and is
generally looked upon, we believe, as the purest model of the
excellences and peculiarities of the school which they have been
labouring to establish. Of the general merits of that school, we have
had occasion to express our opinion pretty freely, in more places than
one, and even to make some allusion to the former publications of the
writer now before us. We are glad, however, to have found an opportunity
of attending somewhat more particularly to his pretensions.
The Lyrical Ballads were unquestionably popular; and, we have no
hesitation in saying, deservedly popular; for in spite of their
occasional vulgarity, affectation, and silliness, they were undoubtedly
characterised by a strong spirit of originality, of pathos, and natural
feeling; and recommended to all good minds by the clear impression which
they bore of the amiable dispositions and virtuous principles of the
author. By the help of these qualities, they were enabled, not only to
recommend themselves to the indulgence of many judicious readers, but
even to beget among a pretty numerous class of persons, a sort of
admiration of the very defects by which they were attended. It was upon
this account chiefly, that we thought it necessary to set ourselves
against this alarming innovation. Childishness, conceit, and
affectation, are not of themselves very popular or attractive; and
though mere novelty has sometimes been found sufficient to give them a
temporary currency, we should have had no fear of their prevailing to
any dangerous extent, if they had been graced with no more seductive
accompaniments. It was precisely because the perverseness and bad taste
of this new school was combined with a great deal of genius and of
laudable feeling, that we were afraid of their spreading and gaining
ground among us, and that we entered into the discussion with a degree
of zeal and animosity which some might think unreasonable toward
authors, to whom so much merit had been conceded. There were times and
moods indeed, in which we were led to suspect ourselves of unjustifiable
severity, and to doubt, whether a sense of public duty had not carried
us rather too far in reprobation of errors, that seemed to be atoned
for, by excellences of no vulgar description. At other times, the
magnitude of these errors--the disgusting absurdities into which they
led their feebler admirers, and the derision and contempt which they
drew from the more fastidious, even upon the merits with which they were
associated, made us wonder more than ever at the perversity by which
they were retained, and regret that we had not declared ourselves
against them with still more formidable and decided hostility.
In this temper of mind, we read the _annonce_ of Mr Wordsworth's
publication with a good deal of interest and expectation, and opened his
volumes with greater anxiety, than he or his admirers will probably give
us credit for. We have been greatly disappointed certainly as to the
quality of the poetry; but we doubt whether the publication has afforded
so much satisfaction to any other of his readers:--it has freed us from
all doubt or hesitation as to the justice of our former censures, and
has brought the matter to a test, which we cannot help hoping may be
convincing to the author himself.
Mr Wordsworth, we think, has now brought the question, as to the merit
of his new school of poetry, to a very fair and decisive issue. The
volumes before us are much more strongly marked by all its peculiarities
than any former publication of the fraternity. In our apprehension, they
are, on this very account, infinitely less interesting or meritorious;
but it belongs to the public, and not to us, to decide upon their merit,
and we will confess, that so strong is our conviction of their obvious
inferiority, and the grounds of it, that we are willing for once to
wa[i]ve our right of appealing to posterity, and to take the judgment of
the present generation of readers, and even of Mr Wordsworth's former
admirers, as conclusive on this occasion. If these volumes, which have
all the benefit of the author's former popularity, turn out to be nearly
as popular as the lyrical ballads--if they sell nearly to the same
extent--or are quoted and imitated among half as many individuals, we
shall admit that Mr Wordsworth has come much nearer the truth in his
judgment of what constitutes the charm of poetry, than we had previously
imagined--and shall institute a more serious and respectful inquiry into
his principles of composition than we have yet thought necessary. On the
other hand,--if this little work, selected from the compositions of five
maturer years, and written avowedly for the purpose of exalting a
system, which has already excited a good deal of attention, should be
generally rejected by those whose prepossessions were in its favour,
there is room to hope, not only that the system itself will meet with no
more encouragement, but even that the author will be persuaded to
abandon a plan of writing, which defrauds his industry and talents of
their natural reward.
Putting ourselves thus upon our country, we certainly look for a verdict
against this publication; and have little doubt indeed of the result,
upon a fair consideration of the evidence contained in these
volumes.--To accelerate that result, and to give a general view of the
evidence, to those into whose hands the record may not have already
fallen, we must now make a few observations and extracts.
We shall not resume any of the particular discussions by which we
formerly attempted to ascertain the value of the improvements which this
new school had effected in poetry;[H] but shall lay the grounds of our
opposition, for this time, a little more broadly. The end of poetry, we
take it, is to please--and the name, we think, is strictly applicable to
every metrical composition from which we receive pleasure, without any
laborious exercise of the understanding. This pleasure, may, in general,
be analyzed into three parts--that which we receive from the excitement
of Passion or emotion--that which is derived from the play of
Imagination, or the easy exercise of Reason--and that which depends on
the character and qualities of the Diction. The two first are the vital
and primary springs of poetical delight, and can scarcely require
explanation to any one. The last has been alternately overrated and
undervalued by the professors of the poetical art, and is in such low
estimation with the author now before us and his associates, that it is
necessary to say a few words in explanation of it.
One great beauty of diction exists only for those who have some degree
of scholarship or critical skill. This is what depends on the exquisite
_propriety_ of the words employed, and the delicacy with which they are
adapted to the meaning which is to be expressed. Many of the finest
passages in Virgil and Pope derive their principal charm from the fine
propriety of their diction. Another source of beauty, which extends
only to the more instructed class of readers, is that which consists in
the judicious or happy application of expressions which have been
sanctified by the use of famous writers, or which bear the stamp of a
simple or venerable antiquity. There are other beauties of diction,
however, which are perceptible by all--the beauties of sweet sound and
pleasant associations. The melody of words and verses is indifferent to
no reader of poetry; but the chief recommendation of poetical language
is certainly derived from those general associations, which give it a
character of dignity or elegance, sublimity or tenderness. Every one
knows that there are low and mean expressions, as well as lofty and
grave ones; and that some words bear the impression of coarseness and
vulgarity, as clearly as others do of refinement and affection. We do
not mean, of course, to say anything in defence of the hackneyed
common-places of ordinary versemen. Whatever might have been the
original character of these unlucky phrases, they are now associated
with nothing but ideas of schoolboy imbecility and vulgar affectation.
But what we do maintain is, that much of the most popular poetry in the
world owes its celebrity chiefly to the beauty of its diction; and that
no poetry can be long or generally acceptable, the language of which is
coarse, inelegant, or infantine.
From this great source of pleasure, we think the readers of Mr
Wordsworth are in a great measure cut off. His diction has no where any
pretensions to elegance or dignity; and he has scarcely ever
condescended to give the grace of correctness or melody to his
versification. If it were merely slovenly and neglected, however, all
this might be endured. Strong sense and powerful feeling will ennoble
any expressions; or, at least, no one who is capable of estimating those
higher merits, will be disposed to mark these little defects. But, in
good truth, no man, now-a-days, composes verses for publication with a
slovenly neglect of their language. It is a fine and laborious
manufacture, which can scarcely ever be made in a hurry; and the faults
which it has, may, for the most part, be set down to bad taste or
incapacity, rather than to carelessness or oversight. With Mr Wordsworth
and his friends, it is plain that their peculiarities of diction are
things of choice, and not of accident. They write as they do, upon
principle and system; and it evidently costs them much pains to keep
_down_ to the standard which they have proposed to themselves. They are,
to the full, as much mannerists, too, as the poetasters who ring changes
on the common-places of magazine versification; and all the difference
between them is, that they borrow their phrases from a different and a
scantier _gradus ad Parnassum_. If they were, indeed, to discard all
imitation and set phraseology, and to bring in no words merely for show
or for metre,--as much, perhaps, might be gained in freedom and
originality, as would infallibly be lost in allusion and authority; but,
in point of fact, the new poets are just as great borrowers as the old;
only that, instead of borrowing from the more popular passages of their
illustrious predecessors, they have preferred furnishing themselves from
vulgar ballads and plebeian nurseries.
Their peculiarities of diction alone, are enough, perhaps, to render
them ridiculous; but the author before us really seems anxious to court
this literary martyrdom by a device still more infallible,--we mean,
that of connecting his most lofty, tender, or impassioned conceptions,
with objects and incidents, which the greater part of his readers will
probably persist in thinking low, silly, or uninteresting. Whether this
is done from affectation and conceit alone, or whether it may not
arise, in some measure, from the self-illusion of a mind of
extraordinary sensibility, habituated to solitary meditation, we cannot
undertake to determine. It is possible enough, we allow, that the sight
of a friend's garden-spade, or a sparrow's nest, or a man gathering
leeches, might really have suggested to such a mind a train of powerful
impressions and interesting reflections; but it is certain, that, to
most minds, such associations will always appear forced, strained, and
unnatural; and that the composition in which it is attempted to exhibit
them, will always have the air of parody, or ludicrous and affected
singularity. All the world laughs at Elegiac stanzas to a sucking-pig--a
Hymn on Washing-day--Sonnets to one's grandmother--or Pindarics on
gooseberry-pye; and yet, we are afraid, it will not be quite easy to
convince Mr Wordsworth, that the same ridicule must infallibly attach to
most of the pathetic pieces in these volumes. To satisfy our readers,
however, as to the justice of this and our other anticipations, we shall
proceed, without further preface, to lay before them a short view of
their contents.
The first is a kind of ode 'to the Daisy,'--very flat, feeble, and
affected; and in a diction as artificial, and as much encumbered with
heavy expletives, as the theme of an unpractised schoolboy. The two
following stanzas will serve as a specimen.
'When soothed a while by milder airs,
Thee Winter in the garland wears
That thinly shades his few grey hairs;
_Spring cannot shun thee_;
Whole summer fields are thine by right;
And Autumn, melancholy Wight!
Doth in thy crimson head delight
When rains are on thee.
In shoals and bands, a morrice train,
Thou greet'st the Traveller in the lane;
If welcome once thou count'st it gain;
_Thou art not daunted_,
Nor car'st if thou be set at naught;
And oft alone in nooks remote
We meet thee, like a pleasant thought,
_When such are wanted_.' I. p. 2.
The scope of the piece is to say, that the flower is found everywhere;
and that it has suggested many pleasant thoughts to the author--some
chime of fancy '_wrong or right_'--some feeling of devotion 'more or
less'--and other elegancies of the same stamp. It ends with this
unmeaning prophecy.
'Thou long the poet's praise shalt gain;
Thou wilt be more beloved by men
In times to come; thou not in vain
Art Nature's favourite.' I. 6.
The next is called 'Louisa,' and begins in this dashing and affected
manner.
'I met Louisa in the shade;
And, having seen that lovely maid,
_Why should I fear to say_
That she is ruddy, fleet, and _strong_;
_And down the rocks can leap_ along,
Like rivulets in May?' I. 7.
Does Mr Wordsworth really imagine that this is at all more natural or
engaging than the ditties of our common song writers?
A little farther on we have another original piece, entitled, 'The
Redbreast and the Butterfly,' of which our readers will probably be
contented with the first stanza.
'Art thou the bird whom man loves best,
The pious bird with the scarlet breast,
Our little English Robin;
The bird that comes about our doors
When autumn winds are sobbing?
Art thou the Peter of Norway Boors?
Their Thomas in Finland,
And Russia far inland?
The bird, whom _by some name or other_
All men who know thee call their brother,
The darling of children and men?
Could Father Adam open his eyes,
And see this sight beneath the skies,
He'd wish to close them again.' I. 16.
This, it must be confessed, is 'Silly Sooth' in good earnest. The three
last [_sic_] lines seem to be downright raving.
By and by, we have a piece of namby-pamby 'to the Small Celandine,'
which we should almost have taken for a professed imitation of one of Mr
Philip's prettyisms. Here is a page of it.
'Comfort have thou of thy merit,
Kindly, unassuming spirit!
Careless of thy neighbourhood,
Thou dost show thy pleasant face
On the moor, and in the wood,
In the lane;--there's not a place,
Howsoever mean it be,
But 'tis good enough for thee.
Ill befal the yellow flowers,
Children of the flaring hours!
Buttercups, that will be seen,
Whether we will see or no;
Others, too, of lofty mien;
They have done as worldlings do,
Taken praise that should be thine,
Little, humble, Celandine!' I. 25.
After talking of its 'bright coronet,' the ditty is wound up with this
piece of babyish absurdity.
'Thou art not beyond the moon,
But a thing "beneath our shoon;"
Let, as old Magellan did,
Others roam about the sea;
Build who will a pyramid;
Praise it is enough for me,
If there be but three or four
Who will love my little flower.' I. 30.
After this come some more manly lines on 'The Character of the Happy
Warrior,' and a chivalrous legend on 'The Horn of Egremont Castle,'
which, without being very good, is very tolerable, and free from most of
the author's habitual defects. Then follow some pretty, but professedly
childish verses, on a kitten playing with the falling leaves. There is
rather too much of Mr Ambrose Philips here and there in this piece also;
but it is amiable and lively.
Further on, we find an 'Ode to Duty,' in which the lofty vein is very
unsuccessfully attempted. This is the concluding stanza.
'Stern lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
The Godhead's most benignant grace;
Nor know we anything so fair
As is the smile upon thy face;
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds;
And fragrance in thy footing treads;
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong;
And the most ancient heavens through thee are fresh and strong.' I. 73.
The two last [_sic_] lines seem to be utterly without meaning; at least
we have no sort of conception in what sense _Duty_ can be said to keep
the old skies _fresh_, and the stars from wrong.
The next piece, entitled 'The Beggars,' may be taken, we fancy, as a
touchstone of Mr Wordsworth's merit. There is something about it that
convinces us it is a favourite of the author's; though to us, we will
confess, it appears to be a very paragon of silliness and affectation.
Our readers shall have the greater part of it. It begins thus.
'She had a tall man's height, or more;
No bonnet screen'd her from the heat;
A long drab-coloured cloak she wore,
A mantle reaching to her feet:
What other dress she had I could not know;
Only she wore a cap that was as white as snow.
'Before me begging did she stand,
Pouring out sorrows like a sea;
Grief after grief:--on English land
Such woes I knew could never be;
And yet a boon I gave her; for the creature
Was beautiful to see; a weed of glorious feature!' I. 77, 78.