As I am speaking of poetry, it will not be amiss to touch slightly
upon the most singular heresy in its modern history—the heresy of
what is called, very foolishly, the Lake School. Some years ago I
might have been induced, by an occasion like the present, to attempt
a formal refutation of their doctrine; at present it would be a
work of supererogation. The wise must bow to the wisdom of such men
as Coleridge and Southey, but being wise, have laughed at poetical
theories so prosaically exemplified.
Aristotle, with singular assurance, has declared poetry the most
philosophical of all writings[1]—but it required a Wordsworth to
pronounce it the most metaphysical. He seems to think that the end of
poetry is, or should be, instruction—yet it is a truism that the end
of our existence is happiness; if so, the end of every separate part
of our existence—everything connected with our existence—should be
still happiness. Therefore the end of instruction should be happiness;
and happiness is another name for pleasure;—therefore the end of
instruction should be pleasure: yet we see the above-mentioned opinion
implies precisely the reverse.
[Footnote 1: Σπουδιοτατον και φιλοσοφικοτατον γενος.]
To proceed: _ceteris paribus_, he who pleases is of more importance to
his fellow-men than he who instructs, since utility is happiness, and
pleasure is the end already obtained which instruction is merely the
means of obtaining.
I see no reason, then, why our metaphysical poets should plume
themselves so much on the utility of their works, unless indeed they
refer to instruction with eternity in view; in which case, sincere
respect for their piety would not allow me to express my contempt
for their judgment; contempt which it would be difficult to conceal,
since their writings are professedly to be understood by the few,
and it is the many who stand in need of salvation. In such case I
should no doubt be tempted to think of the devil in “Melmoth,” who
labours indefatigably, through three octavo volumes, to accomplish the
destruction of one or two souls, while any common devil would have
demolished one or two thousand.
Against the subtleties which would make poetry a study—not a
passion—it becomes the metaphysician to reason—but the poet to protest.
Yet Wordsworth and Coleridge are men in years; the one imbued in
contemplation from his childhood, the other a giant in intellect and
learning. The diffidence, then, with which I venture to dispute their
authority, would be overwhelming did I not feel, from the bottom of my
heart, that learning has little to do with the imagination—intellect
with the passions—or age with poetry.
Trifles, like straws, upon the surface flow;
He who would search for pearls must dive below,
are lines which have done much mischief. As regards the greater truths,
men oftener err by seeking them at the bottom than at the top; the
depth lies in the huge abysses where wisdom is sought—not in the
palpable palaces where she is found. The ancients were not always right
in hiding the goddess in a well; witness the light which Bacon has
thrown upon philosophy; witness the principles of our divine faith—that
moral mechanism by which the simplicity of a child may overbalance the
wisdom of a man. Poetry, above all things, is a beautiful painting
whose tints to minute inspection are confusion worse confounded, but
start boldly out to the cursory glance of the connoisseur.
We see an instance of Coleridge’s liability to err, in his “Biographia
Literaria”—professedly his literary life and opinions, but, in fact, a
treatise _de omni scibili et quibusdam aliis_. He goes wrong by reason
of his very profundity, and of his error we have a natural type in the
contemplation of a star. He who regards it directly and intensely sees,
it is true, the star, but it is the star without a ray—while he who
surveys it less inquisitively is conscious of all for which the star is
useful to us below—its brilliancy and its beauty.
As to Wordsworth, I have no faith in him. That he had in youth the
feelings of a poet I believe—for there are glimpses of extreme delicacy
in his writings—(and delicacy is the poet’s own kingdom—his _El
Dorado_)—but they have the appearance of a better day recollected; and
glimpses, at best, are little evidence of present poetic fire; we know
that a few straggling flowers spring up daily in the crevices of the
glacier.
He was to blame in wearing away his youth in contemplation with the
end of poetizing in his manhood. With the increase of his judgment
the light which should make it apparent has faded away. His judgment
consequently is too correct. This may not be understood,—but the old
Goths of Germany would have understood it, who used to debate matters
of importance to their State twice, once when drunk, and once when
sober—sober that they might not be deficient in formality—drunk lest
they should be destitute of vigour.
The long wordy discussions by which he tries to reason us into
admiration of his poetry, speak very little in his favour: they are
full of such assertions as this (I have opened one of his volumes at
random)—‘Of genius the only proof is the act of doing well what is
worthy to be done, and what was never done before;’—indeed? then it
follows that in doing what is _un_worthy to be done, or what _has_ been
done before, no genius can be evinced; yet the picking of pockets is an
unworthy act, pockets have been picked time immemorial, and Barrington,
the pick-pocket, in point of genius, would have thought hard of a
comparison with William Wordsworth, the poet.
Again, in estimating the merit of certain poems, whether they be
Ossian’s or Macpherson’s can surely be of little consequence, yet, in
order to prove their worthlessness, Mr. W. has expended many pages in
the controversy. _Tantæne animis?_ Can great minds descend to such
absurdity? But worse still: that he may bear down every argument in
favour of these poems, he triumphantly drags forward a passage, in his
abomination with which he expects the reader to sympathise. It is the
beginning of the epic poem “Temora.” “The blue waves of Ullin roll in
light; the green hills are covered with day; trees shake their dusty
heads in the breeze.” And this—this gorgeous, yet simple imagery, where
all is alive and panting with immortality—this, William Wordsworth, the
author of “Peter Bell,” has _selected_ for his contempt. We shall see
what better he, in his own person, has to offer. Imprimis:
And now she’s at the pony’s head,
And now she’s at the pony’s tail,
On that side now, and now on this;
And, almost stifled with her bliss—
A few sad tears does Betty shed,
She pats the pony, where or when
She knows not: happy Betty Foy!
Oh, Johnny, never mind the doctor!
Secondly:
The dew was falling fast, the—stars began to blink;
I heard a voice: it said,—“Drink, pretty creature, drink!”
And, looking o’er the hedge, be—fore me I espied
A snow-white mountain lamb, with a—maiden at its side.
No other sheep were near,—the lamb was all alone,
And by a slender cord was—tether’d to a stone.
Now, we have no doubt this is all true: we _will_ believe it, indeed we
will, Mr. W. Is it sympathy for the sheep you wished to excite? I love
a sheep from the bottom of my heart.
But there are occasions, dear B——, there are occasions when even
Wordsworth is reasonable. Even Stamboul, it is said, shall have an end,
and the most unlucky blunders must come to a conclusion. Here is an
extract from his preface:
“Those who have been accustomed to the phraseology of modern writers,
if they persist in reading this book to a conclusion (_impossible!_)
will, no doubt, have to struggle with feelings of awkwardness; (ha! ha!
ha!) they will look round for poetry (ha! ha! ha! ha!), and will be
induced to inquire by what species of courtesy these attempts have been
permitted to assume that title.” Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!
Yet, let not Mr. W. despair; he has given immortality to a waggon, and
the bee Sophocles has transmitted to eternity a sore toe, and dignified
a tragedy with a chorus of turkeys.
Of Coleridge, I cannot but speak with reverence. His towering
intellect! his gigantic power! To use an author quoted by himself,
“_J’ai trouvé souvent que la plupart des sectes ont raison dans une
bonne partie de ce qu’elles avancent, mais non pas en ce qu’elles
nient_;” and to employ his own language, he has imprisoned his own
conceptions by the barrier he has erected against those of others.
It is lamentable to think that such a mind should be buried in
metaphysics, and, like the Nyctanthes, waste its perfume upon the night
alone. In reading that man’s poetry, I tremble like one who stands upon
a volcano, conscious from the very darkness bursting from the crater,
of the fire and the light that are weltering below.
What is Poetry?—Poetry! that Proteus-like idea, with as many
appellations as the nine-titled Corcyra! “Give me,” I demanded
of a scholar some time ago, “give me a definition of poetry.”
“_Très-volontiers_;” and he proceeded to his library, brought me a Dr.
Johnson, and overwhelmed me with a definition. Shade of the immortal
Shakespeare! I imagine to myself the scowl of your spiritual eye upon
the profanity of that scurrilous Ursa Major. Think of poetry, dear
B——, think of poetry, and then think of Dr. Samuel Johnson! Think of
all that is airy and fairy-like, and then of all that is hideous and
unwieldy; think of his huge bulk, the Elephant! and then—and then think
of the “Tempest”—the “Midsummer Night’s Dream”—Prospero—Oberon—and
Titania!
A poem, in my opinion, is opposed to a work of science by having, for
its _immediate_ object, pleasure, not truth; to romance, by having, for
its object, an _indefinite_ instead of a _definite_ pleasure, being
a poem only so far as this object is attained; romance presenting
perceptible images with definite, poetry with _in_definite sensations,
to which end music is an _essential_, since the comprehension of sweet
sound is our most indefinite conception. Music, when combined with a
pleasurable idea, is poetry; music, without the idea, is simply music;
the idea, without the music, is prose, from its very definitiveness.
What was meant by the invective against him who had no music in his
soul?
To sum up this long rigmarole, I have, dear B——, what you, no doubt,
perceive, for the metaphysical poets, _as_ poets, the most sovereign
contempt. That they have followers proves nothing—
No Indian prince has to his palace
More followers than a thief to the gallows.
[Illustration]