inferring what a man thinks from what he feels, may at times perplex the
acutest critic. Nor, if it were satisfactorily accomplished, could we
infer that the best philosopher is also the best poet. Absolute
incapacity for poetical expression may be combined with the highest
philosophic power. All that can safely be said is that a man's thoughts,
whether embodied in symbols or worked out in syllogisms, are more
valuable in proportion as they indicate greater philosophical insight;
and therefore that, _ceteris paribus_, that man is the greater poet
whose imagination is most transfused with reason; who has the deepest
truths to proclaim as well as the strongest feelings to utter.
Some theorists implicitly deny this principle by holding substantially
that the poet's function is simply the utterance of a particular mood,
and that, if he utters it forcibly and delicately, we have no more to
ask. Even so, we should not admit that the thoughts suggested to a wise
man by a prospect of death and eternity are of just equal value, if
equally well expressed, with the thoughts suggested to a fool by the
contemplation of a good dinner. But, in practice, the utterance of
emotions can hardly be dissociated from the assertion of principles.
Psychologists have shown, ever since the days of Berkeley, that when a
man describes (as he thinks) a mere sensation, and says, for example, 'I
see a house,' he is really recording the result of a complex logical
process. A great painter and the dullest observer may have the same
impressions of coloured blotches upon their retina. The great man infers
the true nature of the objects which produce his sensations, and can
therefore represent the objects accurately. The other sees only with his
eyes, and can therefore represent nothing. There is thus a logic implied
even in the simplest observation, and one which can be tested by
mathematical rules as distinctly as a proposition in geometry.
When we have to find a language for our emotions instead of our
sensations, we generally express the result of an incomparably more
complex set of intellectual operations. The poet, in uttering his joy or
sadness, often implies, in the very form of his language, a whole
philosophy of life or of the universe. The explanation is given at the
end of Shakespeare's familiar passage about the poet's eye:--
Such tricks hath strong imagination,
That, if it would but apprehend some joy,
It comprehends some bringer of that joy;
Or in the night, imagining some fear,
How easy is a bush supposed a bear!
The _ap_prehension of the passion, as Shakespeare logically says, is a
_com_prehension of its cause. The imagination reasons. The bare faculty
of sight involves thought and feeling. The symbol which the fancy
spontaneously constructs, implies a whole world of truth or error, of
superstitious beliefs or sound philosophy. The poetry holds a number of
intellectual dogmas in solution; and it is precisely due to these
general dogmas, which are true and important for us as well as for the
poet, that his power over our sympathies is due. If his philosophy has
no power in it, his emotions lose their hold upon our minds, or interest
us only as antiquarians and lovers of the picturesque. But in the
briefest poems of a true thinker we read the essence of the life-long
reflections of a passionate and intellectual nature. Fears and hopes
common to all thoughtful men have been coined into a single phrase. Even
in cases where no definite conviction is expressed or even implied, and
the poem is simply, like music, an indefinite utterance of a certain
state of the emotions, we may discover an intellectual element. The
rational and the emotional nature have such intricate relations that one
cannot exist in great richness and force without justifying an inference
as to the other. From a single phrase, as from a single gesture, we can
often go far to divining the character of a man's thoughts and feelings.
We know more of a man from five minutes' talk than from pages of what is
called 'psychological analysis.' From a passing expression on the face,
itself the result of variations so minute as to defy all analysis, we
instinctively frame judgments as to a man's temperament and habitual
modes of thought and conduct. Indeed, such judgments, if erroneous,
determine us only too exclusively in the most important relations of
life.
Now the highest poetry is that which expresses the richest, most
powerful, and most susceptible emotional nature, and the most versatile,
penetrative, and subtle intellect. Such qualities may be stamped upon
trifling work. The great artist can express his power within the limits
of a coin or a gem. The great poet will reveal his character through a
sonnet or a song. Shakespeare, or Milton, or Burns, or Wordsworth can
express his whole mode of feeling within a few lines. An ill-balanced
nature reveals itself by a discord, as an illogical mind by a fallacy. A
man need not compose an epic on a system of philosophy to write himself
down an ass. And, inversely, a great mind and a noble nature may show
itself by impalpable but recognisable signs within the 'sonnet's scanty
plot of ground.' Once more, the highest poetry must be that which
expresses not only the richest but the healthiest nature. Disease means
an absence or a want of balance of certain faculties, and therefore
leads to false reasoning or emotional discord. The defect of character
betrays itself in some erroneous mode of thought or baseness of
sentiment. And since morality means obedience to those rules which are
most essential to the spiritual health, vicious feeling indicates some
morbid tendency, and is so far destructive of the poetical faculty. An
immoral sentiment is the sign either of a false judgment of the world
and of human nature, or of a defect in the emotional nature which shows
itself by a discord or an indecorum, and leads to a cynicism or
indecency which offends the reason through the taste. What is called
immorality does not indeed always imply such defects. Sound moral
intuitions may be opposed to the narrow code prevalent at the time; or a
protest against puritanical or ascetic perversions of the standard may
hurry the poet into attacks upon true principles. And, again, the keen
sensibility which makes a man a poet, undoubtedly exposes him to certain
types of disease. He is more likely than his thick-skinned neighbour to
be vexed by evil, and to be drawn into distorted views of life by an
excess of sympathy or indignation. Injudicious admirers prize the
disease instead of the strength from which it springs; and value the
cynicism or the despair instead of the contempt for heartless
commonplace or the desire for better things with which it was
unfortunately connected. A strong moral sentiment has a great value,
even when forced into an unnatural alliance. Nay, even when it is, so to
speak, inverted, it often receives a kind of paradoxical value from its
efficacy against some opposite form of error. It is only a complete
absence of the moral faculty which is irredeemably bad. The poet in whom
it does not exist is condemned to the lower sphere, and can only deal
with the deepest feelings on penalty of shocking us by indecency or
profanity. A man who can revel in 'Epicurus' stye' without even the
indirect homage to purity of remorse and bitterness, can do nothing but
gratify our lowest passions. They, perhaps, have their place, and the
man who is content with such utterances may not be utterly worthless.
But to place him on a level with his betters is to confound every sound
principle of criticism.
It follows that a kind of collateral test of poetical excellence may be
found by extracting the philosophy from the poetry. The test is, of
course, inadequate. A good philosopher may be an execrable poet. Even
stupidity is happily not inconsistent with sound doctrine, though
inconsistent with a firm grasp of ultimate principles. But the vigour
with which a man grasps and assimilates a deep moral doctrine is a test
of the degree in which he possesses one essential condition of the
higher poetical excellence. A continuous illustration of this principle
is given in the poetry of Wordsworth, who, indeed, has expounded his
ethical and philosophical views so explicitly, one would rather not say
so ostentatiously, that great part of the work is done to our hands.
Nowhere is it easier to observe the mode in which poetry and philosophy
spring from the same root and owe their excellence to the same
intellectual powers. So much has been said by the ablest critics of the
purely poetical side of Wordsworth's genius, that I may willingly
renounce the difficult task of adding or repeating. I gladly take for
granted--what is generally acknowledged--that Wordsworth in his best
moods reaches a greater height than any other modern Englishman. The
word 'inspiration' is less forced when applied to his loftiest poetry
than when used of any of his contemporaries. With defects too obvious to
be mentioned, he can yet pierce furthest behind the veil; and embody
most efficiently the thoughts and emotions which come to us in our most
solemn and reflective moods. Other poetry becomes trifling when we are
making our inevitable passages through the Valley of the Shadow of
Death. Wordsworth's alone retains its power. We love him the more as we
grow older and become more deeply impressed with the sadness and
seriousness of life; we are apt to grow weary of his rivals when we have
finally quitted the regions of youthful enchantment. And I take the
explanation to be that he is not merely a melodious writer, or a
powerful utterer of deep emotion, but a true philosopher. His poetry
wears well because it has solid substance. He is a prophet and a
moralist, as well as a mere singer. His ethical system, in particular,
is as distinctive and capable of systematic exposition as that of
Butler. By endeavouring to state it in plain prose, we shall see how the
poetical power implies a sensitiveness to ideas which, when extracted
from the symbolical embodiment, fall spontaneously into a scientific
system of thought.
There are two opposite types to which all moral systems tend. They
correspond to the two great intellectual families to which every man
belongs by right of birth. One class of minds is distinguished by its
firm grasp of facts, by its reluctance to drop solid substance for the
loveliest shadows, and by its preference of concrete truths to the most
symmetrical of theories. In ethical questions the tendency of such minds
is to consider man as a being impelled by strong but unreasonable
passions towards tangible objects. He is a loving, hating, thirsting,
hungering--anything but a reasoning--being. As Swift--a typical example
of this intellectual temperament--declared, man is not an _animal
rationale_, but at most _capax rationis_. At bottom, he is a machine
worked by blind instincts. Their tendency cannot be deduced by _à
priori_ reasoning, though reason may calculate the consequences of
indulging them. The passions are equally good, so far as equally
pleasurable. Virtue means that course of conduct which secures the
maximum of pleasure. Fine theories about abstract rights and
correspondence to eternal truths are so many words. They provide decent
masks for our passions; they do not really govern them, or alter their
nature, but they cover the ugly brutal selfishness of mankind, and
soften the shock of conflicting interests. Such a view has something in
it congenial to the English love of reality and contempt for shams. It
may be represented by Swift or Mandeville in the last century; in poetry
it corresponds to the theory attributed by some critics to Shakespeare;
in a tranquil and reasoning mind it leads to the utilitarianism of
Bentham; in a proud, passionate, and imaginative mind it manifests
itself in such a poem as 'Don Juan.' Its strength is in its grasp of
fact; its weakness, in its tendency to cynicism. Opposed to this is the
school which starts from abstract reason. It prefers to dwell in the
ideal world, where principles may be contemplated apart from the
accidents which render them obscure to vulgar minds. It seeks to deduce
the moral code from eternal truths without seeking for a groundwork in
the facts of experience. If facts refuse to conform to theories, it
proposes that facts should be summarily abolished. Though the actual
human being is, unfortunately, not always reasonable, it holds that pure
reason must be in the long run the dominant force, and that it reveals
the laws to which mankind will ultimately conform. The revolutionary
doctrine of the 'rights of man' expressed one form of this doctrine, and
showed in the most striking way a strength and weakness, which are the
converse of those exhibited by its antagonist. It was strong as
appealing to the loftier motives of justice and sympathy; and weak as
defying the appeal to experience. The most striking example in English
literature is in Godwin's 'Political Justice.' The existing social order
is to be calmly abolished because founded upon blind prejudice; the
constituent atoms called men are to be rearranged in an ideal order as
in a mathematical diagram. Shelley gives the translation of this theory
into poetry. The 'Revolt of Islam' or the 'Prometheus Unbound,' with all
its unearthly beauty, wearies the imagination which tries to soar into
the thin air of Shelley's dreamworld; just as the intellect, trying to
apply the abstract formulæ of political metaphysics to any concrete
problem, feels as though it were under an exhausted receiver. In both
cases we seem to have got entirely out of the region of real human
passions and senses into a world, beautiful perhaps, but certainly
impalpable.
The great aim of moral philosophy is to unite the disjoined element, to
end the divorce between reason and experience, and to escape from the
alternative of dealing with empty but symmetrical formulæ or concrete
and chaotic facts. No hint can be given here as to the direction in
which a final solution must be sought. Whatever the true method,
Wordsworth's mode of conceiving the problem shows how powerfully he
grasped the questions at issue. If his doctrines are not systematically
expounded, they all have a direct bearing upon the real difficulties
involved. They are stated so forcibly in his noblest poems that we might
almost express a complete theory in his own language. But, without
seeking to make a collection of aphorisms from his poetry, we may
indicate the cardinal points of his teaching.[24]
The most characteristic of all his doctrines is that which is embodied
in the great ode upon the 'Intimations of Immortality.' The doctrine
itself--the theory that the instincts of childhood testify to the
pre-existence of the soul--sounds fanciful enough; and Wordsworth took
rather unnecessary pains to say that he did not hold it as a serious
dogma. We certainly need not ask whether it is reasonable or orthodox to
believe that 'our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.' The fact
symbolised by the poetic fancy--the glory and freshness of our childish
instincts--is equally noteworthy, whatever its cause. Some modern
reasoners would explain its significance by reference to a very
different kind of pre-existence. The instincts, they would say, are
valuable, because they register the accumulated and inherited experience
of past generations. Wordsworth's delight in wild scenery is regarded by
them as due to the 'combination of states that were organised in the
race during barbarous times, when its pleasurable activities were
amongst the mountains, woods, and waters.' In childhood we are most
completely under the dominion of these inherited impulses. The
correlation between the organism and its medium is then most perfect,
and hence the peculiar theme of childish communion with nature.
Wordsworth would have repudiated the doctrine with disgust. He would
have been 'on the side of the angels.' No memories of the savage and the
monkey, but the reminiscences of the once-glorious soul could explain
his emotions. Yet there is this much in common between him and the men
of science whom he denounced with too little discrimination. The fact of
the value of these primitive instincts is admitted, and admitted for the
same purpose. Man, it is agreed, is furnished with sentiments which
cannot be explained as the result of his individual experience. They may
be intelligible, according to the evolutionist, when regarded as
embodying the past experience of the race; or, according to Wordsworth,
as implying a certain mysterious faculty imprinted upon the soul. The
scientific doctrine, whether sound or not, has modified the whole mode
of approaching ethical problems; and Wordsworth, though with a very
different purpose, gives a new emphasis to the facts, upon a
recognition of which, according to some theorists, must be based the
reconciliation of the great rival schools--the intuitionists and the
utilitarians. The parallel may at first sight seem fanciful; and it
would be too daring to claim for Wordsworth the discovery of the most
remarkable phenomenon which modern psychology must take into account.
There is, however, a real connection between the two doctrines, though
in one sense they are almost antithetical. Meanwhile we observe that the
same sensibility which gives poetical power is necessary to the
scientific observer. The magic of the ode, and of many other passages in
Wordsworth's poetry, is due to his recognition of this mysterious
efficacy of our childish instincts. He gives emphasis to one of the most
striking facts of our spiritual experience, which had passed with little
notice from professed psychologists. He feels what they afterwards tried
to explain.
The full meaning of the doctrine comes out as we study Wordsworth more
thoroughly. Other poets--almost all poets--have dwelt fondly upon
recollections of childhood. But not feeling so strongly, and therefore
not expressing so forcibly, the peculiar character of the emotion, they
have not derived the same lessons from their observation. The Epicurean
poets are content with Herrick's simple moral--
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may--
and with his simple explanation--
That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer.
Others more thoughtful look back upon the early days with the passionate
regret of Byron's verses:
There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away,
When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay;
'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone which fades so fast,
But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.
Such painful longings for the 'tender grace of a day that is dead' are
spontaneous and natural. Every healthy mind feels the pang in proportion
to the strength of its affections. But it is also true that the regret
resembles too often the maudlin meditation of a fast young man over his
morning's soda-water. It implies, that is, a non-recognition of the
higher uses to which the fading memories may still be put. A different
tone breathes in Shelley's pathetic but rather hectic moralisings, and
his lamentations over the departure of the 'spirit of delight.' Nowhere
has it found more exquisite expression than in the marvellous 'Ode to
the West Wind.' These magical verses--his best, as it seems to
me--describe the reflection of the poet's own mind in the strange stir
and commotion of a dying winter's day. They represent, we may say, the
fitful melancholy which oppresses a noble spirit when it has recognised
the difficulty of forcing facts into conformity with the ideal. He still
clings to the hope that his 'dead thoughts' may be driven over the
universe,
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth.
But he bows before the inexorable fate which has cramped his energies:
A heavy weight of years has chained and bowed
One too like thee; tameless and swift and proud.
Neither Byron nor Shelley can see any satisfactory solution, and
therefore neither can reach a perfect harmony of feeling. The world
seems to them to be out of joint, because they have not known how to
accept the inevitable, nor to conform to the discipline of facts. And,
therefore, however intense the emotion, and however exquisite its
expression, we are left in a state of intellectual and emotional
discontent. Such utterances may suit us in youth, when we can afford to
play with sorrow. As we grow older we feel a certain emptiness in them.
A true man ought not to sit down and weep with an exhausted debauchee.
He cannot afford to confess himself beaten with the idealist who has
discovered that Rome was not built in a day, nor revolutions made with
rose-water. He has to work as long as he has strength; to work in spite
of, even by strength of, sorrow, disappointment, wounded vanity, and
blunted sensibilities; and therefore he must search for some profounder
solution for the dark riddle of life.
This solution it is Wordsworth's chief aim to supply. In the familiar
verses which stand as a motto to his poems--
The child is father to the man,
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety--
the great problem of life, that is, as he conceives it, is to secure a
continuity between the period at which we are guided by half-conscious
instincts, and that in which a man is able to supply the place of these
primitive impulses by reasoned convictions. This is the thought which
comes over and over again in his deepest poems, and round which all his
teaching centred. It supplies the great moral, for example, of the
'Leech-gatherer:'
My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought,
As if life's business were a summer mood:
As if all needful things would come unsought
To genial faith still rich in genial good.
When his faith is tried by harsh experience, the leech-gatherer comes,
Like a man from some far region sent
To give me human strength by apt admonishment;
for he shows how the 'genial faith' may be converted into permanent
strength by resolution and independence. The verses most commonly
quoted, such as--
We poets in our youth begin in gladness,
But thereof come in the end despondency and sadness,
give the ordinary view of the sickly school. Wordsworth's aim is to
supply an answer worthy not only of a poet, but a man. The same
sentiment again is expressed in the grand 'Ode to Duty,' where the
Stern daughter of the voice of God
is invoked to supply that 'genial sense of youth' which has hitherto
been a sufficient guidance; or in the majestic morality of the 'Happy
Warrior;' or in the noble verses on 'Tintern Abbey;' or, finally, in the
great ode which gives most completely the whole theory of that process
by which our early intuitions are to be transformed into settled
principles of feeling and action.
Wordsworth's philosophical theory, in short, depends upon the asserted
identity between our childish instincts and our enlightened reason. The
doctrine of a state of pre-existence, as it appears in other
writers--as, for example, in the Cambridge Platonists[25]--was connected
with an obsolete metaphysical system, and the doctrine--exploded in its
old form--of innate ideas. Wordsworth does not attribute any such
preternatural character to the 'blank misgivings' and 'shadowy
recollections' of which he speaks. They are invaluable data of our
spiritual experience; but they do not entitle us to lay down dogmatic
propositions independently of experience. They are spontaneous products
of a nature in harmony with the universe in which it is placed, and
inestimable as a clear indication that such a harmony exists. To
interpret and regulate them belongs to the reasoning faculty and the
higher imagination of later years. If he does not quite distinguish
between the province of reason and emotion--the most difficult of
philosophical problems--he keeps clear of the cruder mysticism, because
he does not seek to elicit any definite formulæ from those admittedly
vague forebodings which lie on the border-land between the two sides of
our nature. With his invariable sanity of mind, he more than once
notices the difficulty of distinguishing between that which nature
teaches us and the interpretations which we impose upon nature.[26] He
carefully refrains from pressing the inference too far.