| |
| THE FIRST volume
of these Poems has already been submitted to general perusal. It was
published, as an experiment, which, I hoped, might be of some use to
ascertain, how far, by fitting to metrical arrangement a selection of
the real language of men in a state of vivid sensation, that sort of
pleasure and that quantity of pleasure may be imparted, which a Poet may
rationally endeavour to impart. | 1 |
| I had formed no very inaccurate estimate of the probable
effect of those Poems: I flattered myself that they who should be
pleased with them would read them with more than common pleasure: and,
on the other hand, I was well aware, that by those who should dislike
them, they would be read with more than common dislike. The result has
differed from my expectation in this only, that a greater number have
been pleased than I ventured to hope I should please. | 2 |
| Several of my Friends are anxious for the success of these
Poems, from a belief, that, if the views with which they were composed
were indeed realized, a class of Poetry would be produced, well adapted
to interest mankind permanently, and not unimportant in the quality, and
in the multiplicity of its moral relations: and on this account they
have advised me to prefix a systematic defence of the theory upon which
the Poems were written. But I was unwilling to undertake the task,
knowing that on this occasion the Reader would look coldly upon my
arguments, since I might be suspected of having been principally
influenced by the selfish and foolish hope of reasoning him into
an approbation of these particular Poems: and I was still more unwilling
to undertake the task, because, adequately to display the opinions, and
fully to enforce the arguments, would require a space wholly
disproportionate to a preface. For, to treat the subject with the
clearness and coherence of which it is susceptible, it would be
necessary to give a full account of the present state of the public
taste in this country, and to determine how far this taste is healthy or
depraved; which, again, could not be determined, without pointing out
in what manner language and the human mind act and re-act on each other,
and without retracing the revolutions, not of literature alone, but
likewise of society itself. I have therefore altogether declined to
enter regularly upon this defence; yet I am sensible, that there would
be something like impropriety in abruptly obtruding upon the Public,
without a few words of introduction, Poems so materially different from
those upon which general approbation is at present bestowed. | 3 |
| It is supposed, that by the act of writing in verse an Author
makes a formal engagement that he will gratify certain known habits of
association; that he not only thus apprises the Reader that certain
classes of ideas and expressions will be found in his book, but that
others will be carefully excluded. This exponent or symbol held forth by
metrical language must in different eras of literature have excited
very different expectations: for example, in the age of Catullus,
Terence, and Lucretius, and that of Statius or Claudian; and in our own
country, in the age of Shakespeare and Beaumont and Fletcher, and that
of Donne and Cowley, or Dryden, or Pope. I will not take upon me to
determine the exact import of the promise which, by the act of writing
in verse, an Author in the present day makes to his reader: but it will
undoubtedly appear to many persons that I have not fulfilled the terms
of an engagement thus voluntarily contracted. They who have been
accustomed to the gaudiness and inane phraseology of many modern
writers, if they persist in reading this book to its conclusion, will,
no doubt, frequently have to struggle with feelings of strangeness and
awkwardness: they will look round for poetry, and will be induced to
inquire by what species of courtesy these attempts can be permitted to
assume that title. I hope therefore the reader will not censure me for
attempting to state what I have proposed to myself to perform; and also
(as far as the limits of a preface will permit) to explain some of the
chief reasons which have determined me in the choice of my purpose: that
at least he may be spared any unpleasant feeling of disappointment, and
that I myself may be protected from one of the most dishonourable
accusations which can be brought against an Author, namely, that of an
indolence which prevents him from endeavouring to ascertain what is his
duty, or, when his duty is ascertained, prevents him from performing it. | | | | | | | 4 |
| The principal object, then, proposed in these Poems was to
choose incidents and situations from common life, and to relate or
describe them, throughout, as far as was possible in a selection of
language really used by men, and, at the same time, to throw over them a
certain colouring of imagination, whereby ordinary things should be
presented to the mind in an unusual aspect; and, further, and above all,
to make these incidents and situations interesting by tracing in them,
truly though not ostentatiously, the primary laws of our nature:
chiefly, as far as regards the manner in which we associate ideas in a
state of excitement. Humble and rustic life was generally chosen,
because, in that condition, the essential passions of the heart find a
better soil in which they can attain their maturity, are less under
restraint, and speak a plainer and more emphatic language; because in
that condition of life our elementary feelings coexist in a state of
greater simplicity, and, consequently, may be more accurately
contemplated, and more forcibly communicated; because the manners of
rural life germinate from those elementary feelings, and, from the
necessary character of rural occupations, are more easily comprehended,
and are more durable; and, lastly, because in that condition the
passions of men are incorporated with the beautiful and permanent forms
of nature. The language, too, of these men has been adopted (purified
indeed from what appear to be its real defects, from all lasting and
rational causes of dislike or disgust) because such men hourly
communicate with the best objects from which the best part of language
is originally derived; and because, from their rank in society and the
sameness and narrow circle of their intercourse, being less under the
influence of social vanity, they convey their feelings and notions in
simple and unelaborated expressions. Accordingly, such a language,
arising out of repeated experience and regular feelings, is a more
permanent, and a far more philosophical language, than that which is
frequently substituted for it by Poets, who think that they are
conferring honour upon themselves and their art, in proportion as they
separate themselves from the sympathies of men, and indulge in arbitrary
and capricious habits of expression, in order to furnish food for
fickle tastes, and fickle appetites, of their own creation. 1 | 5 |
| I cannot, however, be insensible to the present outcry against
the triviality and meanness, both of thought and language, which some
of my contemporaries have occasionally introduced into their metrical
compositions; and I acknowledge that this defect, where it exists, is
more dishonourable to the Writer’s own character than false refinement
or arbitrary innovation, though I should contend at the same time, that
it is far less pernicious in the sum of its consequences. From such
verses the Poems in these volumes will be found distinguished at least
by one mark of difference, that each of them has a worthy purpose.
Not that I always began to write with a distinct purpose formerly
conceived; but habits of meditation have, I trust, so prompted and
regulated my feelings, that my descriptions of such objects as strongly
excite those feelings, will be found to carry along with them a purpose.
If this opinion be erroneous, I can have little right to the name of a
Poet. For all good poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful
feelings: and though this be true, Poems to which any value can be
attached were never produced on any variety of subjects but by a man
who, being possessed of more than usual organic sensibility, had also
thought long and deeply. For our continued influxes of feeling are
modified and directed by our thoughts, which are indeed the
representatives of all our past feelings; and, as by contemplating the
relation of these general representatives to each other, we discover
what is really important to men, so, by the repetition and continuance
of this act, our feelings will be connected with important subjects,
till at length, if we be originally possessed of much sensibility, such
habits of mind will be produced, that, by obeying blindly and
mechanically the impulses of those habits, we shall describe objects,
and utter sentiments, of such a nature, and in such connexion with each
other, that the understanding of the Reader must necessarily be in some
degree enlightened, and his affections strengthened and purified. | 6 |
| It has been said that each of these poems has a purpose.
Another circumstance must be mentioned which distinguishes these Poems
from the popular Poetry of the day; it is this, that the feeling therein
developed gives importance to the action and situation, and not the
action and situation to the feeling. | 7 |
| A sense of false modesty shall not prevent me from asserting,
that the Reader’s attention is pointed to this mark of distinction, far
less for the sake of these particular Poems than from the general
importance of the subject. The subject is indeed important! For the
human mind is capable of being excited without the application of gross
and violent stimulants; and he must have a very faint perception of its
beauty and dignity who does not know this, and who does not further
know, that one being is elevated above another, in proportion as he
possesses this capability. It has therefore appeared to me, that to
endeavour to produce or enlarge this capability is one of the best
services in which, at any period, a Writer can be engaged; but this
service, excellent at all times, is especially so at the present day.
For a multitude of causes, unknown to former times, are now acting with a
combined force to blunt the discriminating powers of the mind, and,
unfitting it for all voluntary exertion, to reduce it to a state of
almost savage torpor. The most effective of these causes are the great
national events which are daily taking place, and the increasing
accumulation of men in cities, where the uniformity of their occupations
produces a craving for extraordinary incident, which the rapid
communication of intelligence hourly gratifies. to this tendency of life
and manners the literature and theatrical exhibitions of the country
have conformed themselves. The invaluable works of our elder writers, I
had almost said the works of Shakespeare and Milton, are driven into
neglect by frantic novels, sickly and stupid German Tragedies, and
deluges of idle and extravagant stories in verse.—When I think upon this
degrading thirst after outrageous stimulation, I am almost ashamed to
have spoken of the feeble endeavour made in these volumes to counteract
it; and, reflecting upon the magnitude of the general evil, I should be
oppressed with no dishonourable melancholy, had I not a deep impression
of certain inherent and indestructible qualities of the human mind, and
likewise of certain powers in the great and permanent objects that act
upon it, which are equally inherent and indestructible; and were there
not added to this impression a belief, that the time is approaching when
the evil will be systematically opposed, by men of greater powers, and
with far more distinguished success. | 8 |
| Having dwelt thus long on the subjects and aim of these Poems,
I shall request the Reader’s permission to apprise him of a few
circumstances relating to their style, in order, among other
reasons, that he may not censure me for not having performed what I
never attempted. The Reader will find that personifications of abstract
ideas rarely occur in these volumes; and are utterly rejected, as an
ordinary device to elevate the style, and raise it above prose. My
purpose was to imitate, and, as far as possible, to adopt the very
language of men; and assuredly such personifications do not make any
natural or regular part of that language. They are, indeed, a figure of
speech occasionally prompted by passion, and I have made use of them as
such; but have endeavoured utterly to reject them as a mechanical device
of style, or as a family language which Writers in metre seem to lay
claim to by prescription. I have wished to keep the Reader in the
company of flesh and blood, persuaded that by so doing I shall interest
him. Others who pursue a different track will interest him likewise; I
do not interfere with their claim, but wish to prefer a claim of my own.
There will also be found in these volumes little of what is usually
called poetic diction; as much pains has been taken to avoid it as is
ordinarily taken to produce it; this has been done for the reason
already alleged, to bring my language near to the language of men; and
further, because the pleasure which I have proposed to myself to impart,
is of a kind very different from that which is supposed by many persons
to be the proper object of poetry. Without being culpably particular, I
do not know how to give my Reader a more exact notion of the style in
which it was my wish and intention to write, than by informing him that I
have at all times endeavoured to look steadily at my subject;
consequently, there is I hope in these Poems little falsehood of
description, and my ideas are expressed in language fitted to their
respective importance. Something must have been gained by this practice,
as it is friendly to one property of all good poetry, namely, good
sense: but it has necessarily cut me off from a large portion of phrases
and figures of speech which from father to son have long been regarded
as the common inheritance of Poets. I have also thought it expedient to
restrict myself still further, having abstained from the use of many
expressions, in themselves proper and beautiful, but which have been
foolishly repeated by bad Poets, till such feelings of disgust are
connected with them as it is scarcely possible by any art of association
to overpower. | 9 |
If in a poem there should be found a series of lines, or even a
single line, in which the language, though naturally arranged, and
according to the strict laws of metre, does not differ from that of
prose, there is a numerous class of critics, who, when they stumble upon
these prosaisms, as they call them, imagine that they have made a
notable discovery, and exult over the Poet as over a man ignorant of his
own profession. Now these men would establish a canon of criticism
which the Reader will conclude he must utterly reject, if he wishes to
be pleased with these volumes. and it would be a most easy task to prove
to him, that not only the language of a large portion of every good
poem, even of the most elevated character, must necessarily, except with
reference to the metre, in no respect differ from that of good prose,
but likewise that some of the most interesting parts of the best poems
will be found to be strictly the language of prose when prose is well
written. The truth of this assertion might be demonstrated by
innumerable passages from almost all the poetical writings, even of
Milton himself. to illustrate the subject in a general manner, I will
here adduce a short composition of Gray, who was at the head of those
who, by their reasonings, have attempted to widen the space of
separation betwixt Prose and Metrical composition, and was more than any
other man curiously elaborate in the structure of his own poetic
diction.
| | In vain to me the smiling mornings shine, |
| And reddening Phœbus lifts his golden fire: |
| The birds in vain their amorous descant join, |
| Or cheerful fields resume their green attire. |
| These ears, alas! for other notes repine; |
| A different object do these eyes require; |
| My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine; |
| And in my breast the imperfect joys expire; |
| Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer, |
| And new-born pleasure brings to happier men; |
| The fields to all their wonted tribute bear; |
| To warm their little loves the birds complain. |
| I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear, |
| And weep the more because I weep in vain. |
| 10 |
| It will easily be perceived, that the only part of this Sonnet
which is of any value is the lines printed in Italics; it is equally
obvious, that, except in the rhyme, and in the use of the single word
’fruitless’ for fruitlessly, which is so far a defect, the language of
these lines does in no respect differ from that of prose. | 11 |
| By the foregoing quotation it has been shown that the language
of Prose may yet be well adapted to Poetry; and it was previously
asserted, that a large portion of the language of every good poem can in
no respect differ from that of good Prose. We will go further. It may
be safely affirmed, that there neither is, nor can be, any essential
difference between the language of prose and metrical composition. We
are fond of tracing the resemblance between Poetry and Painting, and,
accordingly, we call them Sisters: but where shall we find bonds of
connexion sufficiently strict to typify the affinity betwixt metrical
and prose composition? They both speak by and to the same organs; the
bodies in which both of them are clothed may be said to be of the same
substance, their affections are kindred, and almost identical, not
necessarily differing even in degree; Poetry 2
sheds no tears ’such as Angels weep,’ but natural and human tears; she
can boast of no celestial choir that distinguishes her vital juices from
those of prose; the same human blood circulates through the veins of
them both. | 12 |
| If it be affirmed that rhyme and metrical arrangement of
themselves constitute a distinction which overturns what has just been
said on the strict affinity of metrical language with that of prose, and
paves the way for other artificial distinctions which the mind
voluntarily admits, I answer that the language of such Poetry as is here
recommended is, as far as is possible, a selection of the language
really spoken by men; that this selection, wherever it is made with true
taste and feeling, will of itself form a distinction far greater than
would at first be imagined, and will entirely separate the composition
from the vulgarity and meanness of ordinary life; and, if metre be
superadded thereto, I believe that a dissimilitude will be produced
altogether sufficient for the gratification of a rational mind. What
other distinction would we have? Whence is it to come? and where is it
to exist? Not, surely, where the Poet speaks through the mouths of his
characters: it cannot be necessary here, either for elevation of style,
or any of its supposed ornaments: for, if the Poet’s subject be
judiciously chosen, it will naturally, and upon fit occasion, lead him
to passions the language of which, if selected truly and judiciously,
must necessarily be dignified and variegated, and alive with metaphors
and figures. I forbear to speak of an incongruity which would shock the
intelligent Reader, should the Poet interweave any foreign splendour of
his own with that which the passion naturally suggests: it is sufficient
to say that such addition is unnecessary. and, surely, it is more
probable that those passages, which with propriety abound with metaphors
and figures, will have their due effect, if, upon other occasions where
the passions are of a milder character, the style also be subdued and
temperate. | 13 |
| But, as the pleasure which I hope to give by the Poems now
presented to the Reader must depend entirely on just notions upon this
subject, and, as it is in itself of high importance to our taste and
moral feelings, I cannot content myself with these detached remarks. and
if, in what I am about to say, it shall appear to some that my labour
is unnecessary, and that I am like a man fighting a battle without
enemies, such persons may be reminded, that, whatever be the language
outwardly holden by men, a practical faith in the opinions which I am
wishing to establish is almost unknown. If my conclusions are admitted,
and carried as far as they must be carried if admitted at all, our
judgements concerning the works of the greatest Poets both ancient and
modern will be far different from what they are at present, both when we
praise, and when we censure: and our moral feelings influencing and
influenced by these judgements will, I believe, be corrected and
purified. | 14 |
| Taking up the subject, then, upon general grounds, let me ask,
what is meant by the word Poet? What is a Poet? to whom does he address
himself? and what language is to be expected from him?—He is a man
speaking to men: a man, it is true, endowed with more lively
sensibility, more enthusiasm and tenderness, who has a greater knowledge
of human nature, and a more comprehensive soul, than are supposed to be
common among mankind; a man pleased with his own passions and
volitions, and who rejoices more than other men in the spirit of life
that is in him; delighting to contemplate similar volitions and passions
as manifested in the goings-on of the Universe, and habitually impelled
to create them where he does not find them. to these qualities he has
added a disposition to be affected more than other men by absent things
as if they were present; an ability of conjuring up in himself passions,
which are indeed far from being the same as those produced by real
events, yet (especially in those parts of the general sympathy which are
pleasing and delightful) do more nearly resemble the passions produced
by real events, than anything which, from the motions of their own minds
merely, other men are accustomed to feel in themselves:— whence, and
from practice, he has acquired a greater readiness and power in
expressing what he thinks and feels, and especially those thoughts and
feelings which, by his own choice, or from the structure of his own
mind, arise in him without immediate external excitement. | 15 |
| But whatever portion of this faculty we may suppose even the
greatest Poet to possess, there cannot be a doubt that the language
which it will suggest to him, must often, in liveliness and truth, fall
short of that which is uttered by men in real life, under the actual
pressure of those passions, certain shadows of which the Poet thus
produces, or feels to be produced, in himself. | 16 |
| However exalted a notion we would wish to cherish of the
character of a Poet, it is obvious, that while he describes and imitates
passions, his employment is in some degree mechanical, compared with
the freedom and power of real and substantial action and suffering. So
that it will be the wish of the Poet to bring his feelings near to those
of the persons whose feelings he describes, nay, for short spaces of
time, perhaps, to let himself slip into an entire delusion, and even
confound and identify his own feelings with theirs; modifying only the
language which is thus suggested to him by a consideration that he
describes for a particular purpose, that of giving pleasure. Here, then,
he will apply the principle of selection which has been already
insisted upon. He will depend upon this for removing what would
otherwise be painful or disgusting in the passion; he will feel that
there is no necessity to trick out or to elevate nature: and, the more
industriously he applies this principle, the deeper will be his faith
that no words, which his fancy or imagination can suggest, will be to be compared with those which are the emanations of reality and truth. | 17 |
| But it may be said by those who do not object to the general
spirit of these remarks, that, as it is impossible for the Poet to
produce upon all occasions language as exquisitely fitted for the
passion as that which the real passion itself suggests, it is proper
that he should consider himself as in the situation of a translator, who
does not scruple to substitute excellencies of another kind for those
which are unattainable by him; and endeavours occasionally to surpass
his original, in order to make some amends for the general inferiority
to which he feels that he must submit. But this would be to encourage
idleness and unmanly despair. Further, it is the language of men who
speak of what they do not understand; who talk of Poetry as of a matter
of amusement and idle pleasure; who will converse with us as gravely
about a taste for Poetry, as they express it, as if it were a
thing as indifferent as a taste for rope-dancing, or Frontiniac or
Sherry. Aristotle, I have been told, has said, that Poetry is the most
philosophic of all writing: it is so: its object is truth, not
individual and local, but general, and operative; not standing upon
external testimony, but carried alive into the heart by passion; truth
which is its own testimony, which gives competence and confidence to the
tribunal to which it appeals, and receives them from the same tribunal.
Poetry is the image of man and nature. The obstacles which stand in the
way of the fidelity of the Biographer and Historian, and of their
consequent utility, are incalculably greater than those which are to be
encountered by the Poet who comprehends the dignity of his art. The Poet
writes under one restriction only, namely, the necessity of giving
immediate pleasure to a human Being possessed of that information which
may be expected from him, not as a lawyer, a physician, a mariner, an
astronomer, or a natural philosopher, but as a Man. Except this one
restriction, there is no object standing between the Poet and the image
of things; between this, and the Biographer and Historian, there are a
thousand. | 18 |
| Nor let this necessity of producing immediate pleasure be
considered as a degradation of the Poet’s art. It is far otherwise. It
is an acknowledgement of the beauty of the universe, an acknowledgement
the more sincere, because not formal, but indirect; it is a task light
and easy to him who looks at the world in the spirit of love: further,
it is a homage paid to the native and naked dignity of man, to the grand
elementary principle of pleasure, by which he knows, and feels, and
lives, and moves. We have no sympathy but what is propagated by
pleasure: I would not be misunderstood; but wherever we sympathize with
pain, it will be found that the sympathy is produced and carried on by
subtle combinations with pleasure. We have no knowledge, that is, no
general principles drawn from the contemplation of particular facts, but
what has been built up by pleasure, and exists in us by pleasure alone.
The Man of science, the Chemist and Mathematician, whatever
difficulties and disgusts they may have had to struggle with, know and
feel this. However painful may be the objects with which the Anatomist’s
knowledge is connected, he feels that his knowledge is pleasure; and
where he has no pleasure he has no knowledge. What then does the Poet?
He considers man and the objects that surround him as acting and
re-acting upon each other, so as to produce an infinite complexity of
pain and pleasure; he considers man in his own nature and in his
ordinary life as contemplating this with a certain quantity of immediate
knowledge, with certain convictions, intuitions, and deductions, which
from habit acquire the quality of intuitions; he considers him as
looking upon this complex scene of ideas and sensations, and finding
everywhere objects that immediately excite in him sympathies which, from
the necessities of his nature, are accompanied by an overbalance of
enjoyment. | 19 |
| To this knowledge which all men carry about with them, and to
these sympathies in which, without any other discipline than that of our
daily life, we are fitted to take delight, the Poet principally directs
his attention. He considers man and nature as essentially adapted to
each other, and the mind of man as naturally the mirror of the fairest
and most interesting properties of nature. and thus the Poet, prompted
by this feeling of pleasure, which accompanies him through the whole
course of his studies, converses with general nature, with affections
akin to those, which, through labour and length of time, the Man of
science has raised up in himself, by conversing with those particular
parts of nature which are the objects of his studies. The knowledge both
of the Poet and the Man of science is pleasure; but the knowledge of
the one cleaves to us as a necessary part of our existence, our natural
and unalienable inheritance; the other is a personal and individual
acquisition, slow to come to us, and by no habitual and direct sympathy
connecting us with our fellow-beings. The Man of science seeks truth as a
remote and unknown benefactor; he cherishes and loves it in his
solitude: the Poet, singing a song in which all human beings join with
him, rejoices in the presence of truth as our visible friend and hourly
companion. Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge; it is
the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science.
Emphatically may it be said of the Poet, as Shakespeare hath said of
man, ‘that he looks before and after.’ He is the rock of defence for
human nature; an upholder and preserver, carrying everywhere with him
relationship and love. In spite of difference of soil and climate, of
language and manners, of laws and customs: in spite of things silently
gone out of mind, and things violently destroyed; the Poet binds
together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society, as
it is spread over the whole earth, and over all time. The objects of the
Poet’s thoughts are everywhere; though the eyes and senses of man are,
it is true, his favourite guides, yet he will follow wheresoever he can
find an atmosphere of sensation in which to move his wings. Poetry is
the first and last of all knowledge—it is as immortal as the heart of
man. If the labours of Men of science should ever create any material
revolution, direct or indirect, in our condition, and in the impressions
which we habitually receive, the Poet will sleep then no more than at
present; he will be ready to follow the steps of the Man of science, not
only in those general indirect effects, but he will be at his side,
carrying sensation into the midst of the objects of the science itself.
The remotest discoveries of the Chemist, the Botanist, or Mineralogist,
will be as proper objects of the Poet’s art as any upon which it can be
employed, if the time should ever come when these things shall be
familiar to us, and the relations under which they are contemplated by
the followers of these respective sciences shall be manifestly and
palpably material to us as enjoying and suffering beings. If the time
should ever come when what is now called science, thus familiarized to
men, shall be ready to put on, as it were, a form of flesh and blood,
the Poet will lend his divine spirit to aid the transfiguration, and
will welcome the Being thus produced, as a dear and genuine inmate of
the household of man.—It is not, then, to be supposed that any one, who
holds that sublime notion of Poetry which I have attempted to convey,
will break in upon the sanctity and truth of his pictures by transitory
and accidental ornaments, and endeavour to excite admiration of himself
by arts, the necessity of which must manifestly depend upon the assumed
meanness of his subject. | 20 |
| What has been thus far said applies to Poetry in general; but
especially to those parts of composition where the Poet speaks through
the mouths of his characters; and upon this point it appears to
authorize the conclusion that there are few persons of good sense, who
would not allow that the dramatic parts of composition are defective, in
proportion as they deviate from the real language of nature, and are
coloured by a diction of the Poet’s own, either peculiar to him as an
individual Poet or belonging simply to Poets in general; to a body of
men who, from the circumstance of their compositions being in metre, it
is expected will employ a particular language. | 21 |
| It is not, then, in the dramatic parts of composition that we
look for this distinction of language; but still it may be proper and
necessary where the Poet speaks to us in his own person and character.
to this I answer by referring the Reader to the description before given
of a Poet. Among the qualities there enumerated as principally
conducing to form a Poet, is implied nothing differing in kind from
other men, but only in degree. The sum of what was said is, that the
Poet is chiefly distinguished from other men by a greater promptness to
think and feel without immediate external excitement, and a greater
power in expressing such thoughts and feelings as are produced in him in
that manner. But these passions and thoughts and feelings are the
general passions and thoughts and feelings of men. and with what are
they connected? Undoubtedly with our moral sentiments and animal
sensations, and with the causes which excite these; with the operations
of the elements, and the appearances of the visible universe; with storm
and sunshine, with the revolutions of the seasons, with cold and heat,
with loss of friends and kindred, with injuries and resentments,
gratitude and hope, with fear and sorrow. These, and the like, are the
sensations and objects which the Poet describes, as they are the
sensations of other men, and the objects which interest them. The Poet
thinks and feels in the spirit of human passions. How, then, can his
language differ in any material degree from that of all other men who
feel vividly and see clearly? It might be proved that it is
impossible. But supposing that this were not the case, the Poet might
then be allowed to use a peculiar language when expressing his feelings
for his own gratification, or that of men like himself. But Poets do not
write for Poets alone, but for men. Unless therefore we are advocates
for that admiration which subsists upon ignorance, and that pleasure
which arises from hearing what we do not understand, the Poet must
descend from this supposed height; and, in order to excite rational
sympathy, he must express himself as other men express themselves. to
this it may be added, that while he is only selecting from the real
language of men, or, which amounts to the same thing, composing
accurately in the spirit of such selection, he is treading upon safe
ground, and we know what we are to expect from him. Our feelings are the
same with respect to metre; for, as it may be proper to remind the
Reader, the distinction of metre is regular and uniform, and not, like
that which is produced by what is usually called POETIC DICTION,
arbitrary, and subject to infinite caprices upon which no calculation
whatever can be made. In the one case, the Reader is utterly at the
mercy of the Poet, respecting what imagery or diction he may choose to
connect with the passion; whereas, in the other, the metre obeys certain
laws, to which the Poet and Reader both willingly submit because they
are certain, and because no interference is made by them with the
passion, but such as the concurring testimony of ages has shown to
heighten and improve the pleasure which co-exists with it. | 22 |
| It will now be proper to answer an obvious question, namely,
Why, professing these opinions, have I written in verse? to this, in
addition to such answer as is included in what has been already said, I
reply, in the first place, because however I may have restricted myself,
there is still left open to me what confessedly constitutes the most
valuable object of all writing, whether in prose or verse; the great and
universal passions of men, the most general and interesting of their
occupations, and the entire world of nature before me—to supply endless
combinations of forms and imagery. Now, supposing for a moment that
whatever is interesting in these objects may be as vividly described in
prose, why should I be condemned for attempting to superadd to such
description the charm which, by the consent of all nations, is
acknowledged to exist in metrical language? to this, by such as are yet
unconvinced, it may be answered that a very small part of the pleasure
given by Poetry depends upon the metre, and that it is injudicious to
write in metre, unless it be accompanied with the other artificial
distinctions of style with which metre is usually accompanied, and that,
by such deviation, more will be lost from the shock which will thereby
be given to the Reader’s associations than will be counterbalanced by
any pleasure which he can derive from the general power of numbers. In
answer to those who still contend for the necessity of accompanying
metre with certain appropriate colours of style in order to the
accomplishment of its appropriate end, and who also, in my opinion,
greatly underrate the power of metre in itself, it might, perhaps, as
far as relates to these Volumes, have been almost sufficient to observe,
that poems are extant, written upon more humble subjects, and in a
still more naked and simple style, which have continued to give pleasure
from generation to generation. Now, if nakedness and simplicity be a
defect, the fact here mentioned affords a strong presumption that poems
somewhat less naked and simple are capable of affording pleasure at the
present day; and, what I wish chiefly to attempt, at present, was to justify myself for having written under the impression of this belief. | 23 |
| But various causes might be pointed out why, when the style is
manly, and the subject of some importance, words metrically arranged
will long continue to impart such a pleasure to mankind as he who proves
the extent of that pleasure will be desirous to impart. The end of
Poetry is to produce excitement in co-existence with an overbalance of
pleasure; but, by the supposition, excitement is an unusual and
irregular state of the mind; ideas and feelings do not, in that state,
succeed each other in accustomed order. If the words, however, by which
this excitement is produced be in themselves powerful, or the images and
feelings have an undue proportion of pain connected with them, there is
some danger that the excitement may be carried beyond its proper
bounds. Now the co-presence of something regular, something to which the
mind has been accustomed in various moods and in a less excited state,
cannot but have great efficacy in tempering and restraining the passion
by an intertexture of ordinary feeling, and of feeling not strictly and
necessarily connected with the passion. This is unquestionably true; and
hence, though the opinion will at first appear paradoxical, from the
tendency of metre to divest language, in a certain degree, of its
reality, and thus to throw a sort of half-consciousness of unsubstantial
existence over the whole composition, there can be little doubt but
that more pathetic situations and sentiments, that is, those which have a
greater proportion of pain connected with them, may be endured in
metrical composition, especially in rhyme, than in prose. The metre of
the old ballads is very artless; yet they contain many passages which
would illustrate this opinion; and, I hope, if the following Poems be
attentively perused, similar instances will be found in them. This
opinion may be further illustrated by appealing to the Reader’s own
experience of the reluctance with which he comes to the reperusal of the
distressful parts of Clarissa Harlowe, or The Gamester;
while Shakespeare’s writings, in the most pathetic scenes, never act
upon us, as pathetic, beyond the bounds of pleasure—an effect which, in a
much greater degree than might at first be imagined, is to be ascribed
to small, but continual and regular impulses of pleasurable surprise
from the metrical arrangement.—On the other hand (what it must be
allowed will much more frequently happen) if the Poet’s words should be
incommensurate with the passion, and inadequate to raise the Reader to a
height of desirable excitement, then (unless the Poet’s choice of his
metre has been grossly injudicious), in the feelings of pleasure which
the Reader has been accustomed to connect with metre in general, and in
the feeling, whether cheerful or melancholy, which he has been
accustomed to connect with that particular movement of metre, there will
be found something which will greatly contribute to impart passion to
the words, and to effect the complex end which the Poet proposes to
himself. | 24 |
| If I had undertaken a SYSTEMATIC
defence of the theory here maintained, it would have been my duty to
develop the various causes upon which the pleasure received from
metrical language depends. Among the chief of these causes is to be
reckoned a principle which must be well known to those who have made any
of the Arts the object of accurate reflection; namely, the pleasure
which the mind derives from the perception of similitude in
dissimilitude. This principle is the great spring of the activity of our
minds, and their chief feeder. From this principle the direction of the
sexual appetite, and all the passions connected with it, take their
origin: it is the life of our ordinary conversation; and upon the
accuracy with which similitude in dissimilitude, and dissimilitude in
similitude are perceived, depend our taste and our moral feelings. It
would not be a useless employment to apply this principle to the
consideration of metre, and to show that metre is hence enabled to
afford much pleasure, and to point out in what manner that pleasure is
produced. But my limits will not permit me to enter upon this subject,
and I must content myself with a general summary. | 25 |
| I have said that poetry is the spontaneous overflow of
powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in
tranquillity: the emotion is contemplated till, by a species of
reaction, the tranquillity gradually disappears, and an emotion, kindred
to that which was before the subject of contemplation, is gradually
produced, and does itself actually exist in the mind. In this mood
successful composition generally begins, and in a mood similar to this
it is carried on; but the emotion, of whatever kind, and in whatever
degree, from various causes, is qualified by various pleasures, so that
in describing any passions whatsoever, which are voluntarily described,
the mind will, upon the whole, be in a state of enjoyment. If Nature be
thus cautious to preserve in a state of enjoyment a being so employed,
the Poet ought to profit by the lesson held forth to him, and ought
especially to take care, that, whatever passions he communicates to his
Reader, those passions, if his Reader’s mind be sound and vigorous,
should always be accompanied with an overbalance of pleasure. Now the
music of harmonious metrical language, the sense of difficulty overcome,
and the blind association of pleasure which has been previously
received from works of rhyme or metre of the same or similar
construction, an indistinct perception perpetually renewed of language
closely resembling that of real life, and yet, in the circumstance of
metre, differing from it so widely—all these imperceptibly make up a
complex feeling of delight, which is of the most important use in
tempering the painful feeling always found intermingled with powerful
descriptions of the deeper passions. This effect is always produced in
pathetic and impassioned poetry; while, in lighter compositions, the
ease and gracefulness with which the Poet manages his numbers are
themselves confessedly a principal source of the gratification of the
Reader. All that it is necessary to say, however, upon this
subject, may be effected by affirming, what few persons will deny, that,
of two descriptions, either of passions, manners, or characters, each
of them equally well executed, the one in prose and the other in verse,
the verse will be read a hundred times where the prose is read once. | 26 |
| Having thus explained a few of my reasons for writing in
verse, and why I have chosen subjects from common life, and endeavoured
to bring my language near to the real language of men, if I have been
too minute in pleading my own cause, I have at the same time been
treating a subject of general interest; and for this reason a few words
shall be added with reference solely to these particular poems, and to
some defects which will probably be found in them. I am sensible that my
associations must have sometimes been particular instead of general,
and that, consequently, giving to things a false importance, I may have
sometimes written upon unworthy subjects; but I am less apprehensive on
this account, than that my language may frequently have suffered from
those arbitrary connexions of feelings and ideas with particular words
and phrases, from which no man can altogether protect himself. Hence I
have no doubt, that, in some instances, feelings, even of the ludicrous,
may be given to my Readers by expressions which appeared to me tender
and pathetic. Such faulty expressions, were I convinced they were faulty
at present, and that they must necessarily continue to be so, I would
willingly take all reasonable pains to correct. But it is dangerous to
make these alterations on the simple authority of a few individuals, or
even of certain classes of men; for where the understanding of an Author
is not convinced, or his feelings altered, this cannot be done without
great injury to himself: for his own feelings are his stay and support;
and, if he set them aside in one instance, he may be induced to repeat
this act till his mind shall lose all confidence in itself, and become
utterly debilitated. to this it may be added, that the critic ought
never to forget that he is himself exposed to the same errors as the
Poet, and, perhaps, in a much greater degree: for there can be no
presumption in saying of most readers, that it is not probable they will
be so well acquainted with the various stages of meaning through which
words have passed, or with the fickleness or stability of the relations
of particular ideas to each other; and, above all, since they are so
much less interested in the subject, they may decide lightly and
carelessly. | 27 |
Long as the Reader has been detained, I hope he will permit me
to caution him against a mode of false criticism which has been applied
to Poetry, in which the language closely resembles that of life and
nature. Such verses have been triumphed over in parodies, of which Dr.
Johnson’s stanza is a fair specimen:—
| | I put my hat upon my head |
| And walked into the Strand, |
| And there I met another man |
| Whose hat was in his hand. |
| 28 |
Immediately under these lines let us place one of the most justly admired stanzas of the ‘Babes in the Wood.’
| | These pretty Babes with hand in hand |
| Went wandering up and down; |
| But never more they saw the Man |
| Approaching from the town. |
In both these stanzas the words, and the order of the
words, in no respect differ from the most unimpassioned conversation.
There are words in both, for example, ‘the Strand,’ and ‘the town,’
connected with none but the most familiar ideas; yet the one stanza we
admit as admirable, and the other as a fair example of the superlatively
contemptible. Whence arises this difference? Not from the metre, not
from the language, not from the order of the words; but the matter
expressed in Dr. Johnson’s stanza is contemptible. The proper method of
treating trivial and simple verses, to which Dr. Johnson’s stanza would
be a fair parallelism, is not to say, this is a bad kind of poetry, or,
this is not poetry; but, this wants sense; it is neither interesting in
itself nor can lead to anything interesting; the images neither
originate in that sane state of feeling which arises out of thought, nor
can excite thought or feeling in the Reader. This is the only sensible
manner of dealing with such verses. Why trouble yourself about the
species till you have previously decided upon the genus? Why take pains
to prove that an ape is not a Newton, when it is self-evident that he is
not a man? | 29 |
| One request I must make of my reader, which is, that in
judging these Poems he would decide by his own feelings genuinely, and
not by reflection upon what will probably be the judgement of others.
How common is it to hear a person say, I myself do not object to this
style of composition, or this or that expression, but, to such and such
classes of people it will appear mean or ludicrous! This mode of
criticism, so destructive of all sound unadulterated judgement, is
almost universal: let the Reader then abide, independently, by his own
feelings, and, if he finds himself affected, let him not suffer such
conjectures to interfere with his pleasure. | 31 |
| If an Author, by any single composition, has impressed us with
respect for his talents, it is useful to consider this as affording a
presumption, that on other occasions where we have been displeased, he,
nevertheless, may not have written ill or absurdly; and further, to give
him so much credit for this one composition as may induce us to review
what has displeased us, with more care than we should otherwise have
bestowed upon it. This is not only an act of justice, but, in our
decisions upon poetry especially, may conduce, in a high degree, to the
improvement of our own taste; for an accurate taste in poetry, and in all the other arts, as Sir Joshua Reynolds has observed, is an acquired
talent, which can only be produced by thought and a long continued
intercourse with the best models of composition. This is mentioned, not
with so ridiculous a purpose as to prevent the most inexperienced Reader
from judging for himself (I have already said that I wish him to judge
for himself), but merely to temper the rashness of decision, and to
suggest, that, if Poetry be a subject on which much time has not been
bestowed, the judgement may be erroneous; and that, in many cases, it
necessarily will be so. | 32 |
| Nothing would, I know, have so effectually contributed to
further the end which I have in view, as to have shown of what kind the
pleasure is, and how that pleasure is produced, which is confessedly
produced by metrical composition essentially different from that which I
have here endeavoured to recommend: for the Reader will say that he has
been pleased by such composition; and what more can be done for him?
The power of any art is limited; and he will suspect, that, if it be
proposed to furnish him with new friends, that can be only upon
condition of his abandoning his old friends. Besides, as I have said,
the Reader is himself conscious of the pleasure which he has received
from such composition, composition to which he has peculiarly attached
the endearing name of Poetry; and all men feel an habitual gratitude,
and something of an honourable bigotry, for the objects which have long
continued to please them: we not only wish to be pleased, but to be
pleased in that particular way in which we have been accustomed to be
pleased. There is in these feelings enough to resist a host of
arguments; and I should be the less able to combat them successfully, as
I am willing to allow, that, in order entirely to enjoy the Poetry
which I am recommending, it would be necessary to give up much of what
is ordinarily enjoyed. But, would my limits have permitted me to point
out how this pleasure is produced, many obstacles might have been
removed, and the Reader assisted in perceiving that the powers of
language are not so limited as he may suppose; and that it is possible
for poetry to give other enjoyments, of a purer, more lasting, and more
exquisite nature. This part of the subject has not been altogether
neglected, but it has not been so much my present aim to prove, that the
interest excited by some other kinds of poetry is less vivid, and less
worthy of the nobler powers of the mind, as to offer reasons for
presuming, that if my purpose were fulfilled, a species of poetry would
be produced, which is genuine poetry; in its nature well adapted to
interest mankind permanently, and likewise important in the multiplicity
and quality of its moral relations. | 33 |
| From what has been said, and from a perusal of the Poems, the
Reader will be able clearly to perceive the object which I had in view:
he will determine how far it has been attained; and, what is a much more
important question, whether it be worth attaining: and upon the
decision of these two questions will rest my claim to the approbation of
the Public. | 34 |
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