| | | | | A posthumous poem by the greatest poet of our time, ~~ one but | lately departed full of years and honour from the scene of his | labours, and that poem composed in the full meridian of his | powers, though still held back by him and designed to be his | latest legacy to the world, ~~ must necessarily cause a universal | sentiment of interest and curiosity. The first impression on its | announcement can scarcely fail to be one of excited expectation, | as if we were to hope for some new revelation of the poet's | character and genius ~~ some collective effort crowning all that | has gone before. We look, in this promised history of himself, | for the fruits of all seasons, and expect to find the enthusiasm of | a glorious youth deepened and matured by the experience of a | poet's old age. It is sunset remembering and reflecting back the | hues and promise of the morning. But further consideration will, | we think, necessarily abate and lower these anticipations. Those | especially who have felt the most genuine reverence for | Wordsworth's genius ~~ who have themselves been influenced | by him ~~ who can look back to principles which had their first | conscious rise in his teaching, to high thoughts that he originated, | to moments that he glorified ~~ who have realized, to use a | hackneyed phrase, his mission to the world and to themselves, | will feel that this is already accomplished. The work he had to | do is manifestly done. He has had a practical influence beyond | the common meed of poets. He has advanced the cause of the | poor, and actually raised and dignified their condition in the eyes | of men. He has broken down haughty distinctions, and brought | home to the heart and conscience a conviction of true equality | and common brotherhood, proving that truest happiness lies | within reach of all men, and finds its root not in the intellect but | the affections, in love of God and man. To each one of us his | imagination, | | has withdrawn the evil that enwraps us ~~ withdrawn for a | moment, never, it may be, to enclose us so thickly again ~~ that | veil which separates ourselves from ourselves, one portion of our | being from another, our origin from our present existence. He | has done that pre-eminently which it is the gift and calling of | poets to do, stirring up our hearts to realize what faith teaches | | us to believe. He has quickened the understanding to | comprehend that the highest truth is beyond the reach of sense. | He has raised us for brief moments above ourselves; we have felt | heaven more near, the presence of God more inevitable. We | have shared his ecstasies, and breathed with him a purer air, rid | for a while of the trifles and the cares of life. Every stage of life | has close associations with him: childhood is illuminated, youth | purified, manhood strengthened, the thought of age made | reverend through him. The weight of our past obligations must, | we believe, moderate our hopes, and convince us that he cannot | have new similar benefits to confer, ~~ that he must have already | accomplished his great task. He can have no new spell. We | maybe further instructed by him, but there can be no closer | appeal to ourselves. This promised insight into his mind and | powers must give a calmer pleasure, yet cannot in the nature of | things inspire that delight which our first knowledge of him | brought with it. There was a necessity in him to reveal what he | himself saw and knew, to disclose what lay in his heart, to seek | out those hidden sympathies which knit all men together. | One only 'keeps His best till last.' The | poet, though lit from above, holds his light in an earthen vessel; | he is conscious of genius, and has yearnings for sympathy, and a | longing for fame. He could not, we know, keep his brightest | jewels hid through life; he must see others delight in their | radiance ~~ he must be urged on to fresh exertions by the praise | of his fellows ~~ there must be witnesses to his highest flights. | There are poems of Wordsworth's which we feel | could not have been withheld all these years; | by force of their inherent passion and fervour they would have | made a way through to the light. And if the autobiographical | poem is in its subject private and unfitted to see the world while | its author remained in it, we may yet expect that the thought and | lessons suggested by his individual experience would have found | expression elsewhere. His finest and most characteristic poems | may in fact well be called offshoots from this idea. Thus we | have felt beforehand confident that nowhere in the forthcoming | work shall we find so passionate and fiery a description of the | boy's love of nature as in the lines on Tintern Abbey, nowhere | such memories of infancy as in the immortal Ode. No human | power, we say to ourselves, could have kept them from the world | after they were written; and so we come to the conclusion that | this poem will be of a calmer, less exciting, less highly poetical, | less enchaining cast than what has gone before. It will be | philosophy, not passion; reason and feeling illuminated by | touches of poetry, rather than such quintessence of poetry as it | was sometimes given to Wordsworth to express. Before the | | book comes into our hands we give way to sentimental regrets, | not for him but ourselves. We ask, already anticipating | disappointment, | | We feel that the glory and freshness of the first dream can find | no renewal. | | And what is the reality after these various conflicting | expectations? Is the first impression or the last nearest the truth? | It was well perhaps that we should go through the two processes, | ~~ that the first impulse should be chastened; but there is no | ground for reasonable disappointment. 'The Prelude' is indeed a | noble poem, fully worthy of its great author, and bearing the full | reflection of himself. It is a great work by the only hand capable | of its fitting execution ~~ the history of a poet's mind, ~~ and as | such a symbol of our own times of restless search into the secret | things of nature, and the hidden mysterious sources of power. | Though probably familiar to many of our readers, it will be | necessary to give here the extract from the author's preface to the | 'Excursion,' in which he explains the plan and purpose of the | present work. | | | | The advertisement to the present volume goes on to say: ~~ | | | | | | 'The Prelude' was begun in 1799, and completed in 1805, the | author being at its commencement thirty-four years of age, and at | its conclusion forty; it was written therefore in the very prime of | life, when the powers of the whole man may be considered at | their highest. And here, before entering upon a review of the | present work, the aim of which was to enable him to ascertain his | own qualifications for composing a great poem, it may be | interesting to lay before the reader the definition of a poet which | Wordsworth has already given us in his 'Essay on Poetic | Diction,' and what he felt to be the indispensable requirements | for that office, requirements which he fully believed, and indeed | poses, to be fulfilled in his own person: ~~ | | | | We are struck with the truth of this definition, and yet it is new; it | had its rise in the qualities of Wordsworth's own mind; such of | his predecessors as have been led to discussion on the same | subject, have used a wholly different phraseology, and have had | in their thoughts, by the bias of their own genius, an entirely | different idea. All of these requirements are in their degree | necessary to form a poet, but for all | no-one can be equally | distinguished, and it is the pre-eminence of one or more over the | rest which assigns to individual poets their appropriate work and | office. Wordsworth places first in his list a 'lively sensibility,' | and therein doubtless lay the secret of his own power; ~~ | sensibility which laid his infant soul open to impressions before | he had thought to reason or consciousness to realize, but | developing, as years passed by, into an intense | | consciousness of these impressions, which gave him an insight | into his own emotions, and a truth and power in analyzing them | never before attained or even conceived. And next from this | assemblage of good gifts we would assign him that 'pleasure in | his own passions and volitions, that rejoicing in the spirit of life,' | which we would call a capacity for happiness. Preeminent | faculties of mind bring along with them, in due time, adequate | powers of expression; all poets as poets must possess them. We | will not, therefore, assert this gift to be especially his above his | fellows, except in the qualities more remarkably his own, and, as | such, conveyed to others with that peculiar and most subtle and | penetrating truth of which we all of us have felt the force. | | An autobiography in verse is a very different thing from one in | prose. The lovers of detail will not find their passion gratified by | any full record of facts or strict account of dates. What few | events are given, drop out incidently to give point to some | development of powers or change of feeling. We learn that the | Poet's mother died early, that he lost his father before his tenth | year; there are many beautiful and affectionate addresses to his | only sister, and incidental allusions to three or four brothers. His | taste for simple life, and the homely scenes his memory dwells | upon, might lead the reader to suppose his station more humble | than his liberal education, and many other circumstances, render | possible. After his school life he goes to Cambridge, where he | lives very much at his ease, from thence passes over to France, | then in all the ferment of its first revolution, and finally, through | the judicious bequest of a friend to whom the whole world owes | gratitude, was placed in independent circumstances, to follow the | free bent of his genius, which certainly would have helped him | very little in making his way in the world. | | To atone for this meagre catalogue of the important events of life | which generally form the staple of biography, our interest is | engaged by many minor incidents of a character too slight, and in | their outer semblance too trivial to find a place in matter-of-fact | prose, but which are sometimes turning points of thought, and | therefore of commensurate dignity in this history of a mind. A | walk on a rainy day, the first sight of a mountain, a chance | encounter, the games of infancy, the companionship of his dog, | may class among the most striking events in such a work. There | is no need, therefore, when any other course presents advantages, | to follow the narrative in chronological order; our view of the | poem will be more clearly expressed by adducing examples as | they occur in illustration of those intellectual and moral | excellences for which we think the present work most | | remarkable, most completely illustrative of the author's mind and | character as we are already acquainted with them. The book | opens with a strain of thankfulness at finding himself once more | among the scenes of his youth, after a long period of absence, a | period accounted for in the course of the poem, and one of | uncongenial excitement. | | | | It was not in verse alone, not in one particular mood, not under | transient inspirations, that it was necessary to Wordsworth to live | in the scenes of his birth-place; his being was not complete | elsewhere; part of himself was wanting; he was literally lost | away from the mountains and streams which had greeted his | infant eyes; there was a mysterious union between those noble | forms of nature and his inmost soul, which held him to them with | something of a mother's embrace. They were the very sources of | his power, not so much for their intrinsic beauty, as because his | life was begun among them; they were the objects which first | touched the exquisite sensibility of his nature, that combined | susceptibility of feeling and organization with which he was | endowed; , as he designates it, took its first colour and | abiding character from them. They had a positive sway; they, as | it were, dictated his course, and set him the task he had to do. | Had he, through the perversity of fate, or yielding to such | inducements as guide the actions of ordinary men, been placed | elsewhere, far away from their influence, either in cities, or | among scenes however fair in a foreign land, we feel convinced | his genius could not have developed itself; his best thoughts, his | noblest impulses, would have found no expression: as he himself | has said in scorn of ideal worlds, | | How he felt his whole nature expand in restoration to these | scenes, is exquisitely described in the following lines, on his | return home after his first term at Cambridge. The impression of | blissful yet calm happiness, has, we think, been scarcely so | vividly given before, even by this poet whose gift it is to make | men sympathise with his joy. | | | | | | There is a certain power in such passages as these ~~ a 'creative' | power, he would call it, ~~ of awakening in each one of us such | remembrances, glimpses and flashes, as if we too had once held a | dominion. What majestic daring is there in this image of the | enchantment of genius, the boy ruling the storm, and adding | darkness to the thunder cloud! | | But he does not represent his boyhood as always passed in this | exalted intercourse, in exercising this supremacy; he delights in | recalling the sports of his school days, which were followed out | by the whole party, 'a noisy crew,' with as little restraint as may | be. He fished, boated, and skated, and set snares for woodcocks, | and galloped long distances on horseback at all hours of day and | night, and describes very gracefully the happy card-playing on | winters' evenings, dwelling with fond remembrance on the | veteran aspect of their solitary pack of cards ~~ the casualties | and loss incurred in the frequent combats at loo or whist in which | they were engaged. He considers his school life as one important | part of his education. Not so much for what he learned there, for | incidentally he intimates that they might certainly have been | taught much more and much better, and such learning as books | brought with them not voluntarily acquired, but imposed as a | task, had probably little charm or even influence over him; but | for the companionship and knowledge of human nature a school | life implies, and especially in him whose early impressions were | so true and so vivid. In summing up at the close of the volume | his capability for the great duty of his life, he says: ~~ | | | | Doubtless the happiness of his childhood was one great | | source of his genius, or it may be sprang from it, as he says: ~~ | | a happiness natural to him, and which no cross accident | interfered with as a state. His was not a morbid temper. The | mysterious influences which visited him in solitude did not | incapacitate him from taking his full share of common pleasures, | he must even have had an exuberance of boyish animal spirits | very favourable, no doubt, to strength and manliness of thought | in mature life. His school life, too, was doubtless advantageous | in this point of view, as preventing a premature development of | the poetic faculty, ~~ keeping it silent and in abeyance till his | full powers were ripe for it. He says: ~~ | | And he delights to look back upon that period of bodily energy | and enjoyment ~~ ; ; ; he and his | schoolfellows were ~~ | | and receiving on the excited mind permanent impressions of the | scenes which witnessed these sports: ~~ | | | | | | Some men are geniuses in spite of education and circumstances. | We admire in them how inherent ability forces its way through | every impediment; how hindrances are even turned into helps by | the ductile indomitable faculty; and we then suppose that | external circumstances matter but little. If the child is gifted in | himself, we infer, it matters not what adverse discipline he goes | through, what restraints and contradictions to his natural tastes he | has to bear. It seems even as if some opposition strengthened the | natural gift; and in a certain sense it is so. Genius will force its | way through any form of culture, but it may nevertheless be | diverted from its natural current. Coleridge learned to love and | worship Nature, ~~ a blue-coat boy in the very heart of London; | Southey eyed wistfully the distant fields, tied to his aunt's apron | strings, and forbidden a nearer view; till a glory hung round the | forbidden scene. No doubt the longing unindulged in such cases | does impart a kind of romance to the feelings; but still it is a | different love, a passion for times and seasons, a sentiment in its | turn giving way to others equally powerful, in no sense the same | necessity of the whole being through life. Nature is not the same | home to the affections, nor does she possess the same domestic | authoritative character. Wherever Coleridge could talk, he was | at home, and Southey, surrounded by his books, wanted no other | companionship, though both were open to all the noble | influences of natural scenes; but Wordsworth (and the same may | be said of Scott) felt towards his mountains not only like a poet | inspired by them, ~~ for such inspiration is only a temporary | condition of mind, leaving it open and almost requiring other | stimulants when the fit is passed by, ~~ but with all the local | attachments and homely personal associations of the humblest | shepherd born and bred among them. As a man of genius he | could analyse their power and assume the superior; as a son of | the soil he was ruled by an habitual | | sense of dependence, an unconscious desire of the soul which | they alone could satisfy. In the one case, where early association | does not come into play, love of nature is a lively perception, a | just appreciation of beauty; men can be impartial and judge by | criticism and exact rules: in the other and stronger tie, this | feeling for beauty is subservient to love of country; they bestow | admiration on all nature because it is beautiful, but they love one | spot, one combination of form and light and colour, with abiding | affection, because it is their own, and because they have a sense | of want and incompleteness away from it: and such love as this | will not allow men to be impartial; they would feel it an | irreverence ~~ a casting away of just restraints of thought ~~ as | good men love their parents, not because they believe them | abstractedly to be preeminently best , but | that they constituted their first idea of excellence and authority. | | Our poet confesses to one short period of life, when this disease | of criticism, 'the infection of the age,' infested his mind: ~~ | | | Contrasting it with the nobler sensations of his earliest love, in | that period of innocence and simplicity when the affections and | the tastes are alike formed, with which the following passage | concludes: ~~ | | | | | | 'The first diviner influence of this world' is the theme of the | volume for the first four books; the fifth is on books; and a subtle | pain and trouble of the intellect is recorded characteristic of the | poet's mind and training; natural to one who contemplated nature | first, and formed ideas of permanence from her unchanging | forms, which others, however unreasonably, attach to the labours | of genius, to which they ascribe 'deathless' and 'immortal' fame. | Faith knows that even the everlasting hills shall crumble to dust, | but the powers of nature are still an image | of permanence, and, regarding them as an evidence of the | Creator, though they should fall into tumult and annihilation, yet | God is Order and Calm, and from His Presence light must again | shine forth, fresh manifestation of His attributes must ensue, and | 'kindlings like the morning.' For these outward manifestations of | the Supreme Being the Poet finds a parallel in the efforts of man | to perpetuate himself, and to create 'things that aspire to | unconquerable life;' efforts of the intellect to make its own | thoughts eternal. And all how vainly! A time will come to each | when these helps and guides to supreme truth will not be needed. | What can man do for those who | | enjoy the presence of God? So in the wreck of nature, where | will be the thoughts of man, ~~ | | He laments that the mind of man has no element durable enough, | and analogous to his own nature, whereon to stamp his thoughts. | It is the trouble of one who desires to say imperishable things, | but whose hopes and aspirations are held in check by the belief | in the only Eternal and Unchanging, learnt in life's most | impressible season from the outward, passive, enduring | testimonies of God's presence and power seen all around. This | though leads to the history of a dream, a poet's dream, expressive | of the intensity of his desire to preserve from the wrecks of a | falling world the two great representatives of truth, as he deems | them, Poetry and Geometry, of which last he elsewhere says: ~~ | | | | From these speculative regrets he descends to describe the | influence of books on his early mind; and here it strikes us, | though possibly there may not be full ground for the impression, | that he regards the use of books as something | past to himself, as having done much for him, but not as if | he depended on their habitual companionship. He acknowledges | the teaching, in his youth, of certain great powers, the giants of | the intellect, and of those humbler voices which in childhood | ministered to the imagination; but it does not appear that the | constant use of books, as information, as sources of knowledge, | are at all necessary to his mature life. And for children, he is | guarded in his requirement of this. He asks for them ~~ | | Liberty for the child is what he asks, and a free range to choose, | unchecked by too timid and arbitrary a watchfulness. It is a | difficult question. Few men will allow themselves to be the | worse for a freedom of unlimited choice of books in their | childhood. And children left to themselves may in their | innocence get no harm from what may faint an older imagination. | But as a rule, it must be the duty of parents to guard their minds | from contamination as much as their manners. In many of the | instances asserted (for it is only assertion) of persons getting no | harm from that indiscriminate reading, which undoubtedly | has strengthened the intellect, it may be | proved that no-one was really | at fault, because no-one knew that | any danger was incurred. The good but illiterate mother, who | would have | | protected her son with her utmost vigilance from evil | companions, saw him poring over books with pride, supposing in | her simplicity that nothing but good was to be learnt from them. | But it is not in nature or reason that parents caring for their | children's souls, and acquainted with books, should exercise no | choice in what they place before them. No Christian mother can | see her son reading a bad book, trusting to the | chance of its doing him no harm; depending | presumptuously on the innocence which is therein attacked. It | may be, however, that among the books to which Wordsworth | had access in his boyhood, there were none that could be thus | summarily described, and under the supposition there is | doubtless much truth in the following protest against meager | extracts and selections. What he has in his thoughts really is a | certain tyranny of superintendence which would force the mind | into a particular channel, and take away its power of choice or | independent judgment of right and wrong: ~~ | | | | In Wordsworth's own case, too, he had that habitual check to | over-indulgence in any course of reading which the permanent | attractions of nature exercised upon him. He had a twinge of | self-reproach, even as a boy, at the age when we give ourselves | up most passionately to the books that interest us, if, in spending | a holiday out of doors, he abandoned himself to the charms of | poetry or romance, 'defrauding the day's glory.' The outward | scene would appeal to his conscience, till with a sudden bound of | sharp reproach he would throw the volume aside to | | obey the stronger and, doubtless, more healthful influence. Yet | he thus beautifully speaks of works of imagination as a boon to | childhood: ~~ | | | | While on this theme, he pays the following delightful tribute to | his mother's memory, and to her exercise of the trust committed | to her. We cannot, indeed, quarrel with her system while | witnessing its results, but we think it likely that this may be an | instance of what we have already supposed a common case. She | probably did not know that her children were in the way of | danger while reading the books in their father's bookcase; and | | the arguments with which the pious son supplied her, were but | latent in her own bosom: ~~ | | | | From such a mother we must suppose the poet to have inherited | that calm yet cheerful temperament, content without external | excitements, finding its chief enjoyment in retirement and | contemplation, which throws its own colour over all his poetry, | and gives its characteristic and peculiar moral value. | | says Henry Vaughan, an old poet, who shows a singular affinity | of thought on this subject with the most individual and peculiar | of Wordsworth's views; and such was Wordsworth's philosophy. | | It was in looking back that he sought for those motives of | thought and action which influence man. He did not slight | observation, but it was in self-study that he looked for power to | unravel the mysteries and perplexities of our being. The past | was with him the golden period, the source of light and | inspiration. He strove to establish a chain between the present | moment of thought and the remotest sensation that memory or | fancy would take him back to; and so vivid and unearthly did | that light shine upon him, that to him it could not be derived | from the common day of this world, but was rather the reflection | of past glory and intelligence revealed in flashes and glimpses by | uncertain memory. Infancy is with him the very source of | wisdom; it is a closed book, but one which holds more than any | open volume in which knowledge is enshrined; ~~ | | | | From these transient revelations he dated his thoughts, his | motives, and impulses. And it must be admitted as necessary to | his exercise of inherent power and genius that he should bring his | whole being to the task. From the | sensibility and vivid impressiveness of his early sensations, | childhood was an inspiration to him. The purpose of his | manhood seems to have been to reason upon, to put into thoughts | and words, to develop the impressions of infancy and early youth. | Nothing that he was afterwards called upon to witness or mingle | with, entirely | | | | | | | | | | | | | He next tells of the effect which the presence of man had upon | his youthful mind, as seen from afar in the solitude of mountain | regions. The passage follows a fine description of a shepherd's | life among the hills: ~~ | | | | | | Nor did there need for the purposes of his genius any dignity of | form, or that any dignified qualities should be attributable to the | man himself. Grandeur of association, , ~~ as Mr. | Ruskin defines the picturesque, ~~ is the only requisite. | Wherever man is seen in close association with the beauty or | solitudes of nature, and, either through the absorbing influence of | passion, or infirmity, or fatuity, lost to his own individuality, and | merged and blended with the outer scene, there the poet's | imagination finds its most congenial food for thought. It is for | this that the 'Idiot Boy' is such a favourite with its author. He has | there found a subject scarcely more sensient than the moon, the | trees, and the waterfall among which he places him. He clings to | this poem with a tenacity of affection which is truly marvelous; | he singles it out among others as a pattern and specimen of his | powers, and would almost seem willing to allow his whole | system to stand or fall by its merits. It may be that the ridicule | first bestowed on it so unsparingly, and of which his most | devoted admirers are unwillingly conscious, urged him to a kind | of obstinate adherence; he felt it necessary to trust himself, | because to yield to another judgment would have been a blow to | his whole poetic theory: but we believe that beyond this the | subject had real charms for him; he looks back with tenderness to | the occasion of his first imparting this poem to his friend, and | refers to it as a test of his genius. | | | | | The Idiot Boy, amid the cries and spectacles of night, himself a | part of the scene, and no more conscious than the hooting owls | and the roaring torrents, ~~ the mother's affection, mastering and | bewildering, but divested of all sense, a mere instinct, and | therefore in keeping with its object ~~ the poet enters into it all. | What would the human part of the picture have been without him? | He is the intellect of the scene, he breathes intelligence and | purpose into what else is simple fatuity and oblivion, he | makes it all, so to say. And he loves it | because his own part has been so large in it, because he has | composed a poem of genius out of the smallest and most | insignificant incident that ever exercised a poet's pen. | | Wordsworth's only great experience of active stirring life may | very well have confirmed him in his original bent. Three books | out of the fourteen of which this poem consists are devoted to | France and the great French Revolution, and these we think the | least interesting, the least poetical, the least valuable of the whole. | The task of reading is even sometimes irksome from the view he | takes of events, and the tumid fervour often displayed for a cause | with which it is impossible to sympathise, however much the | frightful abuses of the monarchical system in France may excuse | the spirit in which its opening was first hailed in England. | Young and ardent, Wordsworth took the popular side. He had, | as we have said, no early training to counteract present | influences, and possibly the boyish freedom from restraint in | which he rejoices may have predisposed him to endure the rant | about liberty, which to look back upon, and associated with the | crimes and horrors of which it was the plea, sounds to our ears so | intolerable. We will own to a satiety and weariness of the whole | subject of the French Revolution, so genuine and unfeigned, that | we cannot but expect our readers to share it with us. No amount | of incident and excitement can bring the mind willingly to dwell | and linger over a record of unmixed evil, a record of folly and | mistakes, and monstrous wickedness. And yet the magnitude of | the interests concerned, and the great lesson to be learnt, have | made it an inexhaustible theme. It has been talked about, and | written about, and moralized and preached upon; it has been | viewed in ever conceivable aspect, by every phase of mind; it has | filled histories, memoirs, reviews, essays, narratives, from that | day to this, and still is a standard subject; it has been superseded | by other revolutions, possessing all the charms of novelty, and | their full share of incident, in vain; still we are dragged back, | painfully and unwillingly, by a sort of inevitable necessity, to | those black years of the world's history; and it was with, perhaps | not a reasonable, but certainly a very real sense of | | disappointment, that we found ourselves ensnared in another long | history and disquisition, though from the pen of the greatest poet | of the age, himself an eye-witness and participator. Such | impressions may well indispose the mind to a just estimate of the | power with which it is done, but, the poet does seem to us out of | his element, and divested of his best gifts; not wiser than other | mortals, easily taken in, deceived by specious appearances, and | willing to be deceived. We learn little but his own impressions, | which were not above the ordinary tone of enthusiastic youth; | and there is no clear insight into cause and effect, beyond the | evident one in which all sides acknowledge, that a long previous | period of tyranny and misrule had prepared the nation for an | outbreak, and that the tumultuous horrors of the time may be | attributed to the silent mischiefs which had long worked and | festered out of sight. There is a great deal about liberty, but | nothing of religion; the republican tone of thought and language, | and the absence of patriotism, are often painful, and there is | moreover a glaring spirit of partizanship in the manner of | slurring over atrocities, as if these were the natural and inevitable | result of political fermentation, and not, therefore, the work of | the powers of darkness on the evil heart of man ~~ accountable | man ~~ unworthy of the poet. Still he could not but feel early | disgust and disappointment, as he beheld the working of | principles admired in the abstract, and with Robespierre his | vision of freedom faded in despair, though scarcely so effectually | as in the restoration to order which followed his reign. He thus | speaks of the 'catastrophe,' the return to monarchy, which he | seems to regard as the crowning obloquy: ~~ | | | | His own state of mind at the end of this struggle he looks back | upon with a pain and almost remorse very satisfactory to the | reader. He is conscious of | | | | | | From this state of loss and depression he is thus recalled. The | return to such subjects is as full of comfort to the reader as were | the sweet sisterly counsels and consolations to himself: ~~ | | | | One parallel may be found in his inner life and feelings, as | recorded in the present volume, and but one, with the turbid | excitement of this French episode in his otherwise calm career, | and this lies in his friendship for Coleridge, expressed with a | beautiful fervour, and yet with a confident security in its | continuance, ~~ setting at defiance all the common precautions | and reservations of language, ~~ which is painful to dwell upon. | The sentiment seemed to take him by storm, and inspire a blind | trust in its object in much the same way as did the high promises | of liberty and social regeneration in France. The blank | | disappointment which followed the failure of expectation in one | case is recorded; we are left to divine an equally inevitable | depression in the other, when time should have shown the fallacy | of such unlimited dependence. And yet the hope and confidence | expressed in the following lines, (addressed to his friend in his | absence abroad for his health,) must excite both pleasure and | sympathy, though no earthly friendship can fulfil them: ~~ | | | | The following, in their boundless expectations and their | unchastened force of language, do give a sense of pain: ~~ | | And again: ~~ | | Confidence such as this, is in fact, necessarily accompanied by | self-confidence; for friendship requires two, in a certain state of | equality, for its fulfilment; and on this account gives pain, from | the forgetfulness of human infirmity, or implied superiority to it. | The preceding lines are from a passage foretelling the lasting | importance of their joint labours, and | their high mission to man, which concludes thus: ~~ | | And in disappointment he finds this proud consolation, turning | from the world to his friend, and, by implication, to himself, who | understood and sympathized with him: ~~ not worded surely as | a Christian should word it, though not far from a great Christian | verity: ~~ | | | But this was, perhaps, a solitary case of another intellect | exercising any mastering sway over him. He was a law to | himself, and felt his calling to be not to mingle with other | kindred intelligences, so much as to bring his own to bear on | what was indeed deserving of all careful thoughtfulness and | reverence, but which had less occupied the labours of genius: | the silent workings of the heart in humble men, the majesty of | the domestic affections in the poor. Neither nature nor education | adapted him for political life, or for taking a deep view of great | national events, the action and working of what are called great | interests or aggregate bodies. The man who disregarded history, | who had confessed himself | | who had thus gained no experience of the past, could not be in a | state to learn from the present, or to form a right judgment of its | events. When he feels himself dissociated by any adverse train | of thought or outward circumstances from his former self, he | owns himself diseased in mind. Yet it was thus that he set about | his political studies. History may surely be regarded as an | account of the childhood and youth of the world, and of separate | nations. By his own reasoning, then, he could not view the | present world with philosophical or truthful eyes, dissociating it | from its progress and beginnings. And this is what he tried to do, | and failed. He lacked the previous discipline and training; and | therefore the ferment of three years of political excitement, and | the sights, and sounds and ideas in which he lived, were for the | time hurtful to his genius as well as in the highest degree | uncongenial to his lasting nature. One use that season had, | however, in determining more decidedly his ultimate occupation | of thought and powers. Youth, enthusiasm, and hope, might bear | him on for a time, but disappointment and weariness were | inevitable in the long run, whether the cause in which his heart | was engaged failed or succeeded. So much of failure there is in | all high hopes and excitements. But the utter disappointment | was unquestionably salutary in throwing him back upon his | former habits of thought, teaching him to see there his true | sphere, his only lasting source of power. | | It is no disparagement to deny to any man the possession of | | universal judgment. All that the greatest can achieve is greatness | in their own line, and Wordsworth's line, in his view of human | affairs, was the sacred domestic duties and affections: ~~ | | and in days like our own we cannot over-estimate the importance | of this subject. In times of religious excitement, when men must | in a measure be estimated by their profession | , by qualities open to all eyes ~~ when we are apt to value | men for their use to the cause we have at heart, and to test them | by this standard ~~ for the services they can render, the talents | they possess, their skill in advocacy, their powers of persuasion, | their devotion to particular truths now assailed ~~ for their | public virtues ~~ it is well that some gifted | soul should lead our thoughts to the sacred, inalienable, | paramount necessity of the home virtues, of those tempers and | affections which make that home the nearest likeness of heaven | we possess on earth; or a paradise spoiled, and fair scene blasted, | at which the angels weep. Therefore, love and reverent fear, and | just rule; submission and self-restraint, cheerfulness and willing | toil, patience and provident care, and contentment and undying | hope; these should find a noble advocate. That love which | makes sacrifice easy and labour light, which makes every | condition of life happy, or tinged with the hues of departed | happiness, should have its praise, its poet; the sacred relations of | husband and wife, and child, should assert their high claim to our | reverence. Their due fulfilment is a test, a standard of the state | of religion in the heart, as just and true as any other, taken singly; | for Religion takes possession of the whole man, should actuate | all his conduct, presides at the hearth as well as at the altar, | dictates his daily practice, as well as his confession of faith. She | teaches that men must be faithful and loyal, that they must be | zealous for the truth, and, if need be, die for it; and | also that they must be dutiful sons, and | loving husbands, and watchful fathers; that they must be the | centre, the stay, the comfort of home, the joy of their fire-side, as | well as pillars and supports of the larger and diviner polities of | which they are members; that it is as great a failure of duty in a | man to be negligent of the happiness and welfare of his | household, to be harsh or indifferent at home, as to be cold or | callous toward the interests of revealed truth. Both are equally | committed by Providence to his care and guardianship; for both, | in their degree, he is responsible. The fidelity, the self-denial, | the faith and constancy of home, are as ennobling to our nature, | as much cared for in God's word, as zeal and devotion to the | interests of the Church or the State. There must be a conformity | | of the whole man, a perfect heart in all these relations. | | The poet, turning from the scenes of turbulent commotion which | had engaged him for a while, thus approaches his more congenial | study, proving a fine analogy between the stability of nature and | those enduring human emotions which were henceforward to | form the subject of his lasting thought. | | | | | Thus returning to his congenial element of thought, he returned | to happiness. His vocation was indeed what has been called | , ~~ for he was pre-eminently capable of deriving pleasure | from what was created for the very end of imparting it, and his | work was to lead others through the same course of | contemplation to the same delight. All readers of Wordsworth's | poetry must be alive to the calm happiness that breathes | throughout ~~ to indications of a mind in serene repose and open | to all joyful influences, as being free from those disorders which | so commonly deform our impressions from without; ~~ of a | mind, from its very composure and freedom inward disturbance, | capable of fullest sympathy, reflecting back every image, | whether of joy or sorrow, yet retaining its even surface unruffled. | This capacity for happiness, wherever found, is, we think, an | indication of mental power and moral superiority; for happiness | as a state of mind cannot proceed from any exemption from the | ordinary lot. One man is not habitually happier than another | from any immunity from worldly troubles ~~ or at least, such | happiness as this constitutes does not come under our present | consideration. It consists, we believe, in the power of believing | in the existence of happiness. He is happy who knows by his | own experience, by what he sees in others, by what he knows of | the constitution of our being, that happiness is a reality, that it | lies somewhere; not within our reach, perhaps ~~ certainly not in | the fullness which the imagination conceives ~~ but truly and | exquisitely, somewhere: ~~ who has faith in this state, | contemplates it, desires it, seeks out its causes, and devotes | himself to its attainment, discarding (because he knows that it is | something real) all vulgar substitutes, and arriving at the highest | ideal he can form. | | For this state of mind many things are needed. We will not here | discuss the religious, or we should rather say, the theological | bearing of the question, though without it, it can be only very | inadequately treated; but as a state of mind it is not necessarily | Christian. It requires faith in the higher powers of our nature, an | actuating sense of God's presence, large interests; and freedom | from petty cares, and small, corroding enmities. That habitual | state of discontent which shows itself in the furrowed brow and | anxious expression of so many a countenance, proceeds not from | great troubles, but from the constant | presence, and we may say indulgence of | a throng of small cares ~~ from being mastered by them ~~ | hedged in by them, as it were, in a thorny circle which excludes | the space and prospect beyond. The idea of happiness simply | entertained in the mind would be enough, in how many cases, to | dispel this gloom! But in many, happiness cannot even be said to | be the | | aim of life. Those who set their minds on worldly advantages | would, in defending their pursuits, scarcely do so on the plea of | its constituting their happiness. If they heard of another refusing | rank or wealth on the ground of his being happier without them, | they would not so much dispute the fact as treat it as irrelevant. | Some sort of good is expected from them, but not what they | themselves would naturally define as happiness. Because, in fact, | there is in its idea something too high and overpowering to be, in | a true sense, the aim of sordid desires; | men know that to be happy implies some discipline, some change | and reformation of themselves, suggesting uncomfortable | thoughts of strangeness and restraint. It is inevitably associated | with purity and singleness of heart. Wordsworth had, eminently, | this happy nature, these tendencies and exemptions, and he | treasured and fostered them as his most precious possession; and | what he valued in himself it was his labour to communicate to | others ~~ to impart to them his own secrets of cheerfulness and | serenity. He sought to raise men to the understanding of | happiness ~~ to lead them to find that excitement which our | nature requires apart from gross or violent stimulants ~~ and to | perceive that 'one man is elevated above another in proportion as | he possesses this capacity.' And herein does he show himself a | true poet ~~ that the principle which makes his works what they | are to us was the spell and influence of his own being ~~ that | what actuates and rouses us from our habitual feelings, to share | his higher elevation, was the motive and guiding principle of his | own conduct. It was a power which could not be put off and | assumed at pleasure ~~ now the man of the world, and now the | poet; but he believed what he taught, and wrote truthfully | because it was his own experience. His happiness consisted in | living by the thoughts and feelings of which he wrote, in yielding | to their habitual sway. | | It cannot be denied, however, that there are temptations incident | to this happy temperament of a very grave character; that there is | danger of this contentment with our lot ~~ this keen appreciation | of our blessings ~~ this general bright view of things, sliding | insensibly into contentment with ourselves ~~ a complacent | sense of our suitability and adaptation to this fair scene. Nor can | we think that our poet has wholly escaped this by no means | necessary consequence. There is, unquestionably, throughout the | present volume a tone of very gentle, tender self-appreciation. | We do not desire, in such a work, any acute expressions of | repentance, or harrowing confessions of error ~~ they would be | altogether out of place, and should be laid before another tribunal | than the public, or the literary world. But every reader must be | alive to a pervading spirit of satisfaction with self, expressed | | with a fond tenderness, scarcely in accordance with received | usage where self is the theme ~~ a | loving enumeration of good gifts ~~ a gentle shrinking from | blame ~~ which things, to say the least, are opposed to manliness | of character, and prove that the cultivation of an exquisite | keenness of penetration into our nature, in one direction, cannot | be pursued without some counterbalancing insensibility in | another. When he tries to find fault, he seems stopped short in | the midst, deterred by the too painful nature of the subject, and | always with an apology, not far short of a justification at hand. | The mention of the small errors of boyhood is followed by a | picture of a perfect child, from which he recoils; he admits his | own idleness and waste of opportunities at Cambridge; and two | or three times he seems to set out, as it were, with the intention | of frankly admitting them, but as often branches off into | digressions, suggestions, and satires on the system of our | Universities, some acute, and some common-place, till he | concludes the whole subject by the following lenient judgment | on his own part in it: ~~ | | | | And this subject leads to another consideration. No reader of this | volume, however alive to its exceeding beauty ~~ however | grateful even for the insights into the workings of a great mind | here permitted him, can, we think, escape from certain doubts | and uneasy scruples as to the expediency and propriety of the | anatomical study, self-description, ending in self-appreciation, | here indulged in; not, indeed, necessary to the scheme, but from | which it has not escaped. Let us respect these scruples as | whispers of conscience, and assert the right of man as man to | form a judgment on the actions of others in many respects greater | and better than himself. Things are, in themselves, right or | wrong ~~ safe or injurious, and it is the wisest course to view | them in themselves, uninfluenced by the superior spirits who | have practiced them. Wordsworth's mind is infinitely more | worth looking into than that of any chance reader of his poems; | and this fact furnishes a full justification of his having recorded | for the pleasure or instruction of others certain curious | deductions and observations on himself, and the things that made | him what he was; but, if it would be unsafe, in any nameless | individual, to sit down deliberately to contemplate himself ~~ to | weigh his powers ~~ to set out to view his good points and | capabilities ~~ to brood over them in rapt enthusiastic | speculation ~~ | | it is a hazardous employment for the greatest. | Everyone has | | some qualities which he may justly think distinguish him ~~ yet, | if it still would be a weakness in him to adopt this course with | respect to them, is it not also a weakness though we find it to | have been the practice of a great poet? How can we separate this | industrious study of our good points from | vanity ~~ a painful word to use in connexion with a name | we reverence, but an idea, we own, not seldom forced upon us, | and as such not rightly suppressed or concealed; for we are | conscious of danger in overlooking or palliating this subtle form | of self-love, because it is viewed under the protection of a great | name. It is safer to say, 'Wordsworth was a great poet ~~ we | owe him much, but his gifts were a snare to him; it is hard to be | above other men and not to know it,' than to justify and indulge | in similar habits of mind under shelter of his example. But | enough on an ungracious subject, especially as, perhaps | influenced by misgivings, the poet reserved this history, and | these musings on self, to a time when he could not listen to the | sympathy and curiosity, tender, or critical, with which he might | anticipate their reception by those who felt his power and genius. | | The diction of the present poem is so eminently that of its author, | as the reader is already familiar with it, that we have not made it | a part of our subject; the words are always appropriate to the | thought they express, and vary in dignity and beauty with the | grandeur and importance of the idea. There are no evident | indications of study, in this respect; we are not often struck with | examples of artful sweetness, such as | other poets delight in; but there is always that best grace, a | perfect adaptation; we feel an entire confidence throughout that | whatever he desires to express, however new or difficult, the | right words will be there, and when uttered, that no other words | would have spoken the idea so well. | No-one can be always clear, | harmonious, dignified, consistent, without care and fitting | attention. Perfection never comes by a happy accident, however | much nature may assist the work. His own sense of the | importance of words confirms this conviction; he knew it too | well to suppose a man could be a poet and fail in expression. On | the mysterious value of words ~~ of a poet's selection of them ~~ | he has the following fine passage: ~~ | | | | | In our very inefficient notice of this remarkable volume, we have | chosen rather to point out evidences of those qualities which | have always constituted the strength and value of Wordsworth's | poetry, than to follow the author's own division, or to take it in | chronological order. We would not willingly forestall the delight | of the reader in tracing out the plan and purpose of the poem for | himself. Many new and beautiful thoughts, forcible images, | touching incidents and recollections, we have passed by without | comment or allusion. What we have wished to call attention to is | the prominence of certain characteristics, which did, we believe, | make the poet what he was ~~ which were the main secret of his | power, and the elements of his greatness. Poetry he defines as | the image of man and of nature; but there are various reflections | of this image; his knowledge of man was drawn from the deep | searches into his own heart, of which we have the history in this | volume ~~ from hence, he gained his insight into the universal | heart of man. Whatever he knew of passion, or emotion, was | from this source. Whatever could be learned from the face of | nature, by looking into himself, whatever sympathy could teach | him, that he knew; but his was not the gift of penetration into | individual minds; he had not what is meant by a knowledge of | human nature, which implies a perception of minute differences | and distinctions; his own heart told him of the great affections, | those impulses which sway us all, wherein we are all one. He | could not trace, with any subtle truth, the local influences, the | idiosyncracies which make each man different from his fellow; | and his teaching is of the character to be expected from this. It is | not in direct lessons, in axioms such as are framed by those who | form theories out of themselves from acute watching and | weighing of others, but he gives his own intuitions and | experience; he tells us what is in one mind with an intricate truth | and faithfulness we had not known before, and we recognise in it | the pulse of the universal human heart. He is not didactic; we | seldom meet with a philosophical precept, or a formal practical | rule for the guidance of conduct, but we have the inner life itself | of one mind, and we may learn precious things from it. | | And what may be said of his collective labours may especially be | asserted of the present poem, which gives, as it were, the secret | of his inspiration, and takes us to the very source of that | benignant stream, which flowed so long for our healing and | refreshment. Back to that source he was for ever looking, and | hence the appropriateness of this latest memorial. Always true to | himself and to his genius, he was never truer than when he thus | connected the close of life with its earliest dawn, and made the | history of his youth the gift of his latest age.