THE SACRED WOOD 
 
" INTRAVIT pinacothecam senex canus, exercitati vultus et 
 qui videretur nescio quid magnum promittere, sed cultu non 
 proinde speciosus, et facile appareret eum ex hac nota lit- 
 teratum esse, quos odisse divites solent . . . ' ego ' inquit 
 * poeta sum et ut spero, non humillimi spiritus, si modo 
 coronis aliquid -credendum est, quas etiam ad immeritos 
 deferre gratia solet.'" PETRONIUS. 
 
 " I also like to dine on becaficas." 
 
THE SACRED WOOD 
 
 ESSAYS ON POETRY AND CRITICISM 
 
 BY 
 
 T. S. ELIOT 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 ALFRED A. KNOPF 
 
 1921 
 
FOR 
 
 H. W. E. 
 "TACUIT ET FECIT" 
 
CERTAIN of these essays appeared, in the 
 same or a more primitive form, in The 
 Times Literary Supplement, The Athenaum, 
 Art and , Letters^ and The Egoist. The 
 author desires to express his obligation to 
 the editors of these periodicals. 
 
 vii 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 TO anyone who is at all capable of experiencing 
 the pleasures of justice, it is gratifying to be 
 able to make amends to a writer whom one has 
 vaguely depreciated for some years. The faults and 
 foibles of Matthew Arnold are no less evident to me 
 now than twelve years ago, after my first admiration 
 for him ; but I hope that now, on re-reading some of 
 his prose with more care, I can better appreciate his 
 position. And what makes Arnold seem all the more 
 remarkable is, that if he were our exact contemporary, 
 he would find all his labour to perform again. A 
 moderate number of persons have engaged in what is 
 called "critical" writing, but no conclusion is any 
 more solidly established than it was in 1865. In the 
 first essay in the first Essays in Criticism we read 
 that 
 
 it has long seemed to me that the burst of creative 
 activity in our literature, through the first quarter of 
 this century, had about it in fact something premature ; 
 and that from this cause its productions are doomed, 
 most of them, in spite of the sanguine hopes which 
 accompanied and do still accompany them, to prove 
 ix 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 hardly more lasting than the productions of far less 
 splendid epochs. And this prematureness comes 
 from its having proceeded without having its proper 
 data, without sufficient material to work with. In 
 other words, the English poetry of the first quarter of 
 this century, with plenty of energy, plenty of creative 
 force, did not know enough. This makes Byron so 
 empty of matter, Shelley so incoherent, Wordsworth 
 even, profound as he is, yet so wanting in completeness 
 and variety. 
 
 This judgment of the Romantic Generation has not, 
 so far as I know, ever been successfully controverted ; 
 and it has not, so far as I know, ever made very 
 much impression on popular opinion. Once a poet 
 is accepted, his reputation is seldon disturbed, for 
 better or worse. So little impression has Arnold's 
 opinion made, that his statement will probably be as 
 true of the first quarter of the twentieth century as it 
 was of the nineteenth. A few sentences later, Arnold 
 articulates the nature of the malady : 
 
 In the Greece of Pindar and Sophocles, in the 
 England of Shakespeare, the poet lived in a current 
 of ideas in the highest degree animating and nourish- 
 ing to the creative power; society was, in the fullest 
 measure, permeated by fresh thought, intelligent and 
 alive ; and this state of things is the true basis for the 
 creative power's exercise, in this it finds its data, its 
 materials, truly ready for its hand ; all the books and 
 reading in the world are only valuable as they are 
 helps to this. 
 At this point Arnold is indicating the centre of interest 
 
Introduction 
 
 and activity of the critical intelligence; and it is at 
 this perception, we may almost say, that Arnold's 
 critical activity stopped. In a society in which the 
 arts were seriously studied, in which the art of writing 
 was respected, Arnold might have become a critic. 
 How astonishing it would be, if a man like Arnold 
 had concerned himself with the art of the novel, had 
 compared Thackeray with Flaubert, had analysed the 
 work of Dickens, had shown his contemporaries 
 exactly why the author of Amos Barton is a more 
 serious writer than Dickens, and why the author of 
 La Chartreuse de Parme is more serious than either ? 
 In Culture and Anarchy \ in Literature and Dogma, 
 Arnold was not occupied so much in establishing a 
 criticism as in attacking the uncritical. The difference 
 is that while in constructive work something can be 
 done, destructive work must incessantly be repeated ; 
 and furthermore Arnold, in his destruction, went for 
 game outside of the literary preserve altogether, much 
 of it political game untouched and inviolable by ideas. 
 This activity of Arnold's we must regret; it might 
 perhaps have been carried on as effectively, if riot 
 quite so neatly, by some disciple (had there been one) 
 in an editorial position on a newspaper. Arnold is 
 not to be blamed : he wasted his strength, as men of 
 superior ability sometimes do, because he saw some- 
 thing to be done and no one else to do it. The 
 temptation, to any man who is interested in ideas and 
 primarily in literature, to put literature into the corner 
 xi 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 until he has cleaned up the whole country first, is 
 almost irresistible. Some persons, like Mr. Wells 
 and Mr. Chesterton, have succeeded so well in this 
 latter profession of setting the house in order, and 
 have attracted so much more attention than Arnold, 
 that we must conclude that it is indeed their proper 
 role, and that they have done well for themselves in 
 laying literature aside. 
 
 Not only is the critic tempted outside of criticism. 
 The criticism proper betrays such poverty of ideas 
 and such atrophy of sensibility that men who ought 
 to preserve their critical ability for the improvement 
 of their own creative work are tempted into criticism. 
 I do not intend from this the usually silly inference 
 that the " Creative " gift is " higher " than the critical. 
 When one creative mind is better than another, the 
 reason often is that the better is the more critical. 
 But the great bulk of the work of criticism could be 
 done by minds of the second order, and it is just 
 these minds of the second order that are difficult to 
 find. They are necessary for the rapid circulation of 
 ideas. The periodical press the ideal literary 
 periodical is an instrument of transport; and the 
 literary periodical press is dependent upon the 
 existence of a sufficient number of second-order (I do 
 not say "second-rate," the word is too derogatory) 
 minds to supply its material. These minds are 
 necessary for that "current of ideas," that "society 
 permeated by fresh thought," of which Arnold speaks, 
 xii 
 
Introduction 
 
 It is a perpetual heresy of English culture to believe 
 that only the first-order mind, the Genius, the Great 
 Man, matters ; that he is solitary, and produced best 
 in the least favourable environment, perhaps the 
 Public School; and that it is most likely a sign of 
 inferiority that Paris can show so many minds of the 
 second order. If too much bad verse is published in 
 London, it does not occur to us to raise our standards, 
 to do anything to educate the poetasters ; the remedy 
 is, Kill them off. I quote from Mr. Edmund Gosse : 1 
 
 Unless something is done to stem this flood of 
 poetastry the art of verse will become not merely 
 superfluous, but ridiculous. Poetry is not a formula 
 which a thousand flappers and hobbledehoys ought to 
 be able to master in a week without any training, and 
 the mere fact that it seems to be now practised with 
 such universal ease is enough to prove that something 
 has gone amiss with our standards. . . . This is all 
 wrong, and will lead us down into the abyss like so 
 many Gadarene swine unless we resist it. 
 
 We quite agree that poetry is not a formula. But 
 what does Mr. Gosse propose to do about it? If 
 Mr. Gosse had found himself in the flood of poetastry 
 in the reign of Elizabeth, what would he have done 
 about it ? would he have stemmed it ? What exactly 
 is this abyss ? and if something " has gone amiss with 
 our standards," is it wholly the fault of the younger 
 generation that it is aware of no authority that it must 
 respect ? It is part of the business of the critic to 
 1 Sunday Times, May 30, 1920. 
 
 xiii 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 preserve tradition where a good tradition exists. It 
 is part of his business to see literature steadily and to 
 see it whole; and this is eminently to see it not as 
 consecrated by time, but to see it beyond time; to 
 see the best work of our time and the best work of 
 twenty-five hundred years ago with the same eyes. 1 
 It is part of his business to help the poetaster to 
 understand his own limitations. The poetaster who 
 understands his own limitations will be one of our 
 useful second-order minds ; a good minor poet (some- 
 thing which is very rare) or another good critic. As 
 for the first-order minds, when they happen, they will 
 be none the worse off for a " current of ideas " ; the 
 solitude with which they will always and everywhere 
 be invested is a very different thing from isolation, or 
 a monarchy of death. 
 
 NOTE. I may commend as a model to critics who 
 desire to correct some of the poetical vagaries of the 
 present age, the following passage from a writer who 
 cannot be accused of flaccid leniency, and the justice 
 of whose criticism must be acknowledged even by 
 those who feel a strong partiality toward the school of 
 poets criticized : 
 
 "Yet great labour, directed by great abilities, is 
 never wholly lost ; if they frequently threw away their 
 wit upon false conceits, they likewise sometimes struck 
 out unexpected truth: if their conceits were faf- 
 
 1 Arnold, it must be admitted, gives us often the impression 
 of seeing the masters, whom he quotes, as canonical literature, 
 rather than as masters. 
 
 XIV 
 
Introduction 
 
 fetched, they were often worth the carriage. To write 
 on their plan, it was at least necessary to read and 
 think. No man could be born a metaphysical poet, 
 nor assume the dignity of a writer, by descriptions 
 copied from descriptions, by imitations borrowed from 
 imitations, by traditional imagery, and hereditary 
 similes, by readiness of rhyme, and volubility of 
 syllables. 
 
 " In perusing the works of this race of authors, the 
 mind is exercised either by recollection or inquiry : 
 something already learned is to be retrieved, or some- 
 thing new is to be examined. If their greatness 
 seldom elevates, their acuteness often surprises; if 
 the imagination is not always gratified, at least the 
 powers of reflection and comparison are employed; 
 and in the mass of materials which ingenious absurdity 
 has thrown together, genuine wit and useful knowledge 
 may be sometimes found buried perhaps in grossness 
 of expression, but useful to those who know their 
 value; and such as, when they are expanded to 
 perspicuity, and polished to elegance, may give lustre 
 to works which have more propriety though less 
 copiousness of sentiment." JOHNSON, Life of Cowley. 
 
 XV 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 INTRODUCTION ix 
 
 THE PERFECT CRITIC i 
 
 IMPERFECT CRITICS 
 
 SWINBURNE AS CRITIC 15 
 
 A ROMANTIC ARISTOCRAT .... 22 
 
 THE LOCAL FLAVOUR 29 
 
 A NOTE ON THE AMERICAN CRITIC . . 34 
 
 THE FRENCH INTELLIGENCE ... 39 
 
 TRADITION AND THE INDIVIDUAL TALENT . 42 
 
 THE POSSIBILITY OF A POETIC DRAMA . . 54 
 
 EURIPIDES AND PROFESSOR MURRAY ... 64 
 RHETORIC AND POETIC DRAMA . . . .71 
 
 NOTES ON THE BLANK VERSE OF CHRISTOPHER 
 
 MARLOWE 78 
 
 HAMLET AND His PROBLEMS .... 87 
 xvii 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 PAGE 
 
 BEN JONSON . . 95 
 
 PHILIP MASSINGER 112 
 
 SWINBURNE AS POET 131 
 
 BLAKE 137 
 
 DANTE 144 
 
 XVlll 
 
THE SACRED WOOD 
 
THE SACRED WOOD 
 
 The Perfect Critic *> o o 
 
 "Eriger en lois ses impressions personnelles, c'est le grand 
 effort d'un homme s'il est sincere. " Lettres & FAmazonc. 
 
 /COLERIDGE was perhaps the greatest of English 
 V^/ critics, and in a sense the last. After 
 Coleridge we have Matthew Arnold; but Arnold 
 I think it will be conceded was rather a propa- 
 gandist for criticism than a critic, a popularizer rather 
 than a creator of ideas. So long as this island 
 remains an island (and we are no nearer the Con- 
 tinent than were Arnold's contemporaries) the work 
 of Arnold will be important ; it is still a bridge across 
 the Channel, and it will always have been good sense. 
 Since Arnold's attempt to correct his countrymen, 
 English criticism has followed two directions. When 
 a distinguished critic observed recently, in a news- 
 paper article, that " poetry is the most highly organ- 
 ized form of intellectual activity," we were conscious 
 that we were reading neither Coleridge nor Arnold. 
 Not only have the words " organized" and "activity," 
 occurring together in this phrase, that familiar vague 
 suggestion of the scientific vocabulary which is 
 characteristic of modern writing, but one asked 
 
 A I 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 questions which Coleridge and Arnold would not 
 have permitted one to ask. How is it, for in- 
 stance, that poetry is more " highly organized " than 
 astronomy, physics, or pure mathematics, which we 
 imagine to be, in relation to the scientist who prac- 
 tises them, " intellectual activity " of a pretty highly 
 organized type ? " Mere strings of words," our critic 
 continues with felicity and truth, " flung like dabs of 
 paint across a blank canvas, may awaken surprise . . . 
 but have no significance whatever in the history of 
 literature." The phrases by which Arnold is best 
 known may be inadequate, they may assemble more 
 doubts than they dispel, but they usually have some 
 meaning. And if a phrase like "the most highly 
 organized form of intellectual activity " is the highest 
 organization of thought of which contemporary criti- 
 cism, in a distinguished representative, is capable, 
 then, we conclude, modern criticism is degenerate. 
 
 The verbal disease above noticed may be reserved 
 for diagnosis by and by. It is not a disease from 
 which Mr. Arthur Symons (for the quotation was, of 
 course, not from Mr. Symons) notably suffers. Mr. 
 Symons represents the other tendency ; he is a repre- 
 sentative of what is always called " aesthetic criticism " 
 or " impressionistic criticism." And it is this form of 
 criticism which I propose to examine at once. Mr. 
 Symons, the critical successor of Pater, and partly of 
 Swinburne (I fancy that the phrase " sick or sorry " is 
 the common property of all three), is the " impression- 
 istic critic." He, if anyone, would be said to expose 
 a sensitive and cultivated mind cultivated, that is, 
 by the accumulation of a considerable variety of im- 
 pressions from all the arts and several languages 
 
 2 
 
The Perfect Critic 
 
 before an " object " ; and his criticism, if anyone's, 
 would be said to exhibit to us, like the plate, the 
 faithful record of the impressions, more numerous or 
 more refined than our own, upon a mind more sensi- 
 tive than our own. A record, we observe, which is 
 also an interpretation, a translation ; for it must itself 
 impose impressions upon us, and these impressions 
 are as much created as transmitted by the criticism. 
 I do not say at once that this is Mr. Symons ; but it 
 is the " impressionistic " critic, and the impressionistic 
 critic is supposed to be Mr. Symons. 
 
 At hand is a volume which we may test. 1 Ten of 
 these thirteen essays deal with single plays of 
 Shakespeare, and it is therefore fair to take one 
 of these ten as a specimen of the book : 
 
 Antony and Cleopatra is the most wonderful, I 
 think, of all Shakespeare's plays . . . 
 
 and Mr. Symons reflects that Cleopatra is the most 
 wonderful of all women : 
 
 The queen who ends the dynasty of the Ptolemies 
 has been the star of poets, a malign star shedding 
 baleful light, from Horace and Propertius down to 
 Victor Hugo ; and it is not to poets only . . . 
 
 What, we ask, is this for? as a page on Cleopatra, 
 and on her possible origin in the dark lady of the 
 Sonnets, unfolds itself. And we rind, gradually, that 
 this is not an essay on a work of art or a work of 
 intellect ; but that Mr. Symons is living through the 
 play as one might live it through in the theatre; 
 recounting, commenting : 
 
 In her last days Cleopatra touches a certain eleva- 
 1 Studies in Elizabethan Drama. By Arthur Symons. 
 
 3 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 tion . . . she would die a thousand times, rather 
 than live to be a mockery and a scorn in men's 
 mouths . . . she is a woman to the last ... so 
 she dies . . . the play ends with a touch of grave 
 pity . . . 
 
 Presented in this rather unfair way, torn apart like 
 the leaves of anlartichoke, the impressions of Mr. 
 Symons come to resemble a common type of popular 
 literary lecture, in which the stories of plays or novels 
 are retold, the motives of the characters set forth, and 
 the work of art therefore made easier for the beginner. 
 But this is not Mr. Symons' reason for writing. The 
 reason why we find a similarity between his essay and 
 this form of education is that Antony and Cleopatra is 
 a play with which we are pretty well acquainted, 
 and of which we have, therefore, our own impressions. 
 We can please ourselves with our own impressions of 
 the characters and their emotions; and we do not 
 find the impressions of another person, however 
 sensitive, very significant. But if we can recall the 
 time when we were ignorant of the French sym- 
 bolists, and met with The Symbolist Movement in 
 Literature, we remember that book as an introduc- 
 tion to wholly new feelings, as a revelation. After we 
 have read Verlaine and Laforgue and Rimbaud and 
 return to Mr. Symons' book, we may find that our 
 own impressions dissent from his. The book has not, 
 perhaps, a permanent value for the one reader, but it 
 has led to results of permanent importance for him. 
 
 The question is not whether Mr. Symons' impressions 
 
 are " true " or " false." So far as you can isolate the 
 
 " impression," the pure feeling, it is, of course, neither 
 
 true nor false. The point is that you never rest at 
 
 4 
 
The Perfect Critic 
 
 the pure feeling ; you react in one of two ways, or, 
 as I believe Mr. Symons does, in a mixture of the two 
 ways. The moment you try to put the impressions 
 into words, you either begin to analyse and construct, 
 to " e*riger en lois," or you begin to create something 
 else. It is significant that Swinburne, by whose 
 poetry Mr. Symons may at one time have been 
 influenced, is one man in his poetry and a different 
 man in his criticism ; to this extent and in this 
 respect only, that he is satisfying a different impulse ; 
 he is criticizing, expounding, arranging. You may say 
 this is not the criticism of a critic, that it is emotional, 
 not intellectual though of this there are two opinions, 
 but it is in the direction of analysis and construction, 
 a beginning to " riger en lois," and not in the direc- 
 tion of creation. So I infer that Swinburne found an 
 adequate outlet for the creative impulse in his poetry ; 
 and none of it was forced back and out through his 
 critical prose. The style of the latter is essentially 
 a prose style ; and Mr. Symons' prose is much more 
 like Swinburne's poetry than it is like his prose. 
 I imagine though here one's thought is moving in 
 almost complete darkness that Mr. Symons is far 
 more disturbed, far more profoundly affected, by his 
 reading than was Swinburne, who responded rather 
 by a violent and immediate and comprehensive 
 burst of admiration which may have left him internally 
 unchanged. The disturbance in Mr. Symons is 
 almost, but not quite, to the point of creating; the 
 reading sometimes fecundates his emotions to pro- 
 duce something new which is not criticism, but is not 
 the expulsion, the ejection, the birth of creativeness. 
 The type is not uncommon, although Mr. Symons 
 
 5 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 is far superior to most of the type. Some writers are 
 essentially of the type that reacts in excess of the 
 stimulus, making something new out of the impres- 
 sions, but suffer from a defect of vitality or an 
 obscure obstruction which prevents nature from 
 taking its course. Their sensibility alters the object, 
 but never transforms it. Their reaction is that of the 
 ordinary emotional person developed to an exceptional 
 degree. For this ordinary emotional person, ex- 
 periencing a work of art, has a mixed critical and 
 creative reaction. It is made up of comment and 
 opinion, and also new emotions which are vaguely 
 applied to his own life. The sentimental person, in 
 whom a work of art arouses all sorts of emotions 
 which have nothing to do with that work of art 
 whatever, but are accidents of personal association, 
 is an incomplete artist. For in an artist these sug- 
 gestions made by a work of art, which are purely 
 personal, become fused with a multitude of other 
 suggestions from multitudinous experience, and 
 result in the production of a new object which is 
 no longer purely personal, because it is a work of 
 art itself. 
 
 It would be rash to speculate, and is perhaps 
 impossible to determine, what is unfulfilled in Mr. 
 Symons' charming verse that overflows into his 
 critical prose. Certainly we may say that in 
 Swinburne's verse the circuit of impression and 
 expression is complete ; and Swinburne was therefore 
 able, in his criticism, to be more a critic than Mr. 
 Symons. This gives us an intimation why the artist 
 is each within his own limitations oftenest to be 
 depended upon as a critic; his criticism will be 
 6 
 
The Perfect Critic 
 
 criticism, and not the satisfaction of a suppressed 
 creative wish which, in most other persons, is apt to 
 interfere fatally. 
 
 Before considering what the proper critical reaction 
 of artistic sensibility is, how far criticism is " feeling " 
 and how far " thought," and what sort of " thought " 
 is permitted, it may be instructive to prod a little 
 into that other temperament, so different from Mr. 
 Symons', which issues in generalities such as that 
 quoted near the beginning of this article. 
 
 II 
 
 "L'ecrivain de style abstrait est presque toujours un senti- 
 mental, du moins un sensitif. L'ecriyain artiste n'est presque 
 jamais un sentimental, et tres rarement un sensitif." Le 
 Probteme du Style. 
 
 The statement already quoted, that " poetry is the 
 most highly organized form of intellectual activity," 
 may be taken as a specimen of the abstract style in 
 criticism. The confused distinction which exists 
 in most heads between "abstract" and "concrete" 
 is due not so much to a manifest fact of the existence 
 of two types of mind, an abstract and a concrete, as 
 to the existence of another type of mind, the verbal, 
 or philosophic. I, of course, do not imply any 
 general condemnation of philosophy; I am, for the 
 moment, using the word " philosophic " to cover the 
 unscientific ingredients of philosophy ; to cover, in 
 fact, the greater part of the philosophic output of 
 the last hundred years. There are two ways in which 
 a word may be " abstract." It may have (the word 
 "activity," for example) a meaning which cannot 
 7 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 be grasped by appeal to any of the senses ; its appre- 
 hension may require a deliberate suppression of 
 analogies of visual or muscular experience, which is 
 none the less an effort of imagination. " Activity " 
 will mean for the trained scientist, if he employ the 
 term, either nothing at all or something still more 
 exact than anything it suggests to us. If we are 
 allowed to accept certain remarks of Pascal and Mr. 
 Bertrand Russell about mathematics, we believe that 
 the mathematician deals with objects if he will 
 permit us to call them objects which directly affect 
 his sensibility. And during a good part of history 
 the philosopher endeavoured to deal with objects 
 which he believed to be of the same exactness as 
 the mathematician's. Finally Hegel arrived, and if 
 not perhaps the first, he was certainly the most 
 prodigious exponent of emotional systematization, 
 dealing with his emotions as if they were definite 
 objects which had aroused those emotions. His 
 followers have as a rule taken for granted that words 
 have definite meanings, overlooking the tendency of 
 words to become indefinite emotions. (No one who 
 had not witnessed the event could imagine the con- 
 viction in the tone of Professor Eucken as he pounded 
 the table and exclaimed Was ist Geist? Geist ist. . .) 
 If verbalism were confined to professional philo- 
 sophers, no harm would be done. But their cor- 
 ruption has extended very far. Compare a mediaeval 
 theologian or mystic, compare a seventeenth-century 
 preacher, with any " liberal " sermon since Schleier- 
 macher, and you will observe that words have 
 changed their meanings. What they have lost is 
 definite, and what they have gained is indefinite. 
 8 
 
The Perfect Critic 
 
 The vast accumulations of knowledge -or at least 
 of information deposited by the nineteenth century 
 have been responsible for an equally vast ignorance. 
 When there is so much to be known, when there are 
 so many fields of knowledge in which the same words 
 are used with different meanings, when every one 
 knows a little about a great many things, it becomes 
 increasingly difficult for anyone to know whether he 
 knows what he is talking about or not. And when 
 we do not know, or when we do not know enough, 
 we tend always to substitute emotions for thoughts. 
 The sentence so frequently quoted in this essay will 
 serve for an example of this process as well as any, 
 and may be profitably contrasted with the opening 
 phrases of the Posterior Analytics. Not only all 
 knowledge, but all feeling, is in perception. The 
 inventor of poetry as the most highly organized form 
 of intellectual activity was not engaged in perceiving 
 when he composed this definition ; he had nothing 
 to be aware of except his own emotion about 
 "poetry." He was, in fact, absorbed in a very 
 different "activity" not only from that of Mr. 
 Symons, but from that of Aristotle. 
 
 Aristotle is a person who has suffered from the 
 adherence of persons who must be regarded less as 
 his disciples than as his sectaries. One must be 
 firmly distrustful of accepting Aristotle in a canonical 
 spirit ; this is to lose the whole living force of him. 
 He was primarily a man of not only remarkable but 
 universal intelligence; and universal intelligence 
 means that he could apply his intelligence to any- 
 thing. The ordinary intelligence is good only for 
 certain classes of objects ; a brilliant man of science, 
 9 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 if he is interested in poetry at all, may conceive 
 grotesque judgments: like one poet because he 
 reminds him of himself, or another because he 
 expresses emotions which he admires ; he may use 
 art, in fact, as the outlet for the egotism which is 
 suppressed in his own speciality. But Aristotle had 
 none of these impure desires to satisfy ; in whatever 
 sphere of interest, he looked solely and steadfastly at 
 the object ; in his short and broken treatise he pro- 
 vides an eternal example not of laws, or even of 
 method, for there is no method except to be very 
 intelligent, but of intelligence itself swiftly operating 
 the analysis of sensation to the point of principle and 
 definition. 
 
 It is far less Aristotle than Horace who has been 
 the model for criticism up to the nineteenth century. 
 A precept, such as Horace or Boileau gives us, is 
 merely an unfinished analysis. It appears as a law, 
 a rule, because it does not appear in its most general 
 form ; it is empirical. When we understand necessity, 
 as Spinoza knew, we are free because we assent. 
 The dogmatic critic, who lays down a rule, who 
 affirms a value, has left his labour incomplete. Such 
 statements may often be justifiable as a saving of 
 time; but in matters of great importance the critic 
 must not coerce, and he must not make judgments 
 of worse and better. He must simply elucidate : the 
 reader will form the correct judgment for himself. 
 
 And again, the purely " technical " critic the critic, 
 that is, who writes to expound some novelty or impart 
 some lesson to practitioners of an art can be called a 
 critic only in a narrow sense. He may be analysing 
 perceptions and the means for arousing perceptions, 
 IO 
 
The Perfect Critic 
 
 but his aim is limited and is not the disinterested 
 exercise of intelligence. The narrowness of the aim 
 makes easier the detection of the merit or feebleness 
 of the work ; even of these writers there are very few 
 so that their "criticism" is of great importance 
 within its limits. So much suffices for Campion. 
 Dryden is far more disinterested ; he displays much free 
 intelligence; and yet even Dryden or any literary 
 critic of the seventeenth century is not quite a free 
 mind, compared, for instance, with such a mind as 
 Rochefoucauld's. There is always a tendency to 
 legislate rather than to inquire, to revise accepted 
 laws, even to overturn, but to reconstruct out of the 
 same material. And the free intelligence is that which 
 is wholly devoted to inquiry. 
 
 Coleridge, again, whose natural abilities, and some 
 of whose performances, are probably more remarkable 
 than those of any other modern critic, cannot be 
 estimated as an intelligence completely free. The 
 nature of the restraint in his case is quite different 
 from that which limited the seventeenth-century 
 critics, and is much more personal. Coleridge's 
 metaphysical interest was quite genuine, and was, 
 like most metaphysical interest, an affair of his 
 emotions. But a literary critic should have no 
 emotions except those immediately provoked by a 
 work of art and these (as I have already hinted) are, 
 when valid, perhaps not to be called emotions at all. 
 Coleridge is apt to take leave of the data of criticism, 
 and arouse the suspicion that he has been diverted 
 into a metaphysical hare-and-hounds. His end does 
 not always appear to be the return to the work of art 
 with improved perception and intensified, because 
 II 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 more conscious, enjoyment; his centre of interest 
 changes, his feelings are impure. In the derogatory 
 sense he is more " philosophic " than Aristotle. For 
 everything that Aristotle says illuminates the litera- 
 ture which is the occasion for saying it ; but Coleridge 
 only now and then. It is one more instance of the 
 pernicious effect of emotion. 
 
 Aristotle had what is called the scientific mind 
 a mind which, as it is rarely found among scientists 
 except in fragments, might better be called the in- 
 telligent mind. For there is no other intelligence 
 than this, and so far as artists and men of letters are 
 intelligent (we may doubt whether the level of intelli- 
 gence among men of letters is as high as among men 
 of science) their intelligence is of this kind. Sainte- 
 Beuve was a physiologist by training ; but it is prob- 
 able that his mind, like that of the ordinary scientific 
 specialist, was limited in its interest, and that this was 
 not, primarily, an interest in art. If he was a critic, 
 there is no doubt that he was a very good one ; but 
 we may conclude that he earned some other name. 
 Of all modern critics, perhaps Remy de Gourmont 
 had most of the general intelligence of Aristotle. 
 An amateur, though an excessively able amateur, 
 in physiology, he combined to a remarkable degree 
 sensitiveness, erudition, sense of fact and sense of 
 history, and generalizing power. 
 
 We assume the gift of a superior sensibility. And 
 for sensibility wide and profound reading does not 
 mean merely a more extended pasture. There is not 
 merely an increase of understanding, leaving the 
 original acute impression unchanged. The new im- 
 pressions modify the impressions received from the 
 12 
 
The Perfect Critic 
 
 objects already known. An impression needs to be 
 constantly refreshed by new impressions in order that 
 it may persist at all ; it needs to take its place in a 
 system of impressions. And this system tends to 
 become articulate in a generalized statement of 
 literary beauty. 
 
 There are, for instance, many scattered lines and 
 tercets in the Divine Comedy which are capable of 
 transporting even a quite uninitiated reader, just suffi- 
 ciently acquainted with the roots of the language to 
 decipher the meaning, to an impression of overpower- 
 ing beauty. This impression may be so deep that no 
 subsequent study and understanding will intensify it. 
 But at this point the impression is emotional; the 
 reader in the ignorance which we postulate is unable 
 to distinguish the poetry from an emotional state 
 aroused in himself by the poetry, a state which may 
 be merely an indulgence of his own emotions. The 
 poetry may be an accidental stimulus. The end of 
 the enjoyment of poetry is a pure contemplation from 
 which all the accidents of personal emotion are re- 
 moved ; thus we aim to see the object as it really is and 
 find a meaning for the words of Arnold. And without 
 a labour which is largely a labour of the intelligence, 
 we are unable to attain that stage of vision amor 
 intellectualis Dei. 
 
 Such considerations, cast in this general form, may 
 appear commonplaces. But I believe that it is always 
 opportune to call attention to the torpid superstition 
 that appreciation is one thing, and "intellectual" 
 criticism something else. Appreciation in popular 
 psychology is one faculty, and criticism another, an 
 arid cleverness building theoretical scaffolds upon 
 
 13 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 one's own perceptions or those of others. On the 
 contrary, the true generalization is not something 
 superposed upon an accumulation of perceptions ; the 
 perceptions do not, in a really appreciative mind, 
 accumulate as a mass, but form themselves as a 
 structure ; and criticism is the statement in language 
 of this structure; it is a development of sensibility. 
 The bad criticism, on the other hand, is that which is 
 nothing but an expression of emotion. And emotional 
 people such as stockbrokers, politicians, men of 
 science and a few people who pride themselves on 
 being unemotional detest or applaud great writers 
 such as Spinoza or Stendhal because of their " frigidity." 
 The writer of the present essay once committed 
 himself to the statement that "The poetic critic is 
 criticizing poetry in order to create poetry." He is 
 now inclined to believe that the " historical " and the 
 " philosophical " critics had better be called historians 
 and philosophers quite simply. As for the rest, there 
 are merely various degrees of intelligence. It is fatuous 
 to say that criticism is for the sake of " creation " or 
 creation for the sake of criticism. It is also fatuous 
 to assume that there are ages of criticism and ages of 
 creativeness, as if by plunging ourselves into intel- 
 lectual darkness we were in better hope of rinding 
 spiritual light. The two directions of sensibility are 
 complementary ; and as sensibility is rare, unpopular, 
 and desirable, it is to be expected that the critic and 
 the creative artist should frequently be the same 
 person. 
 
Imperfect Critics o *> *> o 
 
 SWINBURNE AS CRITIC 
 
 THREE conclusions at least issue from the 
 perusal of Swinburne's critical essays : Swinburne 
 had mastered his material, was more inward with the 
 Tudor-Stuart dramatists than any man of pure 
 letters before or since; he is a more reliable guide 
 to them than Hazlitt, Coleridge, or Lamb; and his 
 perception of relative values is almost always correct. 
 Against these merits we may oppose two objections : 
 the style is the prose style of Swinburne, and the 
 content is not, in an exact sense, criticism. The 
 faults of style are, of course, personal ; the tumultuous 
 outcry of adjectives, the headstrong rush of undis- 
 ciplined sentences, are the index to the impatience 
 and perhaps laziness of a disorderly mind. But the 
 style has one positive merit: it allows us to know 
 that Swinburne was writing not to establish a critical 
 reputation, not to instruct a docile public, but as a 
 poet his notes upon poets whom he admired. And 
 whatever our opinion of Swinburne's verse, the notes 
 upon poets by a poet of Swinburne's dimensions 
 must be read with attention and respect. 
 
 In saying that Swinburne's essays have the value of 
 notes of an important poet upon important poets, we 
 must place a check upon our expectancy. He read 
 everything, and he read with the single interest in 
 
 15 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 finding literature. The critics of the romantic period 
 were pioneers, and exhibit the fallibility of discoverers. 
 The selections of Lamb are a successful effort of 
 good taste, but anyone who has referred to them 
 after a thorough reading of any of the poets included 
 must have found that some of the best passages 
 which must literally have stared Lamb in the face 
 are omitted, while sometimes others of less value 
 are included. Hazlitt, who committed himself to 
 the judgment that the Mat<Ts Tragedy is one of 
 the poorest of Beaumont and Fletcher's plays, has 
 no connected message to deliver. Coleridge's re- 
 marks too few and scattered have permanent 
 truth ; but on some of the greatest names he passes 
 no remark, and of some of the best plays was perhaps 
 ignorant or ill-informed. But compared with Swin- 
 burne, Coleridge writes much more as a poet might 
 be expected to write about poets. Of Massinger's 
 verse Swinburne says : 
 
 It is more serviceable, more businesslike, more 
 eloquently practical, and more rhetorically effusive 
 but never effusive beyond the bounds of effective 
 rhetoric than the style of any Shakespearean or of 
 any Jonsonian dramatist. 
 
 It is impossible to tell whether Webster would 
 have found the style of Massinger more " serviceable " 
 than his own for the last act of the White Devil^ 
 and indeed difficult to decide what "serviceable" 
 here means; but it is quite clear what Coleridge 
 means when he says that Massinger's style 
 
 is much more easily constructed [than Shakespeare's], 
 and may be more successfully adopted by writers in 
 the present day. 
 
 16 
 
Imperfect Critics 
 
 Coleridge is writing as a professional with his eye on 
 the technique. I do not know from what writing 
 of Coleridge Swinburne draws the assertion that 
 " Massinger often deals in exaggerated passion," but 
 in the essay from which Swinburne quotes elsewhere 
 Coleridge merely speaks of the " unnaturally irrational 
 passions," a phrase much more defensible. Upon the 
 whole, the two poets are in harmony upon the subject 
 of Massinger ; and although Coleridge has said more 
 in five pages, and said it more clearly, than Swinburne 
 in thirty-nine, the essay of Swinburne is by no means 
 otiose : it is more stimulating than Coleridge's, and 
 the stimulation is never misleading. With all his 
 superlatives, his judgment, if carefully scrutinized, 
 appears temperate and just. 
 
 With all his justness of judgment, however, Swin- 
 burne is an appreciator and not a critic. In the 
 whole range of literature covered, Swinburne makes 
 hardly more than two judgments which can be 
 reversed or even questioned: one, that Lyly is 
 insignificant as a dramatist, and the other, that 
 Shirley was probably unaffected by Webster. The 
 Cardinal is not a cast of the Duchess of Malfi, 
 certainly ; but when Shirley wrote 
 
 the mist is risen, and there's none 
 To steer my wandering bark. (Dies.) 
 
 he was probably affected by 
 
 My soul, like to a ship in a black storm, 
 Is driven, I know not whither. 
 
 Swinburne's judgment is generally sound, his taste 
 sensitive and discriminating. And we cannot say 
 that his thinking is faulty or perverse up to the 
 B 17 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 point at which it is thinking. But Swinburne stops 
 thinking just at the moment when we are most 
 zealous to go on. And this arrest, while it does not 
 vitiate his work, makes it an introduction rather than 
 a statement. 
 
 We are aware, after the Contemporaries of 
 Shakespeare and the Age of Shakespeare and the 
 books on Shakespeare and Jonson, that there is 
 something unsatisfactory in the way in which Swin- 
 burne was interested in these people; we suspect 
 that his interest was never articulately formulated in 
 his mind or consciously directed to any purpose. 
 He makes his way, or loses it, between two paths of 
 definite direction. He might as a poet have con- 
 centrated his attention upon the technical problems 
 solved or tackled by these men ; he might have 
 traced for us the development of blank verse from 
 Sackville to the mature Shakespeare, and its de- 
 generation from Shakespeare to Milton. Or he might 
 have studied through the literature to the mind of 
 that century ; he might, by dissection and analysis, 
 have helped us to some insight into the feeling and 
 thought which we seem to have left so far away. In 
 either case, you would have had at least the excite- 
 ment of following the movements of an important 
 mind groping towards important conclusions. As it 
 is, there are to be no conclusions, except that 
 Elizabethan literature is very great, and that you can 
 have pleasure and even ecstasy from it, because a 
 sensitive poetic talent has had the experience. One 
 is in risk of becoming fatigued by a hubbub that does 
 not march ; the drum is beaten, but the procession 
 does not advance. 
 
 18 
 
Imperfect Critics 
 
 I for example, Swinburne's interest was in poetry, 
 why devote an essay to Brome ? " The opening scene 
 of the Sparagus Garden, says Swinburne, "is as 
 happily humorous and as vividly natural as that of 
 any more famous comedy." The scene is both 
 humorous and natural. Brome deserves to be more 
 read than he is, and first of all to be more accessible 
 than he is. But Swinburne ought to suggest or imply 
 (I do not say impose) a reason for reading the 
 Sparagus Garden or the Antipodes, more sufficient 
 than any he has provided. No doubt such reason 
 could be found. 
 
 When it is a matter of pronouncing judgment be- 
 tween two poets, Swinburne is almost unerring. He 
 is certainly right in putting Webster above Tourneur, 
 Tourneur above Ford, and Ford above Shirley. He 
 weighs accurately the good and evil in Fletcher : he 
 perceives the essential theatricality, but his com- 
 parison of the Faithful Shepherdess with Comus 
 is a judgment no word of which can be improved 
 upon : 
 
 The difference between this poem [i.e. the Faith- 
 ful Shepherdess] and Milton's exquisitely imitative 
 Comus is the difference between a rose with a 
 leaf or two faded or falling, but still fragrant and 
 radiant, and the faultless but scentless reproduction 
 of a rose in academic wax for the admiration and 
 imitation of such craftsmen as must confine their 
 ambition to the laurels of a college or the plaudits of 
 a school. 
 
 In the longest and most important essay in 
 the Contemporaries of Shakespeare, the essay on 
 Chapman, there are many such sentences of sound 
 19 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 judgment forcibly expressed. The essay is the best we 
 have on that great poet. It communicates the sense 
 of dignity and mass which we receive from Chapman. 
 But it also illustrates Swinburne's infirmities. Swin- 
 burne was not tormented by the restless desire to 
 penetrate to the heart and marrow of a poet, any 
 more than he was tormented by the desire to render 
 the finest shades of difference and resemblance be- 
 tween several poets. Chapman is a difficult author, 
 as Swinburne says; he is far more difficult than 
 Jonson, to whom he bears only a superficial likeness. 
 He is difficult beyond his obscurity. He is difficult 
 partly through his possession of a quality comparatively 
 deficient in Jonson, but which was nevertheless a 
 quality of the age. It is strange that Swinburne 
 should have hinted at a similarity to Jonson and not 
 mentioned a far more striking affinity of Chapman's 
 that is, Donne. The man who wrote 
 
 Guise, O my lord, how shall I cast from me 
 The bands and coverts hindering me from thee ? 
 The garment or the cover of the mind 
 The humane soul is ; of the soul, the spirit 
 The proper robe is ; of the spirit, the blood ; 
 And of the blood, the body is the shroud : 
 
 and 
 
 Nothing is made of nought, of all things made, 
 Their abstract being a dream but of 'a shade, 
 
 is unquestionably kin to Donne. The quality in 
 question is not peculiar to Donne and Chapman. 
 In common with the greatest Marlowe, Webster, 
 Tourneur, and Shakespeare they had a quality of 
 sensuous thought, or of thinking through the senses, 
 or of the senses thinking, of which the exact formula 
 20 
 
Imperfect Critics 
 
 remains to be defined. If you look for it in Shelley 
 or Beddoes, both of whom in very different ways 
 recaptured something of the Elizabethan inspiration, 
 you will not find it, though you may find other 
 qualities instead. There is a trace of it only in 
 Keats, and, derived from a different source, in 
 Rossetti. You will not find it in the Duke of 
 Gandia. Swinburne's essay would have been all 
 the better if he had applied himself to the solution 
 of problems like this. 
 
 He did not apply himself to this sort of problem 
 because this was not the sort of problem that interested 
 him. The author of Swinburne's critical essays is 
 also the author of Swinburne's verse : if you hold the 
 opinion that Swinburne was a very great poet, you 
 can hardly deny him the title of a great critic. There 
 is the same curious mixture of qualities to produce 
 Swinburne's own effect, resulting in the same blur, 
 which only the vigour of the colours fixes. His great 
 merit as a critic is really one which, like many signal 
 virtues, can be stated so simply as to appear flat. 
 It is that he was sufficiently interested in his subject- 
 matter and knew quite enough about it ; and this is 
 a rare combination in English criticism. Our critics 
 are often interested in extracting something from their 
 subject which is not fairly in it. And it is because 
 this elementary virtue is so rare that Swinburne must 
 take a very respectable place as a critic. Critics 
 are often interested but not quite in the nominal 
 subject, often in something a little beside the point ; 
 they are often learned but not quite to the point 
 either. (Swinburne knew some of the plays almost 
 by heart) Can this particular virtue at which we 
 21 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 have glanced be attributed to Walter Pater? or to 
 Professor Bradley ? or to Swinburne's editor ? 
 
 A ROMANTIC ARISTOCRAT 
 
 It is impossible to overlook the merits of scholar- 
 ship and criticism exhibited by George Wyndham's 
 posthumous book, and it is impossible to deal with 
 the book purely on its merits of scholarship and 
 criticism. To attempt to do so would in the first 
 place be unfair, as the book is a posthumous work, 
 and posthumous books demand some personal atten- 
 tion to their writers. This book is a collection of 
 essays and addresses, arranged in their present order 
 by Mr. Whibley ; they were intended by their author 
 to be remodelled into a volume on "romantic 
 literature " ; they move from an ingenious search for 
 the date of the beginning of Romanticism, through 
 the French and English Renaissance, to Sir Walter 
 Scott. In the second place, these essays represent 
 the literary work of a man who gained his chief 
 distinction in political life. In the third place, this 
 man stands for a type, an English type. The type is 
 interesting and will probably become extinct. It is 
 natural, therefore, that our primary interest in the 
 essays should be an interest in George Wyndham. 
 
 Mr. Charles Whibley, in an introduction the tone 
 of which is well suited to the matter, has several 
 sentences which throw light on Wyndham's person- 
 ality. What issues with surprising clearness from Mr. 
 Whibley's sketch is the unity of Wyndham's mind, 
 the identity of his mind as it engaged in apparently 
 unrelated occupations. Wyndham left Eton for the 
 22 
 
Imperfect Critics 
 
 army; in barracks he "taught himself Italian, and 
 rilled his leisure with the reading of history and 
 poetry." After this Coldstream culture there was a 
 campaign in Egypt; later, service in South Africa 
 accompanied by a copy of Virgil. There was a career 
 in the Commons, a conspicuous career as Irish 
 Secretary. Finally, there was a career as a landowner 
 2400 acres. And throughout these careers George 
 Wyndham went on not only accumulating books but 
 reading them, and occasionally writing about them. 
 He was a man of character, a man of energy. Mr. 
 Whibley is quite credible when he says : 
 
 Literature was for him no parergon, no mere way 
 of escape from politics. If he was an amateur in 
 feeling, he was a craftsman in execution ; 
 
 and, more significantly, 
 
 With the same zest that he read and discoursed 
 upon A Winters Tale or Troilus and Cressida^ he 
 rode to hounds, or threw himself with a kind of fury 
 into a "point to point," or made a speech at the 
 hustings, or sat late in the night talking with a friend. 
 
 From these and other sentences we chart the mind of 
 George Wyndham, and the key to its topography is 
 the fact that his literature and his politics and his 
 country life are one and the same thing. They are 
 not in separate compartments, they are one career. 
 Together they made up his world : literature, politics, 
 riding to hounds. In the real world these things have 
 nothing to do with each other. But we cannot 
 believe that George Wyndham lived in the real world. 
 And this is implied in Mr. Whibley's remark that : 
 
 George Wyndham was by character and training a 
 
 23 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 romantic. He looked with wonder upon the world 
 as upon a fairyland. 
 
 Here is the manifestation of type. 
 
 There must probably be conceded to history a few 
 " many-sided " men. Perhaps Leonardo da Vinci was 
 such. George Wyndham was not a man on the scale 
 of Leonardo, and his writings give a very different 
 effect from Leonardo's notebooks. Leonardo turned 
 to art or science, and each was what it was and not 
 another thing. But Leonardo was Leonardo : he had 
 no father to speak of, he was hardly a citizen, and he 
 had no stake in the community. He lived in no 
 fairyland, but his mind went out and became a part 
 of things. George Wyndham was Gentry. He was 
 chivalrous, the world was an adventure of himself. It 
 is characteristic that on embarking as a subaltern for 
 Egypt he wrote enthusiastically : 
 
 I do not suppose that any expedition since the days 
 of Roman governors of provinces has started with 
 such magnificence; we might have been Antony 
 going to Egypt in a purple-sailed galley. 
 
 This is precisely the spirit which animates his 
 appreciation of the Elizabethans and of Walter Scott ; 
 which guides him toward Hakluyt and North. 
 Wyndham was enthusiastic, he was a Romantic, he 
 was an Imperialist, and he was quite naturally a 
 literary pupil of W. E. Henley. Wyndham was a 
 scholar, but his scholarship is incidental; he was a 
 good critic, within the range allowed him by his 
 enthusiasms; but it is neither as Scholar nor as 
 Critic that we can criticize him. We can criticize 
 his writings only as the expression of this peculiar 
 24 
 
Imperfect Critics 
 
 English type, the aristocrat, the Imperialist, the 
 Romantic, riding to hounds across his prose, looking 
 with wonder upon the world as upon a fairyland. 
 
 Because he belongs to this type, Wyndham wrote 
 enthusiastically and well about North's Plutarch. 
 The romance of the ancient world becomes more 
 romantic in the idiomatic prose of North ; the heroes 
 are not merely Greek and Roman heroes, but 
 Elizabethan heroes as well; the romantic fusion 
 allured Wyndham. The charms of North could not 
 be expounded more delightfully, more seductively, 
 with more gusto, than they are in Wyndham's essay. 
 He appreciates the battles, the torchlight, the " dead 
 sound" of drums, the white, worn face of Cicero in 
 his flight peering from his litter ; he appreciates the 
 sharp brusque phrase of North : " he roundly trussed 
 them up and hung them by their necks." And 
 Wyndham is learned. Here, as in his essays on the 
 Ple*iade and Shakespeare, the man has read every- 
 thing, with a labour that only whets his enjoyment of 
 the best. There are two [defects : a lack of balance 
 and a lack of critical profundity. The lack of balance 
 peeps through Wyndham's condemnation of an 
 obviously inferior translation of Plutarch: "He 
 dedicated the superfluity of his leisure to enjoyment, 
 and used his Lamia," says the bad translator. North : 
 "he took pleasure of Lamia." Wyndham makes a 
 set upon the bad translator. But he forgets that 
 "dedicated the superfluity of his leisure" is such a 
 phrase as Gibbon would have warmed to life and wit, 
 and that a history, in the modern sense, could not be 
 written in the style of North. Wyndham forgets, in 
 short, that it is not, in the end, periods and traditions 
 25 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 but individual men who write great prose. For 
 Wyndham is himself a period and a tradition. 
 
 The lack of balance is to be suspected elsewhere. 
 Wyndham likes the best, but he likes a good deal. 
 There is no conclusive evidence that he realized all the 
 difference, the gulf of difference between lines like : 
 
 En 1'an trentiesme de mon aage 
 Que toutes mes hontes j'ay beues ; 
 
 and even the very best of Ronsard or Bellay, such as : 
 
 Le temps s'en va, le temps s'en va, madame ; 
 Las ! le temps, non, mais nous nous en aliens 
 Et tost serons estendus sous la lame. 
 
 We should not gather from Wyndham's essay that the 
 Phoenix and Turtle is a great poem, far finer than 
 Venus and Adonis ; but what he says about 
 Venus and Adonis is worth reading, for Wyndham 
 is very sharp in perceiving the neglected beauties of 
 the second-rate. There is nothing to show the gulf 
 of difference between Shakespeare's sonnets and 
 those of any other Elizabethan. Wyndham overrates 
 Sidney, and in his references to Elizabethan writings 
 on the theory of poetry omits mention of the essay 
 by Campion, an abler and more daring though less 
 common-sense study than Daniel's. He speaks a 
 few words for Drayton, but has not noticed that the 
 only good lines (with the exception of one sonnet 
 which may be an accident) in Drayton's dreary 
 sequence of " Ideas " occur when Drayton drops his 
 costume for a moment and talks in terms of actuality : 
 
 Lastly, mine eyes amazedly have seen 
 Essex' great fall ; Tyrone his peace to gain ; 
 The quiet end of that long-living queen ; 
 The king's fair entry, and our peace with Spain. 
 26 
 
Imperfect Critics 
 
 More important than the lack of balance is the 
 lack of critical analysis. Wyndham had, as was 
 indicated, a gusto for the Elizabethans. His essay 
 on the Poems of Shakespeare contains an extra- 
 ordinary amount of information. There is some 
 interesting gossip about Mary Fitton and a good 
 anecdote of Sir William Knollys. But Wyndham 
 misses what is the cardinal point in criticizing the 
 Elizabethans: we cannot grasp them, understand 
 them, without some understanding of the pathology 
 of rhetoric. Rhetoric, a particular form of rhetoric, 
 was endemic, it pervaded the whole organism ; the 
 healthy as well as the morbid tissues were built up on 
 it. We cannot grapple with even the simplest and 
 most conversational lines in Tudor and early Stuart 
 drama without having diagnosed the rhetoric in the 
 sixteenth and seventeenth-century mind. Even 
 when we come across lines like : 
 
 There's a plumber laying pipes in my guts, it scalds, 
 
 we must not allow ourselves to forget the rhetorical 
 basis any more than when we read : 
 
 Come, let us march against the powers of heaven 
 And set black streamers in the firmament 
 To signify the slaughter of the gods. 
 
 An understanding of Elizabethan rhetoric is as 
 essential to the appreciation of Elizabethan literature 
 as an understanding of Victorian sentiment is 
 essential to the appreciation of Victorian literature 
 and of George Wyndham. 
 
 Wyndham was a Romantic ; the only cure for 
 Romanticism is to analyse it. What is permanent 
 and good in Romanticism is curiosity 
 27 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 ... 1' ardore 
 
 Ch J i* ebbe a divenir del mondo esperto 
 E degli vizii umani e del valore 
 
 a curiosity which recognizes that any life, if accurately 
 and profoundly penetrated, is interesting and always 
 strange. Romanticism is a short cut to the strange- 
 ness without the reality, and it leads its disciples 
 only back upon themselves. George Wyndham had 
 curiosity, but he employed it romantically, not to 
 penetrate the real world, but to complete the varied 
 features of the world he made for himself. It would 
 be of interest to divagate from literature to politics 
 and inquire to what extent Romanticism is incorporate 
 in Imperialism ; to inquire to what extent Romanticism 
 has possessed the imagination of Imperialists, and to 
 what extent it was made use of by Disraeli. But 
 this is quite another matter : there may be a good 
 deal to be said for Romanticism in life, there is no 
 place for it in letters. Not that we need conclude 
 that a man of George Wyndham's antecedents and 
 traditions must inevitably be a Romanticist writer. 
 But this is the case when such a man plants himself 
 firmly in his awareness of caste, when he says " The 
 gentry must not abdicate." In politics this may be 
 an admirable formula. It will not do in literature. 
 The Arts insist that a man shall dispose of all that 
 he has, even of his family tree, and follow art alone. 
 For they require that a man be not a member of a 
 family or of a caste or of a party or of a coterie, but 
 simply and solely himself. A man like Wyndham 
 brings several virtues into literature. But there is 
 only one man better and more uncommon than the 
 patrician, and that is the Individual. 
 28 
 
Imperfect Critics 
 
 THE LOCAL FLAVOUR 
 
 In a world which is chiefly occupied with the task 
 of keeping up to date with itself, it is a satisfaction 
 to know that there is at least one man who has not 
 only read but enjoyed, and not only enjoyed but read, 
 such authors as Petronius and Herondas. That is 
 Mr. Charles Whibley, and there are two statements 
 to make about him : that he is not a critic, and that 
 he is something which is almost as rare, if not quite 
 as precious. He has apparently read and enjoyed 
 a great deal of English literature, and the part of it 
 that he has most enjoyed is the literature of the great 
 ages, the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. We 
 may opine that Mr. Whibley has not uttered a single 
 important original judgment upon any of this literature. 
 On the other hand, how many have done so ? Mr. 
 Whibley is not a critic of men or of books ; but he 
 convinces us that if we read the books that he has 
 read we should find them as delightful as he has 
 found them ; and if we read them we can form our 
 own opinions. And if he has not the balance of the 
 critic, he has some other equipoise of his own. It is 
 partly that his tastes are not puritanical, that he can 
 talk about Restoration dramatists and others -without 
 apologizing for their "indecency"; it is partly his 
 sense for the best local and temporal flavours ; it is 
 partly his healthy appetite. 
 
 A combination of non-critical, rather than uncritical, 
 qualities made Mr. Whibley the most appropriate 
 person in the world for the work by which he is best 
 known. We should be more grateful for the " Tudor 
 Translations Series " if we could find copies to be 
 29 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 bought, and if we could afford to buy them when we 
 found them. But that is not Mr. Whibley's fault. 
 The introductions which he wrote for some of the 
 translators are all that such introductions should be. 
 His Urquhart's Rabelais contains all the irrelevant 
 information about that writer which is what is wanted 
 to stimulate a taste for him. After reading the intro- 
 duction, to read Urquhart was the only pleasure in 
 life. And therefore, in a country destitute of living 
 criticism, Mr. Whibley is a useful person: for the 
 first thing is that English literature should be read 
 at all. The few people who talk intelligently about 
 Stendhal and Flaubert and James know this ; but the 
 larger number of people who skim the conversation 
 of the former do not know enough of English literature 
 to be even insular. There are two ways in which 
 a writer may lead us to profit by the work of dead 
 writers. One is by isolating the essential, by point- 
 ing out the most intense in various kinds and 
 separating it from the accidents of environment. 
 This method is helpful only to the more intelligent 
 people, who are capable of a unique enjoyment of 
 perfect expression, and it concentrates on the very best 
 in any art. The other method, that of Mr. Whibley, 
 is to communicate a taste for the period and for the 
 best of the oeriod so far as it is of that period. That 
 is not very easy either. For a pure journalist will not 
 know any period well enough ; a pure dilettante will 
 know it too egotistically, as a fashion of his own. 
 Mr. Whibley is really interested; and he has 
 escaped, without any programme of revolt, from 
 the present century into those of Tudor and 
 Stuart. He escapes, and perhaps leads others, 
 30 
 
Imperfect Critics 
 
 by virtue of a taste which is not exactly a literary 
 taste. 
 
 The "Tudor Translations" form part of a pro- 
 nounced taste. Some are better written than others. 
 There is, of course, a world of difference of which 
 Mr. Whibley is perhaps unaware between even Florio 
 and his original. The French of Montaigne is a 
 mature language, and the English of Florio's living 
 translation is not. Montaigne could be translated 
 into the English of his time, but a similar work could 
 not have been written in it. But as the English 
 language matured it lost something that Florio and 
 all his inferior colleagues had, and that they had in 
 common with the language of Montaigne. It was not 
 only the language, but the time. The prose of that 
 age had life, a life to which later ages could not add, 
 from which they could only take away. You find the 
 same life, the same abundance, in Montaigne and 
 Brantome, the alteration in Rochefoucauld as in 
 Hobbes, the desiccation in the classic prose of both 
 languages, in Voltaire and in Gibbon. Only, the 
 French was originally richer and more mature already 
 in Joinville and Commines and we have no prose 
 to compare with Montaigne and Rabelais. If Mr. 
 Whibley had analysed this vitality, and told us why 
 Holland and Underdowne, Nashe and Martin 
 Marprelate are still worth reading, then he could have 
 shown us how to recognize this quality when it, or 
 something like it, appears in our own lifetime. But 
 Mr. Whibley is not an analyst. His taste, even, 
 becomes less certain as he fixes it on individuals 
 within his period. On Surrey's blank verse he is 
 feeble; he does not even give Surrey the credit of 
 31 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 having anticipated some of Tennyson's best effects. 
 He has no praise for Golding, quite one of the best of 
 the verse translators ; he apologizes for him by saying 
 that Ovid demands no strength or energy ! There is 
 strength and energy, at least, in Marlowe's Amores. 
 And he omits mention of Gawain Douglas, who, 
 though he wrote in Scots, was surely a "Tudor" 
 translator. Characteristically, Mr. Whibley praises 
 Chapman because 
 
 it gives proof of an abounding life, a quenchless 
 energy. There is a grandeur and spirit in Chapman's 
 rendering, not unworthy the original . . . 
 
 This is commonplace, and it is uncritical. And a 
 critic would not use so careless a phrase as " Tasso's 
 masterpiece." The essay on Congreve does not add 
 much to our understanding : 
 
 And so he set upon the boards a set of men and 
 women of quick brains and cynical humours, who 
 talked with the brilliance and rapidity wherewith the 
 finished swordsman fences. 
 
 We have heard of this conversation like fencing before. 
 And the suspicion is in our breast that Mr. Whibley 
 might admire George Meredith. The essay on 
 Ralegh gives still less. The reality of that pleasing 
 pirate and monopolist has escaped, and only the 
 national hero is left. And yet Ralegh, and Swift, and 
 Congreve, and the underworld of sixteenth and 
 seventeenth-century letters, are somehow kept alive 
 by what Mr. Whibley says of them. 
 
 Accordingly, Mr. Whibley does not disappear in the 
 jungle of journalism and false criticism ; he deserves 
 a "place upon the shelves" of those who care for 
 32 
 
Imperfect Critics 
 
 English literature. He has the first requisite of a 
 critic: interest in his subject, and ability to com- 
 municate an interest in it. His defects are both of 
 intellect and feeling. He has no dissociative faculty. 
 There were very definite vices and definite short- 
 comings and immaturities in the literature he admires ; 
 and as he is not the person to tell us of the vices and 
 shortcomings, he is not the person to lay before us 
 the work of absolutely the finest quality. He exercises 
 neither of the tools of the critic : comparison and 
 analysis. He has not the austerity of passion which 
 can detect unerringly the transition from work of 
 eternal intensity to work that is merely beautiful, and 
 from work that is beautiful to work that is merely 
 charming. For the critic needs to be able not only 
 to saturate himself in the spirit and the fashion of a 
 time the local flavour but also to separate himself 
 suddenly from it in appreciation of the highest creative 
 work. 
 
 And he needs something else that Mr. Whibley 
 lacks : a creative interest, a focus upon the immediate 
 future. The important critic is the person who is 
 absorbed in the present problems of art, and who 
 wishes to bring the forces of the past to bear upon 
 the solution of these problems. If the critic consider 
 Congreve, for instance, he will have always at the 
 back of his mind the question : What has Congreve 
 got that is pertinent to our dramatic art ? Even if he 
 is solely engaged in trying to understand Congreve, 
 this will make all the difference: inasmuch as to 
 understand anything is to understand from a point of 
 view. Most critics have some creative interest it 
 may be, instead of an interest in any art, an interest 
 c 33 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 (like Mr. Paul More's) in morals. These remarks 
 were introduced only to assist in giving the books of 
 Mr. Whibley a place, a particular but unticketed place, 
 neither with criticism, nor with history, nor with plain 
 journalism; and the trouble would not have been 
 taken if the books were not thought to be worth 
 placing. 
 
 A NOTE ON THE AMERICAN CRITIC 
 
 This gallery of critics is not intended to be in any 
 sense complete. But having dealt with three English 
 writers of what may be called critical prose, one's 
 mind becomes conscious of the fact that they have 
 something in common, and, trying to perceive more 
 clearly what this community is, and suspecting that 
 it is a national quality, one is impelled to meditate 
 upon the strongest contrast possible. Hence these 
 comments upon two American critics and one French 
 critic, which would not take exactly this form without 
 the contrast at which I have hinted. 
 
 Mr. Paul More is the author of a number of volumes 
 which he perhaps hopes will break the record of mass 
 established by the complete works of Sainte-Beuve. 
 The comparison with Sainte-Beuve is by no means 
 trivial, for Mr. More, and Professor Irving Babbitt 
 also, are admirers of the voluminous Frenchman. 
 Not only are they admirers, but their admiration is 
 perhaps a clue both to much of their merit and to 
 some of their defects. In the first place, both of these 
 writers have given much more attention to French 
 criticism, to the study of French standards of writing 
 and of thought, than any of the notable English critics 
 
 34 
 
Imperfect Critics 
 
 since Arnold ; they are therefore much nearer to the 
 European current, although they exhibit faults which 
 are definitely transatlantic and which definitely keep 
 them out of it. The French influence is traceable in 
 their devotion to ideas and their interest in problems 
 of art and life as problems which exist and can be 
 handled apart from their relations to the critic's private 
 temperament. With Swinburne, the criticism of 
 Elizabethan literature has the interest of a passion, it 
 has the interest for us of any writing by an intellectual 
 man who is genuinely moved by certain poetry. 
 Swinburne's intelligence is not defective, it is impure. 
 There are few ideas in Swinburne's critical writings 
 which stand forth luminous with an independent life 
 of their own, so true that one forgets the author in 
 the statement. Swinburne's words must always be 
 referred back to Swinburne himself. And if literature 
 is to Swinburne merely a passion, we are tempted to 
 say that to George Wyndham it was a hobby, and to 
 Mr. Whibley almost a charming showman's show (we 
 are charmed by the urbanity of the showman). The 
 two latter have gusto, but gusto is no equivalent for 
 taste ; it depends too much upon the appetite and the 
 digestion of the feeder. And with one or two other 
 writers, whom I have not had occasion to discuss, 
 literature is not so much a collection of valuable 
 porcelain as an institution accepted, that is to say, 
 with the same gravity as the establishments of Church 
 and State. That is, in other words, the essentially 
 uncritical attitude. In all of these attitudes the 
 English critic is the victim of his temperament. He 
 may acquire great erudition, but erudition easily 
 becomes a hobby ; it is useless unless it enables us to 
 35 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 see literature all round, to detach it from ourselves, to 
 reach a state of pure contemplation. 
 
 Now Mr. More and Mr. Babbitt have endeavoured 
 to establish a criticism which should be independent 
 of temperament. This is in itself a considerable 
 merit. But at this point Mr. More particularly has 
 been led astray, oddly enough, by his guide Sainte- 
 Beuve. Neither Mr. More nor Sainte-Beuve is 
 primarily interested in art. Of the latter M. Benda 
 has well observed that 
 
 on sait et c'est certainement un des grands elements 
 de son succes combien deludes 1'illustre critique 
 consacre a des auteurs dont 1'importance litte'raire est 
 quasi nulle (femmes, magistrals, courtisans, militaires), 
 mais dont les Merits lui sont une occasion de pour- 
 traiturer une ame; combien volontiers, pour les 
 maitres, il s'attache a leurs productions secondaires, 
 notes, brouillons, lettres intimes, plutot qu'a leurs 
 grandes ceuvres, souvent beaucoup moins expressives, 
 en effet, de leur psychologie. 
 
 Mr. More is not, like Sainte-Beuve, primarily interested 
 in psychology or in human beings; Mr. More is 
 primarily a moralist, which is a worthy and serious 
 thing to be. The trouble with Mr. More is that you 
 cannot disperse a theory or point of view of morals 
 over a vast number of essays on a great variety of 
 important figures in literature, unless you can give 
 some more particular interest as well. Sainte-Beuve 
 has his particularized interest in human beings; 
 another critic say Remy de Gourmont may have 
 something to say always about the art of a writer which 
 will make our enjoyment of that writer more conscious 
 and more intelligent. But the pure moralist in 
 
 36 
 
Imperfect Critics 
 
 letters the moralist is useful to the creator as well as 
 the reader of poetry must be more concise, for we 
 must have the pleasure of inspecting the beauty of his 
 structure. And here M. Julien Benda has a great 
 advantage over Mr. More ; his thought may be less 
 profound, but it has more formal beauty. 
 
 Mr. Irving Babbitt, who shares so many of the 
 ideals and opinions of Mr. More that their names 
 must be coupled, has expressed his thought more 
 abstractly and with more form, and is free from a 
 mystical impulse which occasionally gets out of Mr. 
 More's hand. He appears, more clearly than Mr. 
 More, and certainly more clearly than any critic of 
 equal authority in America or England, to perceive 
 Europe as a whole; he has the cosmopolitan 
 mind and a tendency to seek the centre. His few 
 books are important, and would be more important if 
 he preached of discipline in a more disciplined style. 
 Although he also is an admirer of Sainte-Beuve, he 
 would probably subscribe to this admirable paragraph 
 of Othenin d'Haussonville : l 
 
 II y a une beautd litte'raire, impersonnelle en quelque 
 sorte, parfaitement distincte de 1'auteur lui-meme et 
 de son organisation, beaut qui a sa raison d'etre et 
 ses lois, dont la critique est tenue de rendre compte. 
 Et si la critique considere cette tache comme 
 au-dessous d'elle, si c'est affaire a la rhe*torique et a 
 ce que Sainte-Beuve appelle de"daigneusement les 
 Quintilien, alors la rhetorique a du bon et les 
 Quintilien ne sont pas a dedaigner. 
 
 There may be several critics in England who would 
 
 1 Revue des Deux Mondes^ fevr. 1875, quoted by Benda, 
 Belphc'gor, p. 140. 
 
 37 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 applaud this notion; there are very few who show 
 any evidence of its apprehension in their writings. 
 But Mr. More and Mr. Babbitt, whatever their actual 
 tastes, and although they are not primarily occupied 
 with art, are on the side of the artist. And the side 
 of the artist is not the side which in England is often 
 associated with critical writing. As Mr. More has 
 pointed out in an interesting essay, there is a vital 
 weakness in Arnold's definition of criticism as "the 
 disinterested endeavour to know the best that is 
 known and thought in the world, irrespectively of 
 practice, politics, and everything of the kind." The 
 "disinterested endeavour to know" is only a pre- 
 requisite of the critic, and is not criticism^ which may 
 be the result of such an endeavour. Arnold states 
 the work of the critic merely in terms of the personal 
 ideal, an ideal for oneself and an ideal for oneself is 
 not disinterested. Here Arnold is the Briton rather 
 than the European. 
 
 Mr. More indicates his own attitude in praising 
 those whom he elevates to the position of masters of 
 criticism : 
 
 If they deal much with the criticism of literature, 
 this is because in literature more manifestly than 
 anywhere else life displays its infinitely varied motives 
 and results; and their practice is always to render 
 literature itself more consciously a criticism of life. 
 
 "Criticism of life" is a facile phrase, and at most 
 only represents one aspect of great literature, if it 
 does not assign to the term "criticism" itself a 
 generality which robs it of precision. Mr. More has, 
 it seems to me, in this sentence just failed to put his 
 
 38 
 
Imperfect Critics 
 
 finger on the right seriousness of great literary art: 
 the seriousness which we find in Villon's Testament 
 and which is conspicuously absent from In 
 Memoriam'y or the seriousness which controls 
 Amos Barton and not The Mill on the Floss. 
 
 It is a pity that Mr. More does not write a little 
 oftener about the great literary artists, it is a pity that 
 he takes the reputations of the world too solemnly. 
 This is probably due in part to remoteness in space 
 from the European centre. But it must be observed 
 that English solemnity and American solemnity are 
 very different. I do not propose to analyse the 
 difference (it would be a valuable chapter in social 
 history); the American solemnity, it is enough to 
 say, is more primitive, more academic, more like 
 that of the German professor. But it is not the 
 fault of Mr. More or Mr. Babbitt that the culture of 
 ideas has only been able to survive in America in the 
 unfavourable atmosphere of the university. 
 
 THE FRENCH INTELLIGENCE 
 
 As the inspection of types of English irresistibly 
 provoked a glance at two American critics, so the 
 inspection of the latter leads our attention to the 
 French. M. Julien Benda has the formal beauty 
 which the American critics lack, and a close affinity 
 to them in point of view. He restricts himself, 
 perhaps, to a narrower field of ideas, but within that 
 field he manipulates the ideas with a very exceptional 
 cogency and clarity. To notice his last book (Belphegor : 
 essai sur Vesthetique de la presente societe franfaise) 
 would be to quote from it. M. Benda is not like 
 
 39 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 Remy de Gourmont, the critical consciousness of a 
 generation, he could not supply the conscious formulas 
 of a sensibility in process of formation ; he is rather 
 the ideal scavenger of the rubbish of our time. 
 Much of his analysis of the decadence of contemporary 
 French society could be applied to London, although 
 differences are observable from his diagnosis. 
 
 Quant a la socie"t en elle-meme, on peut pre*voir 
 que ce soin qu'elle met a e*prouver de I'e'moi par 1'art, 
 devenant cause a son tour, y rendra la soif de ce 
 plaisir de plus en plus intense, 1'application a la 
 satisfaire de plus en plus jalouseet plus perfectionnee. 
 On entrevoit le jour ou la bonne socie"t franQaise 
 repudiera encore le peu qu'elle supporte aujourd'hui 
 d'ide*es et d'organisation dans 1'art, et ne se passionera 
 plus que pour des gestes de come'diens, pour des 
 impressions de femmes ou d'enfants, pour des 
 rugissements de lyriques, pour des extases de 
 fanatiques . . . 
 
 Almost the only person who has ever figured in 
 England and attempted a task at all similar to that of 
 M. Benda is Matthew Arnold. Matthew Arnold was 
 intelligent, and by so much difference as the presence 
 of one intelligent man makes, our age is inferior to 
 that of Arnold. But what an advantage a man like 
 M. Benda has over Arnold. It is not simply that he 
 has a critical tradition behind him, and that Arnold 
 is using a language which constantly tempts the user 
 away from dispassionate exposition into sarcasm and 
 diatribe, a language less fitted for criticism than the 
 English of the eighteenth century. It is that the 
 follies and stupidities of the French, no matter how 
 base, express themselves in the form of ideas 
 Bergsonism itself is an intellectual construction, and 
 40 
 
Imperfect Critics 
 
 the mondaines who attended lectures at the College 
 de France were in a sense using their minds. A 
 man of ideas needs ideas, or pseudo-ideas, to fight 
 against. And Arnold lacked the active resistance 
 which is necessary to keep a mind at its sharpest. 
 A society in which a mind like M. Benda's can 
 exercise itself, and in which there are persdns like M. 
 Benda, is one which facilitates the task of the creative 
 artist. M. Benda cannot be attached, like Gourmont, 
 to any creative group. He does not wholly partake 
 in that " conscious creation of the field of the present 
 out of the past" which Mr. More considers to be 
 part of the work of the critic. But in analysing the 
 maladies of the second-rate or corrupt literature of the 
 time he makes the labour of the creative artist lighter. 
 The Charles Louis Philippes of English literature are 
 never done with, because there is no one to kill their 
 reputations ; we still hear that George Meredith is a 
 master of prose, or even a profound philosopher. 
 The creative artist in England finds himself compelled, 
 or at least tempted, to spend much of his time and 
 energy in criticism that he might reserve for the 
 perfecting of his proper work : simply because there 
 is no one else to do it. 
 
Tradition and the Individual Talent ^> 
 
 I 
 
 IN English writing we seldom speak of tradition, 
 though we occasionally apply its name in deplor- 
 ing its absence. We cannot refer to " the tradition " 
 or to "a tradition"; at most, we employ the ad- 
 jective in saying that the poetry of So-and-so is 
 " traditional " or even " too traditional." Seldom, 
 perhaps, does the word appear except in a phrase of 
 censure. If otherwise, it is vaguely approbative, with 
 the implication, as to the work approved, of some 
 pleasing archaeological reconstruction. You can 
 hardly make the word agreeable to English ears 
 without this comfortable reference to the reassuring 
 science of archaeology. 
 
 Certainly the word is not likely to appear in our 
 appreciations of living or dead writers. Every nation, 
 every race, has not only its own creative, but its own 
 critical turn of mind ; and is even more oblivious of 
 the shortcomings and limitations of its critical habits 
 than of those of its creative genius. We know, or 
 think we know, from the enormous mass of critical 
 writing that has appeared in the French language the 
 critical method or habit of the French ; we only con- 
 clude (we are such unconscious people) that the 
 French are " more critical " than we, and sometimes 
 42 
 
Tradition and the Individual Talent 
 
 even plume ourselves a little with the fact, as if the 
 French were the less spontaneous. Perhaps they are ; 
 but we might remind ourselves that criticism is as 
 inevitable as breathing, and that we should be none 
 the worse for articulating what passes in our minds 
 when we read a book and feel an emotion about it, 
 for criticizing our own minds in their work of criticism. 
 One of the facts that might come to light in this 
 process is our tendency to insist, when we praise a 
 poet, upon those aspects of his work in which he 
 least resembles anyone else. In these aspects or 
 parts of his work we pretend to find what is indi- 
 vidual, what is the peculiar essence of the man. 
 We dwell with satisfaction upon the poet's difference 
 from his predecessors, especially his immediate pre- 
 decessors ; we endeavour to find something that can 
 be isolated in order to be enjoyed. Whereas if we 
 approach a poet without his prejudice we shall often 
 find that not only the best, but the most individual 
 parts of his work may be those in which the dead 
 poets, his ancestors, assert their immortality most 
 vigorously. And I do not mean the impressionable 
 period of adolescence, but the period of full maturity. 
 Yet if the only form of tradition, of handing down, 
 consisted in following the ways of the immediate 
 generation before us in a blind or timid adherence to 
 its successes, "tradition" should positively be dis- 
 couraged. We have seen many such simple currents 
 soon lost in the sand ; and novelty is better than 
 repetition. Tradition is a matter of much wider 
 significance. It cannot be inherited, and if you want 
 it you must obtain it by great labour. It involves, in 
 the first place, the historical sense, which we may 
 43 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 call nearly indispensable to anyone who would con- 
 tinue to be a poet beyond his twenty-fifth year ; and 
 the historical sense involves a perception, not only of 
 the pastness of the past, but of its presence ; the his- 
 torical sense compels a man to write not merely with 
 his own generation in his bones, but with a feeling 
 that the whole of the literature of Europe from 
 Homer and within it the whole of the literature of 
 his own country has a simultaneous existence and 
 composes a simultaneous order. This historical sense, 
 which is a sense of the timeless as well as of the 
 temporal and of the timeless and of the temporal 
 together, is what makes a writer traditional. And it 
 is at the same time what makes a writer most acutely 
 conscious of his place in time, of his contempo- 
 raneity. 
 
 No poet, no artist of any art, has his complete 
 meaning alone. His significance, his appreciation is 
 the appreciation of his relation to the dead poets and 
 artists. You cannot value him alone ; you must set 
 him, for contrast and comparison, among the dead. 
 I mean this as a principle of aesthetic, not merely 
 historical, criticism. The necessity that he shall con- 
 form, that he shall cohere, is not one-sided ; what 
 happens when a new work of art is created is some- 
 thing that happens simultaneously to all the works 
 of art which preceded it. The existing monuments 
 form an ideal order among themselves, which is 
 modified by the introduction of the new (the really 
 new) work of art among them. The existing order is 
 complete before the new work arrives; for order to 
 persist after the supervention of novelty, the whole 
 existing order must be, if ever so slightly, altered ; 
 44 
 
Tradition and the Individual Talent 
 
 and so the relations, proportions, values of each work 
 of art toward the whole are readjusted; and this is 
 conformity between the old and the new. Whoever 
 has approved this idea of order, of the form of 
 European, of English literature, will not find it pre- 
 posterous that the past should be altered by the 
 present as much as the present is directed by the 
 past. And the poet who is aware of this will be 
 aware of great difficulties and responsibilities. 
 
 In a peculiar sense he will be aware also that he 
 must inevitably be judged by the standards of the 
 past. I say judged, not amputated, by them; not 
 judged to be as good as, or worse or better than, 
 the dead; and certainly not judged by the canons 
 of dead critics. It is a judgment, a comparison, in 
 which two things are measured by each other. To 
 conform merely would be for the new work not really 
 to conform at all ; it would not be new, and would 
 therefore not be a work of art. And we do not quite 
 say that the new is more valuable because it fits in ; 
 but its fitting in is a test of its value a test, it is 
 true, which can only be slowly and cautiously applied, 
 for we are none of us infallible judges of conformity. 
 We say : it appears to conform, and is perhaps indi- 
 vidual, or it appears individual, and may conform ; 
 but we are hardly likely to find that it is one and not 
 the other. 
 
 To proceed to a more intelligible exposition of the 
 relation of the poet to the past : he can neither take 
 the past as a lump, an indiscriminate bolus, nor 
 can he form himself wholly on one or two private 
 admirations, nor can he form himself wholly upon 
 one preferred period. The first course is inadmissible, 
 45 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 the second is an important experience of youth, and 
 the third is a pleasant and highly desirable supple- 
 ment. The poet must be very conscious of the main 
 current, which does not at all flow invariably through 
 the most distinguished reputations. He must be 
 quite aware of the obvious fact that art never improves, 
 but that the material of art is never quite the same. 
 He must be aware that the mind of Europe the 
 mind of his own country a mind which he learns 
 in time to be much more important than his own 
 private mind is a mind which changes, and that 
 this change is a development which abandons nothing 
 en route, which does not superannuate either Shake- 
 speare, or Homer, or the rock drawing of the Mag- 
 dalenian draughtsmen. That this development, 
 refinement perhaps, complication certainly, is not, 
 from the point of view of the artist, any improvement. 
 Perhaps not even an improvement from the point of 
 view of the psychologist or not to the extent which 
 we imagine \ perhaps only in the end based upon a 
 complication in economics and machinery. But the 
 difference between the present and the past is that the 
 conscious present is an awareness of the past in a 
 way and to an extent which the past's awareness of 
 itself cannot show. 
 
 Some one said : " The dead writers are remote from 
 us because we know so much more than they did." 
 Precisely, and they are that which we know. 
 
 I am alive to a usual objection to what is clearly 
 part of my programme for the metier of poetry. The 
 objection is that the doctrine requires a ridiculous 
 amount of erudition (pedantry), a claim which can be 
 rejected by appeal to the lives of poets in any pan- 
 
Tradition and the Individual Talent 
 
 theon. It will even be affirmed that much learning 
 deadens or perverts poetic sensibility. While, how- 
 ever, we persist in believing that a poet ought to 
 know as much as will not encroach upon his necessary 
 receptivity and necessary laziness, it is not desirable 
 to confine knowledge to whatever can be put into a 
 useful shape for examinations, drawing-rooms, or the 
 still more pretentious modes of publicity. Some can 
 absorb knowledge, the more tardy must sweat for it. 
 Shakespeare acquired more essential history from Plu- 
 tarch than most men could from the whole British 
 Museum. What is to be insisted upon is that the 
 poet must develop or procure the consciousness of 
 the past and that he should continue to develop this 
 consciousness throughout his career. 
 
 What happens is a continual surrender of himself 
 as he is at the moment to something which is more 
 valuable. The progress of an artist is a continual self- 
 sacrifice, a continual extinction of personality. 
 
 There remains to define this process of deperson- 
 alization and its relation to the sense of tradition. It 
 is in this depersonalization that art may be said to 
 approach the condition of science. I shall, therefore, 
 invite you to consider, as a suggestive analogy, the 
 action which takes place when a bit of finely filiated 
 platinum is introduced into a chamber containing 
 oxygen and sulphur dioxide. 
 
 II 
 
 Honest criticism and sensitive appreciation is 
 directed not upon the poet but upon the poetry. If 
 we attend to the confused cries of the newspaper 
 47 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 critics and the susurrus of popular repetition that 
 follows, we shall hear the names of poets in great 
 numbers; if we seek not Blue-book knowledge but 
 the enjoyment of poetry, and ask for a poem, we shall 
 seldom find it. In the last article I tried to point 
 out the importance of the relation of the poem to 
 other poems by other authors, and suggested the 
 conception of poetry as a living whole of all the 
 poetry that has ever been written. The other aspect of 
 this Impersonal theory of poetry is the relation of the 
 poem to its author. And I hinted, by an analogy, that 
 the mind of the mature poet differs from that of the 
 immature one not precisely in any valuation of 
 " personality," not being necessarily more interesting, 
 or having " more to say," but rather by being a more 
 finely perfected medium in which special, or very 
 varied, feelings are at liberty to enter into new com- 
 binations. 
 
 The analogy was that of the catalyst. When the 
 two gases previously mentioned are mixed in the 
 presence of a filament of platinum, they form sul- 
 phurous acid. This combination takes place only 
 if the platinum is present; nevertheless the newly 
 formed acid contains no trace of platinum, and the 
 platinum itself is apparently unaffected ; has remained 
 inert, neutral, and unchanged. The mind of the poet 
 is the shred of platinum. It may partly or exclusively 
 operate upon the experience of the man himself; but, 
 the more perfect the artist, the more completely 
 separate in him will be the man who suffers and the 
 mind which creates ; the more perfectly will the 
 mind digest and transmute the passions which are its 
 material. 
 
 48 
 
Tradition and the Individual Talent 
 
 The experience, you will notice, the elements 
 which enter the presence of the transforming catalyst, 
 are of two kinds : emotions and feelings. The effect 
 of a work of art upon the person who enjoys it is an 
 experience different in kind from any experience not 
 of art. It may be formed out of one emotion, or 
 may be a combination of several ; and various feel- 
 ings, inhering for the writer in particular words or 
 phrases or images, may be added to compose the 
 final result. Or great poetry may be made without 
 the direct use of any emotion whatever : composed 
 out of feelings solely. Canto XV of the Inferno 
 (Brunette Latini) is a working up of the emotion 
 evident in the situation ; but the effect, though single 
 as that of any work of art, is obtained by consider- 
 able complexity of detail. The last quatrain gives 
 an image, a feeling attaching to an image, which 
 " came," which did not develop simply out of what 
 precedes, but which was probably in suspension in 
 the poet's mind until the proper combination arrived 
 for it to add itself to. The poet's mind is in fact a 
 receptacle for seizing and storing up numberless feel- 
 ings, phrases, images, which remain there until all 
 the particles which can unite to form a new com- 
 pound are present together. 
 
 If you compare several representative passages of 
 the greatest poetry you see how great is the variety 
 of types of combination, and also how completely any 
 semi-ethical criterion of " sublimity " misses the mark. 
 For it is not the t( greatness," the intensity, of the 
 emotions, the components, but the intensity of the 
 artistic process, the pressure, so to speak, under 
 which the fusion takes place, that counts. The 
 D 49 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 episode of Paolo and Francesca employs a definite 
 emotion, but the intensity of the poetry is something 
 quite different from whatever intensity in the supposed 
 experience it may give the impression of. It is no 
 more intense, furthermore, than Canto XXVI, the 
 voyage of Ulysses, which has not the direct depend- 
 ence upon an emotion. Great variety is possible in 
 the process of transmution of emotion : the murder 
 of Agamemnon, or the agony of Othello, gives an 
 artistic effect apparently closer to a possible original 
 than the scenes from Dante. In the Agamemnon, 
 the artistic emotion approximates to the emotion of 
 an actual spectator; in Othello to the emotion of 
 the protagonist himself. But the difference between 
 art and the event is always absolute ; the combina- 
 tion which is the murder of Agamemnon is probably 
 as complex as that which is the voyage of Ulysses. 
 In either case there has been a fusion ef elements. 
 The ode of Keats contains a number of feelings 
 which have nothing particular to do with the night- 
 ingale, but which the nightingale, partly, perhaps, 
 because of its attractive name, and partly because of 
 its reputation, served to bring together. 
 
 The point of view which I am struggling to attack 
 is perhaps related to the metaphysical theory of the 
 substantial unity of the soul : for my meaning is, that 
 the poet has, not a "personality" to express, but a 
 particular medium, which is only a medium and not 
 a personality, in which impressions and experiences 
 combine in peculiar and unexpected ways. Im- 
 pressions and experiences which are important 
 for the man may take no place in the poetry, 
 and those which become important in the poetry 
 50 
 
Tradition and the Individual Talent 
 
 may play quite a negligible part in the man, the 
 personality. 
 
 I will quote a passage which is unfamiliar enough 
 to be regarded with fresh attention in the light or 
 darkness of these observations : 
 
 And now methinks I could e'en chide myself 
 For doating on her beauty, though her death 
 Shall be revenged after no common action. 
 Does the silkworm expend her yellow labours 
 For thee ? For thee does she undo herself? 
 Are lordships sold to maintain ladyships 
 For the poor benefit of a bewildering minute? 
 Why does yon fellow falsify highways, 
 And put his life between the judge's lips, 
 To refine such a thing keeps horse and men 
 To beat their valours for her? . . . 
 
 In this passage (as is evident if it is taken in its con- 
 text) there is a combination of positive and negative 
 emotions: an intensely strong attraction toward 
 beauty and an equally intense fascination by the 
 ugliness which is contrasted with it and which 
 destroys it. This balance of contrasted emotion is 
 in the dramatic situation to which the speech is 
 pertinent, but that situation alone is inadequate to 
 it. This is, so to speak, the structural emotion, pro- 
 vided by the drama. But the whole effect, the 
 dominant tone, is due to the fact that a number of 
 floating feelings, having an affinity to this emotion by 
 no means superficially evident, have combined with it 
 to give us a new art emotion. 
 
 It is not in his personal emotions, the emotions 
 provoked by particular events in his life, that the 
 poet is in any way remarkable or interesting. His 
 51 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 particular emotions may be simple, or crude, or flat. 
 The emotion in his poetry will be a very complex 
 thing, but not with the complexity of the emotions 
 of people who have very complex or unusual 
 emotions in life. One error, in fact, of eccentricity in 
 poetry is to seek for new human emotions to express : 
 and in this search for novelty in the wrong place it 
 discovers the perverse. The business of the poet is 
 not to find new emotions, but to use the ordinary 
 ones and, in working them up into poetry, to express 
 feelings which are not in actual emotions at all. 
 And emotions which he has never experienced will 
 serve his turn as well as those familiar to him. Con- 
 sequently, we must believe that " emotion recollected 
 in tranquillity" is an inexact formula. For it is 
 neither emotion, nor recollection, nor, without dis- 
 tortion of meaning, tranquillity. It is a concentra- 
 tion, and a new thing resulting from the concentration, 
 of a very great number of experiences which to the 
 practical and active person would not seem to be 
 experiences at all ; it is a concentration which does 
 not happen consciously or of deliberation. These 
 experiences are not "recollected," and they finally 
 unite in an atmosphere which is " tranquil " only in 
 that it is a passive attending upon the event. Of 
 course this is not quite the whole story. There is a 
 great deal, in the writing of poetry, which must be 
 conscious and deliberate. In fact, the bad poet is 
 usually unconscious where he ought to be con- 
 scious, and conscious where he ought to be uncon- 
 scious. Both errors tend to make him "personal." 
 Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an 
 escape from emotion; it is not the expression of 
 52 
 
Tradition and the Individual Talent 
 
 personality, but an escape from personality. But, 
 of course, only those who have personality and 
 emotions know what it means to want to escape from 
 these things. 
 
 Ill 
 
 6 5 PoOs fous deibrepfo TI Kal &ira0ts tanv 
 
 This essay proposes to halt at the frontier of meta- 
 physics or mysticism, and confine itself to such 
 practical conclusions as can be applied by the re- 
 sponsible person interested in poetry. To divert 
 interest from the poet to the poetry is a laudable aim : 
 for it would conduce to a juster estimation of actual 
 poetry, good and bad. There are many people who 
 appreciate the expression of sincere emotion in verse, 
 and there is a smaller number of people who can 
 appreciate technical excellence. But very few know 
 when there is expression of significant emotion, 
 emotion which has its life in the poem and not in 
 the history of the poet. The emotion of art is 
 impersonal. And the poet cannot reach this im- 
 personality without surrendering himself wholly to 
 the work to be done. And he is not likely to know 
 what is to be done unless he lives in what is not 
 merely the present, but the present moment of the 
 past, unless he is conscious, not of what is dead, but 
 of what is already living. 
 
 53 
 
The Possibility of a Poetic Drama o o 
 
 THE questions why there is no poetic drama 
 to-day, how the stage has lost all hold on 
 literary art, why so many poetic plays are written 
 which can only be read, and read, if at all, without 
 pleasure have become insipid, almost academic. 
 The usual conclusion is either that " conditions " are 
 too much for us, or that we really prefer other types 
 of literature, or simply that we are uninspired. As for 
 the last alternative, it is not to be entertained ; as for 
 the second, what type do we prefer ? ; and as for the 
 first, no one has ever shown me "conditions," except 
 of the most superficial. The reasons for raising the 
 question again are first that the majority, perhaps, 
 certainly a large number, of poets hanker for the 
 stage ; and second, that a not negligible public appears 
 to want verse plays. Surely there is some legitimate 
 craving, not restricted to a few persons, which only 
 the verse play can satisfy. And surely the critical 
 attitude is to attempt to analyse the conditions and 
 the other data. If there comes to light some con- 
 clusive obstacle, the investigation should at least help 
 us to turn our thoughts to more profitable pursuits ; 
 and if there is not, we may hope to arrive eventually 
 at some statement of conditions which might be 
 altered. Possibly we shall find that our incapacity 
 has a deeper source : the arts have at times flourished 
 54 
 
The Possibility of a Poetic Drama 
 
 when there was no drama; possibly we are incom- 
 petent altogether; in that case the stage will be, 
 not the seat, but at all events a symptom, of the 
 malady. 
 
 From the point of view of literature, the drama is 
 only one among several poetic forms. The epic, the 
 ballad, the chanson de geste, the forms of Provence 
 and of Tuscany, all found their perfection by serving 
 particular societies. The forms of Ovid, Catullus, 
 Propertius, served a society different, and in some 
 respects more civilized, than any of these ; and in the 
 society of Ovid the drama as a form of art was com- 
 paratively insignificant. Nevertheless, the drama is 
 perhaps the most permanent, is capable of greater 
 variation and of expressing more varied types of 
 society, than any other. It varied considerably in 
 England alone ; but when one day it was discovered 
 lifeless, subsequent forms which had enjoyed a transi- 
 tory life were dead too. I am not prepared to under- 
 take the historical survey ; but I should say that the 
 poetic drama's autopsy was performed as much by 
 Charles Lamb as by anyone else. For a form is not 
 wholly dead until it is known to be ; and Lamb, by 
 exhuming the remains of dramatic life at its fullest, 
 brought a consciousness of the immense gap between 
 present and past. It was impossible to believe, after 
 that, in a dramatic "tradition." The relation of 
 Byron's English Bards and the poems of Crabbe to 
 the work of Pope was a continuous tradition ; but the 
 relation of The Cenci to the great English drama 
 is almost that of a reconstruction to an original. By 
 losing tradition, we lose our hold on the present ; but 
 so far as there was any dramatic tradition in Shelley's 
 55 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 day there was nothing worth the keeping. There 
 is all the difference between preservation and 
 restoration. 
 
 The Elizabethan Age in England was able to absorb 
 a great quantity of new thoughts and new images, 
 almost dispensing with tradition, because it had this 
 great form of its own which imposed itself on every- 
 thing that came to it. Consequently, the blank verse 
 of their plays accomplished a subtlety and conscious- 
 ness, even an intellectual power, that no blank verse 
 since has developed or even repeated ; elsewhere this 
 age is crude, pedantic, or loutish in comparison with 
 its contemporary France or Italy. The nineteenth 
 century had a good many fresh impressions; but it 
 had no form in which to confine them. Two men, 
 Wordsworth and Browning, hammered out forms 
 for themselves personal forms, The Excursion^ 
 Sordelh) The Ring and the Book> Dramatic Mono- 
 logues; but no man can invent a form, create 
 a taste for it, and perfect it too. Tennyson, who 
 might unquestionably have been a consummate 
 master of minor forms, took to turning out large 
 patterns on a machine. As for Keats and Shelley, 
 they were too young to be judged, and they were 
 trying one form after another. 
 
 These poets were certainly obliged to consume vast 
 energy in this pursuit of form, which could never 
 lead to a wholly satisfying result. There has only been 
 one Dante ; and, after all, Dante had the benefit of 
 years of practice in forms employed and altered 
 by numbers of contemporaries and predecessors ; he 
 did not waste the years of youth in metric invention ; 
 and when he came to the Commedia he knew how 
 
 56 
 
The Possibility of a Poetic Drama 
 
 to pillage right and left. To have, given into one's 
 hands, a crude form, capable of indefinite refinement, 
 and to be the person to see the possibilities 
 Shakespeare was very fortunate. And it is perhaps 
 the craving for some such donnee which draws us on 
 toward the present mirage of poetic drama. 
 
 But it is now very questionable whether there are 
 more than two or three in the present generation who 
 are capable, the least little bit, of benefiting by such 
 advantages were they given. At most two or three 
 actually devote themselves to this pursuit of form for 
 which they have little or no public recognition. To 
 create a form is not merely to invent a shape, a rhyme 
 or rhythm. It is also the realization of the whole 
 appropriate content of this rhyme or rhythm. The 
 sonnet of Shakespeare is not merely such and such a 
 pattern, but a precise way of thinking and feeling. 
 The framework which was provided for the Elizabethan 
 dramatist was not merely blank verse and the five-act 
 play and the Elizabethan playhouse ; it was not merely 
 the plot for the poets incorporated, remodelled, 
 adapted or invented, as occasion suggested. It was 
 also the half-formed vA.i}, the " temper of the age " (an 
 unsatisfactory phrase), a preparedness, a habit on the 
 part of the public, to respond to particular stimuli. 
 There is a book to be written on the commonplaces 
 of any great dramatic period, the handling of Fate or 
 Death, the recurrence of mood, tone, situation. We 
 should see then just how little each poet had to do ; 
 only so much as would make a play his, only what was 
 really essential to make it different from anyone else's. 
 When there is this economy of effort it is possible to 
 have several, even many, good poets at once. The 
 57 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 great ages did not perhaps produce much more talent 
 than ours ; but less talent was wasted. 
 
 Now in a formless age there is very little hope for 
 the minor poet to do anything worth doing ; and when 
 I say minor I mean very good poets indeed : such as 
 filled the Greek anthology and the Elizabethan song- 
 books ; even a Herrick ; but not merely second-rate 
 poets, for Denham and Waller have quite another im- 
 portance, occupying points in the development of a 
 major form. When everything is set out for the minor 
 poet to do, he may quite frequently come upon some 
 trouvaille, even in the drama : Peele and Brome are 
 examples. Under the present conditions, the minor 
 poet has too much to do. And this leads to another 
 reason for the incompetence of our time in poetic 
 drama. 
 
 Permanent literature is always a presentation : either 
 a presentation of thought, or a presentation of feeling 
 by a statement of events in human action or objects in 
 the external world. In earlier literature to avoid the 
 word " classic " we find both kinds, and sometimes, 
 as in some of the dialogues of Plato, exquisite 
 combinations of both. Aristotle presents thought, 
 stripped to the essential structure, and he is a 
 great writer. The Agamemnon or Macbeth is 
 equally a statement, but of events. They are as 
 much works of the "intellect" as the writings of 
 Aristotle. There are more recent works of art which 
 have the same quality of intellect in common with 
 those of ^Eschylus and Shakespeare and Aristotle : 
 Education Sentimentale is one of them. Compare 
 it with such a book as Vanity Fair and you will see 
 that the labour of the intellect consisted largely in a 
 58 
 
The Possibility of a Poetic Drama 
 
 purification, in keeping out a great deal that Thackeray 
 allowed to remain in ; in refraining from reflection, in 
 putting into the statement enough to make reflection 
 unnecessary. The case of Plato is still more illu- 
 minating. Take the The&tetus. In a few opening 
 words Plato gives a scene, a personality, a feeling, 
 which colour the subsequent discourse but do not 
 interfere with it: the particular setting, and the 
 abstruse theory of knowledge afterwards developed, 
 co-operate without confusion. Could any contempo- 
 rary author exhibit such control ? 
 
 In the nineteenth century another mentality mani- 
 fested itself. It is evident in a very able and brilliant 
 poem, Goethe's Faust. Marlowe's Mephistopheles 
 is a simpler creature than Goethe's. But at least 
 Marlowe has, in a few words, concentrated him into a 
 statement. He is there, and (incidentally) he renders 
 Milton's Satan superfluous. Goethe's demon inevi- 
 tably sends us back to Goethe. He embodies a 
 philosophy. A creation of art should not do that : he 
 should replace the philosophy. Goethe has not, that 
 is to say, sacrificed or consecrated his thought to make 
 the drama ; the drama is still a means. And this type 
 of mixed art has been repeated by men incomparably 
 smaller than Goethe. We have had one other re- 
 markable work of this type : Peer Gynt. And we have 
 had the plays of M. Maeterlinck and M. Claudel. 1 
 
 In the work of Maeterlinck and Claudel on the one 
 
 1 I should except The Dynasts. This gigantic panorama is 
 hardly to be called a success, but it is essentially an attempt to 
 present a vision, and "sacrifices" the philosophy to the vision, 
 as all great dramas do. Mr. Hardy has apprehended his matter 
 as a poet and an artist. 
 
 59 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 hand, and those of M. Bergson on the other, we have 
 the mixture of the genres in which our age delights. 
 Every work of imagination must have a philosophy ; 
 and every philosophy must be a work of art how 
 often have we heard that M. Bergson is an artist ! It 
 is a boast of his disciples. It is what the word " art " 
 means to them that is the disputable point. Certain 
 works of philosophy can be called works of art : much 
 of Aristotle and Plato, Spinoza, parts of Hume, Mr. 
 Bradley's Principles of Logic, Mr. Russell's essay on 
 " Denoting " : clear and beautifully formed thought. 
 But this is not what the admirers of Bergson, Claudel, 
 or Maeterlinck (the philosophy of the latter is a little 
 out of date) mean. They mean precisely what is not 
 clear, but what is an emotional stimulus. And as 
 a mixture of thought and of vision provides more 
 stimulus, by suggesting both, both clear thinking and 
 clear statement of particular objects must disappear. 
 
 The undigested "idea" or philosophy, the idea- 
 emotion, is to be found also in poetic dramas which 
 are conscientious attempts to adapt a true structure, 
 Athenian or Elizabethan, to contemporary feeling. 
 It appears sometimes as the attempt to supply the 
 defect of structure by an internal structure. "But 
 most important of all is the structure of the incidents. 
 For Tragedy is an imitation, not of men, but of an 
 action and of life, and life consists in action, and its 
 end is a mode of action, not a quality." 1 
 
 We have on the one hand the "poetic" drama, 
 imitation Greek, imitation Elizabethan, or modern- 
 philosophical, on the other the comedy of "ideas," 
 from Shaw to Galsworthy, down to the ordinary 
 1 Poetics^ vi. 9. Butcher's translation. 
 60 
 
The Possibility of a Poetic Drama 
 
 social comedy. The most ramshackle Guitry farce 
 has some paltry idea or comment upon life put into 
 the mouth of one of the characters at the end. It is 
 said that the stage can be used for a variety of 
 purposes, that in only one of them perhaps is it 
 united with literary art. A mute theatre is a 
 possibility (I do not mean the cinema) ; the ballet is 
 an actuality (though under-nourished) ; opera is an 
 institution ; but where you have " imitations of life " 
 on the stage, with speech, the only standard that we 
 can allow is the standard of the work of art, aiming at 
 the same intensity at which poetry and the other 
 forms of art aim. From that point of view the 
 Shavian drama is a hybrid as the Maeterlinckian 
 drama is, and we need express no surprise at their 
 belonging to the same epoch. Both philosophies are 
 popularizations : the moment an idea has been 
 transferred from its pure state in order that it may 
 become comprehensible to the inferior intelligence it 
 has lost contact with art. It can remain pure only 
 by being stated simply in the form of general truth, 
 or by being transmuted, as the attitude of Flaubert 
 toward the small bourgeois is transformed in Edu- 
 cation Sentimentdle. It has there become so 
 identified with the reality that you can no longer say 
 what the idea is. 
 
 The essential is not, of course, that drama should 
 be written in verse, or that we should be able to 
 extenuate our appreciation of broad farce by 
 occasionally attending a performance of a play of 
 Euripides where Professor Murray's translation is sold 
 at the door. The essential is to get upon the stage 
 this precise statement of life which is at the same 
 6l 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 i 
 
 time a point of view, a world a world which the 
 author's mind has subjected to a complete process of 
 simplification. I do not find that any drama which 
 "embodies a philosophy" of the author's (like 
 Faust) or which illustrates any social theory (like 
 Shaw's) can possibly fulfil the requirements though 
 a place might be left for Shaw if not for Goethe. 
 And the world of Ibsen and the world of Tchehov 
 are not enough simplified, universal. 
 
 Finally, we must take into account the instability 
 of any art the drama, music, dancing which 
 depends upon representation by performers. The 
 intervention of performers introduces a complication 
 of economic conditions which is in itself likely to be 
 injurious. A struggle, more or less unconscious, 
 between the creator and the interpreter is almost 
 inevitable. The interest of a performer is almost 
 certain to be centred in himself: a very slight 
 acquaintance with actors and musicians will testify. 
 The performer is interested not in form but in 
 opportunities for virtuosity or in the communication 
 of his "personality"; the formlessness, the lack of 
 intellectual clarity and distinction in modern music, 
 the great physical stamina and physical training 
 which it often requires, are perhaps signs of the 
 triumph of the performer. The consummation of 
 the triumph of the actor over the play is perhaps 
 the productions of the Guitry. 
 
 The conflict is one which certainly cannot be 
 terminated by the utter rout of the actor profession. 
 For one thing, the stage appeals to too many demands 
 besides the demand for art for that to be possible ; 
 and also we need, unfortunately, something more 
 62 
 
The Possibility of a Poetic Drama 
 
 than refined .automatons. Occasionally attempts 
 have been made to "get around" the actor, to 
 envelop him in masks, to set up a few " conventions " 
 for him to stumble over, or even to develop little 
 breeds of actors for some special Art drama. This 
 meddling with nature seldom succeeds ; nature 
 usually overcomes these obstacles. Possibly the 
 majority of attempts to confect a poetic drama have 
 begun at the wrong end; they have aimed at the 
 small public which wants "poetry." ("Novices," 
 says Aristotle, " in the art attain to finish of diction 
 and precision of portraiture before they can construct 
 the plot.") The Elizabethan drama was aimed at a 
 public which wanted entertainment of a crude sort, 
 but would stand a good deal of poetry ; our problem 
 should be to take a form of entertainment, and subject 
 it to the process which would leave it a form of art. 
 Perhaps the music-hall comedian is the best material. 
 I am aware that this is a dangerous suggestion to 
 make. For every person who is likely to consider it 
 seriously there are a dozen toy makers who would 
 leap to tickle aesthetic society into one more quiver 
 and giggle of art debauch. Very few treat art seri- 
 ously. There are those who treat it solemnly, and 
 will continue to write poetic pastiches of Euripides 
 and Shakespeare ; and there are others who treat it as 
 a joke. 
 
Euripides and Professor Murray o o 
 
 THE recent appearance of Miss Sybil Thorndyke 
 as Medea at the Holborn Empire is an event 
 which has a bearing upon three subjects of con- 
 siderable interest: the drama, the present standing 
 of Greek literature, and the importance of good 
 contemporary translation. On the occasion on which 
 I was present the performance was certainly a 
 success ; the audience was large, it was attentive, and 
 its applause was long. Whether the success was 
 due to Euripides is uncertain ; whether it was due to 
 Professor Murray is not proved; but that it was in 
 considerable measure due to Miss Thorndyke there 
 is no doubt. To have held the centre of the stage 
 for two hours in a role which requires both extreme 
 violence and restraint, a role which requires simple 
 force and subtle variation; to have sustained so 
 difficult a role almost without support; this was a 
 legitimate success. The audience, or what could be 
 seen of it from one of the cheaper seats, was serious 
 and respectful and perhaps inclined to self-approval 
 at having attended the performance of a Greek play ; 
 but Miss Thorndyke's acting might have held almost 
 any audience. It employed all the conventions, the 
 theatricalities, of the modern stage ; yet her person- 
 ality triumphed over not only Professor Murray's 
 verse but her own training. 
 
Euripides and Professor Murray 
 
 The question remains whether the production was 
 a "work of art." The rest of the cast appeared 
 slightly ill at ease; the nurse was quite a tolerable 
 nurse of the crone type; Jason was negative; the 
 messenger was uncomfortable at having to make such 
 a long speech ; and the refined Dalcroze chorus had 
 mellifluous voices which rendered their lyrics happily 
 inaudible. All this contributed toward the high-brow 
 effect which is so depressing; and we imagine that 
 the actors of Athens, who had to speak clearly 
 enough for 20,000 auditors to be able to criticize the 
 versification, would have been pelted with figs and 
 olives had they mumbled so unintelligibly as most 
 of this troupe. But the Greek actor spoke in his 
 own language, and our actors were forced to speak 
 in the language of Professor Gilbert Murray. So 
 that on the whole we may say that the performance 
 was an interesting one. 
 
 I do not believe, however, that such performances 
 will do very much to rehabilitate Greek literature or 
 our own, unless they stimulate a desire for better 
 translations. The serious auditors, many of whom 
 I observed to be like myself provided with Professor 
 Murray's eighteenpenny translation, were probably 
 not aware that Miss Thorndyke, in order to succeed 
 as well as she did, was really engaged in a struggle 
 against the translator's verse. She triumphed over 
 it by attracting our attention to her expression and 
 tone and making us neglect her words ; and this, of 
 course, was not the dramatic method of Greek acting 
 at its best. The English and Greek languages 
 remained where they were. But few persons realize 
 that the Greek language and the Latin language, and, 
 E 6 5 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 therefore^ we say, the English language, are within our 
 lifetime passing through a critical period. The 
 Classics have, during the latter part of the nineteenth 
 century and up to the present moment, lost their 
 place as a pillar of the social and political system 
 such as the Established Church still is. If they are 
 to survive, to justify themselves as literature, as an 
 element in the European mind, as the foundation for 
 the literature we hope to create, they are very badly 
 in need of persons capable of expounding them. We 
 need some one not a member of the Church of 
 Rome, and perhaps preferably not a member of the 
 Church of England to explain how vital a matter 
 it is, if Aristotle may be said to have been a moral 
 pilot of Europe, whether we shall or shall not drop 
 that pilot. And we need a number of educated 
 poets who shall at least have opinions about Greek 
 drama, and whether it is or is not of any use to us. 
 And it must be said that Professor Gilbert Murray 
 is not the man for this. Greek poetry will never 
 have the slightest vitalizing effect upon English 
 poetry if it can only appear masquerading as a 
 vulgar debasement of the eminently personal idiom 
 of Swinburne. These are strong words to use against 
 the most popular Hellenist of his time ; but we must 
 witness of Professor Murray ere we die that these 
 things are not otherwise but thus. 
 
 This is really a point of capital importance. That 
 the most conspicuous Greek propagandist of the day 
 should almost habitually use two words where the 
 Greek language requires one, and where the English 
 language will provide him with one ; that he should 
 render o-Kiav by "grey shadow"; and that he should 
 66 
 
Euripides and Professor Murray 
 
 stretch the Greek brevity to fit the loose frame of 
 William Morris, and blur the Greek lyric to the fluid 
 haze of Swinburne ; these are not faults of infinitesimal 
 insignificance. The first great speech of Medea Mr. 
 Murray begins with : 
 
 Women of Corinth, I am come to show 
 My face, lest ye despise me. . . . 
 
 We find in the Greek, egijXOov So/xwv. "Show my 
 face," therefore, is Mr. Murray's gift. 
 
 This thing undreamed of, sudden from on high, 
 Hath sapped my soul : I dazzle where I stand, 
 The cup of all life shattered in my hand. . . . 
 
 Again, we find that the Greek is : 
 
 /J.ol 5' &e\irTov irpay/J.a irpoffireabi' rude 
 Kal /3ioi> 
 
 So, here are two striking phrases which we owe to 
 Mr. Murray; it is he who has sapped our soul and 
 shattered the cup of all life for Euripides. And these 
 are only random examples. 
 
 OJIK ZffTIV d\\7J (f)pT]V fJUaKfiOVUT^pa 
 
 becomes " no bloodier spirit between heaven and 
 hell " ! Surely we know that Professor Murray is 
 acquainted with " Sister Helen " ? Professor Murray 
 has simply interposed between Euripides and our- 
 selves a barrier more impenetrable than the Greek 
 language. We do not reproach him for preferring, 
 apparently, Euripides to ^Eschylus. But if he does, 
 he should at least appreciate Euripides. And it is 
 inconceivable that anyone with a genuine feeling for 
 67 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 the sound of Greek verse should deliberately elect the 
 William Morris couplet, the Swinburne lyric, as a just 
 equivalent. 
 
 As a poet, Mr. Murray is merely a very insignificant 
 follower of the pre-Raphaelite movement. As a 
 Hellenist, he is very much of the present day, and 
 a very important figure in the day. This day began, 
 in a sense, with Tylor and a few German anthro- 
 pologists ; since then we have acquired sociology and 
 social psychology, we have watched the clinics of 
 Ribot and Janet, we have read books from Vienna 
 and heard a discourse of Bergson ; a philosophy 
 arose at Cambridge; social emancipation crawled 
 abroad ; our historical knowledge has of course 
 increased ; and we have a curious Freudian-social- 
 mystical-rationalistic-higher-critical interpretation of 
 the Classics and what used to be called the 
 Scriptures. I do not deny the very great value of all 
 work by scientists in their own departments, the 
 great interest also of this work in detail and in its 
 consequences. Few books are more fascinating than 
 those of Miss Harrison, Mr. Cornford, or Mr. Cooke, 
 when they burrow in the origins of Greek myths and 
 rites; M. Durkheim, with his social consciousness, 
 and M. Levy-Bruhl, with his Bororo Indians who 
 convince themselves that they are parroquets, are 
 delightful writers. A number of sciences have sprung 
 up in an almost tropical exuberance which un- 
 doubtedly excites our admiration, and the garden, 
 not unnaturally, has come to resemble a jungle. 
 Such men as Tylor, and Robertson Smith, and 
 Wilhelm Wundt, who early fertilized the soil, would 
 hardly recognize the resulting vegetation ; and indeed 
 68 
 
Euripides and Professor Murray 
 
 poor Wundt's Volkerpsychologie was a musty relic 
 before it was translated. 
 
 All these events are useful and important in their 
 phase, and they have sensibly affected our attitude 
 towards the Classics ; and it is this phase of classical 
 study that Professor Murray the friend and inspirer 
 of Miss Jane Harrison represents. The Greek is no 
 longer the awe-inspiring Belvedere of Winckelmann, 
 Goethe, and Schopenhauer, the figure of which 
 Walter Pater and Oscar Wilde offered us a slightly 
 debased re-edition. And we realize better how 
 different not how much more Olympian were the 
 conditions of the Greek civilization from ours ; and at 
 the same time Mr. Zimmern has shown us how the 
 Greek dealt with analogous problems. Incidentally we 
 do not believe that a good English prose style can 
 be modelled upon Cicero, or Tacitus, or Thucydides. 
 If Pindar bores us, we admit it ; we are not certain 
 that Sappho was very much greater than Catullus ; we 
 hold various opinions about Vergil; and we think 
 more highly of Petronius than our grandfathers did. 
 
 It is to be hoped that we may be grateful to 
 Professor Murray and his friends for what they have 
 done, while we endeavour to neutralize Professor 
 Murray's influence upon Greek literature and English 
 language in his translations by making better trans- 
 lations. The choruses from Euripides by H. D. are, 
 allowing for errors and even occasional omissions of 
 difficult passages, much nearer to both Greek and 
 English than Mr. Murray's. But H. D. and the 
 other poets of the " Poets' Translation Series " have 
 so far done no more than pick up some of the more 
 romantic crumbs of Greek literature; none of them 
 
 69 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 has yet shown himself competent to attack the 
 Agamemnon. If we are to digest the heavy food 
 of historical and scientific knowledge that we have 
 eaten we must be prepared for much greater exertions. 
 We need a digestion which can assimilate both 
 Homer and Flaubert. We need a careful study of 
 Renaissance Humanists and Translators, such as Mr. 
 Pound has begun. We need an eye which can see 
 the past in its place with its definite differences from 
 the present, and yet so lively that it shall be as 
 present to us as the present. This is the creative 
 eye; and it is because Professor Murray has no 
 creative instinct that he leaves Euripides quite 
 dead. 
 
"Rhetoric" and Poetic Drama *> *> 
 
 THE death of Rostand is the disappearance 
 of the poet whom, more than any other in 
 France, we treated as the exponent of "rhetoric," 
 thinking of rhetoric as something recently out of 
 fashion. And as we find ourselves looking back 
 rather tenderly upon the author of Cyrano we wonder 
 what this vice or quality is that is associated a*s 
 plainly with Rostand's merits as with his defects. 
 His rhetoric, at least, suited him at times so well, 
 and so much better than it suited a much greater 
 poet, Baudelaire, who is at times as rhetorical as 
 Rostand. And we begin to suspect that the word is 
 merely a vague term of abuse for any style that is 
 bad, that is so evidently bad or second-rate that we 
 do not recognize the necessity for greater precision in 
 the phrases we apply to it. 
 
 Our own Elizabethan and Jacobean poetry in so 
 nice a problem it is much safer to stick to one's own 
 language is repeatedly called " rhetorical." It had 
 this and that notable quality, but, when we wish to 
 admit that it had defects, it is rhetorical. It had 
 serious defects, even gross faults, but we cannot be 
 considered to have erased them from our language 
 when we are so unclear in our perception of what 
 they are. The fact is that both Elizabethan prose 
 and Elizabethan poetry are written in a variety of 
 71 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 styles with a variety of vices. Is the style of Lyly, 
 is Euphuism, rhetorical? In contrast to the elder 
 style of Ascham and Elyot which it assaults, it is a 
 clear, flowing, orderly and relatively pure style, with 
 a systematic if monotonous formula of antitheses 
 and similes. Is the style of Nashe? A tumid, 
 flatulent, vigorous style very different from Lyly's. 
 Or it is perhaps the strained and the mixed 
 figures of speech in which Shakespeare indulged him- 
 self. Or it is perhaps the careful declamation of 
 Jonson. The word simply cannot be used as 
 synonymous with bad writing. The meanings which 
 it has been obliged to shoulder have been mostly 
 opprobrious ; but if a precise meaning can be found 
 for it this meaning may occasionally represent a 
 virtue. It is one of those words which it is the 
 business of criticism to dissect and reassemble. Let 
 us avoid the assumption that rhetoric is a vice of 
 manner, and endeavour to find a rhetoric of substance 
 also, which is right because it issues from what it has 
 to express. 
 
 At the present time there is a manifest preference 
 for the "conversational" in poetry the style of 
 "direct speech," opposed to the "oratorical" and 
 the rhetorical; but if rhetoric is any convention of 
 writing inappropriately applied, this conversational 
 style can and does become a rhetoric or what is 
 supposed to be a conversational style, for it is often 
 as remote from polite discourse as well could be. 
 Much of the second and third rate in American vers 
 libre is of this sort; and much of the second and 
 third rate in English Wordsworthianism. There is in 
 fact no conversational or other form which can be 
 72 
 
"Rhetoric" and Poetic Drama 
 
 applied indiscriminately; if a writer wishes to give 
 the effect of speech he must positively give the effect 
 of himself talking in his own person or in one of his 
 roles ; and if we are to express ourselves, our variety 
 of thoughts and feelings, on a variety of subjects with 
 inevitable Tightness, we must adapt our manner to 
 the moment with infinite variations. Examination of 
 the development of Elizabethan drama shows this 
 progress in adaptation, a development from monotony 
 to variety, a progressive refinement in the perception 
 of the variations of feeling, and a progressive elabora- 
 tion of the means of expressing these variations. 
 This drama is admitted to have grown away from the 
 rhetorical expression, the bombast speeches, of Kyd 
 and Marlowe to the subtle and dispersed utterance of 
 Shakespeare and Webster. But this apparent abandon- 
 ment or outgrowth of rhetoric is two things : it is 
 partly an improvement in language and it is partly 
 progressive variation in feeling. There is, of course, a 
 long distance separating the furibund fluency of old 
 Hieronimo and the broken words of Lear. There is 
 also a difference between the famous 
 
 Oh eyes no eyes, but fountains full of tears ! 
 Oh life no life, but lively form of death ! 
 
 and the superb " additions to Hieronimo." l 
 
 We think of Shakespeare perhaps as the dramatist 
 who concentrates everything into a sentence, "Pray 
 you undo this button," or "Honest honest lago"; 
 we forget that there is a rhetoric proper to Shake- 
 speare at his best period which is quite free from the 
 
 1 Of the authorship it can only be said that the lines are by 
 some admirer of Marlowe. This might well be Jonson. 
 
 73 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 genuine Shakespearean vices either of the early period 
 or the late. These passages are comparable to the 
 best bombast of Kyd or Marlowe, with a greater 
 command of language and a greater control of the 
 emotion. The Spanish Tragedy is bombastic 
 when it descends to language which was only the 
 trick of its age ; Tamburlaine is bombastic because 
 it is monotonous, inflexible to the alterations of 
 emotion. The really fine rhetoric of Shakespeare 
 occurs in situations where a character in the play 
 sees himself \\\ a dramatic light : 
 
 Othello. And say, besides, that in Aleppo once . . . 
 
 Coriolanus. If you have writ your annals true, 'tis there, 
 That like an eagle in a dovecote, I 
 Fluttered your Volscians in Corioli. 
 Alone I did it. Boy ! 
 
 Timon. Come not to me again ; but say to Athens, 
 
 Timon hath made his everlasting mansion 
 Upon the beached verge of the salt flood . . . 
 
 It occurs also once in Antony and Cleopatra, when 
 Enobarbus is inspired to see Cleopatra in this 
 dramatic light : 
 
 The barge she sat in . . . 
 
 Shakespeare made fun of Marston, and Jonson made 
 fun of Kyd. But in Marston's play the words were 
 expressive of nothing ; and Jonson was criticizing the 
 feeble and conceited language, not the emotion, not 
 the " oratory." Jonson is as oratorical himself, and 
 the moments when his oratory succeeds are, I believe, 
 the moments that conform to our formula. Notably 
 the speech of Sylla's ghost in the induction to Catiline^ 
 and the speech of Envy at the beginning of The 
 
 74 
 
" Rhetoric " and Poetic Drama 
 
 Poetaster. These two figures are contemplating their 
 own dramatic importance, and quite properly. But 
 in the Senate speeches in Catiline^ how tedious, how 
 dusty ! Here we are spectators not of a play of 
 characters, but of a play of forensic, exactly as if we 
 had been forced to attend the sitting itself. A speech 
 in a play should never appear to be intended to move 
 us as it might conceivably move other characters in 
 the play, for it is essential that we should preserve 
 our position of spectators, and observe always from 
 the outside though with complete understanding. 
 The scene in Julius C&sar is right because the object 
 of our attention is not the speech of Antony 
 (^Bedeutung) but the effect of his speech upon the 
 rrfob, and Antony's intention, his preparation and 
 consciousness of the effect. And in the rhetorical 
 speeches from Shakespeare which have been cited, 
 we have this necessary advantage of a new clue to 
 the character, in noting the angle from which he 
 views himself. But when a character in a play makes 
 a direct appeal to us, we are either the victims of our 
 own sentiment, or we are in the presence of a vicious 
 rhetoric. 
 
 These references ought to supply some evidence of 
 the propriety of Cyrano on Noses. Is not Cyrano 
 exactly in this position of contemplating himself as 
 a romantic, a dramatic figure ? This dramatic sense 
 on the part of the characters themselves is rare in 
 modern drama. In sentimental drama it appears in 
 a degraded form, when we are evidently intended to 
 accept the character's sentimental interpretation of 
 himself. In plays of realism we often find parts which 
 are never allowed to be consciously dramatic, for fear, 
 75 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 perhaps, of their appearing less real. But in actual 
 life, in many of those situations in actual life which 
 we enjoy consciously and keenly, we are at times 
 aware of ourselves in this way, and these moments 
 are of very great usefulness to dramatic verse. A 
 very small part of acting is that which takes place on 
 the stage ! Rostand had whether he had anything 
 else or not this dramatic sense, and it is what gives 
 life to Cyrano. It is a sense which is almost a sense 
 of humour (for when anyone is conscious of himself 
 as acting, something like a sense of humour is present). 
 It gives Rostand's characters Cyrano at least a 
 gusto which is uncommon on the modern stage. No 
 doubt Rostand's people play up to this too steadily. 
 We recognize that in the love scenes of Cyrano in 
 the garden, for in Romeo and Juliet the profounder 
 dramatist shows his lovers melting into incoherent 
 unconsciousness of their isolated selves, shows the 
 human soul in the process of forgetting itself. Rostand 
 could not ,do that; but in the particular case of 
 Cyrano on Noses, the character, the situation, the 
 occasion were perfectly suited and combined. The 
 tirade generated by this combination is not only 
 genuinely and highly dramatic: it is possibly poetry 
 also. If a writer is incapable of composing such a scene 
 as this, so much the worse for his poetic drama. 
 
 Cyrano satisfies, as far as scenes like this can 
 satisfy, the requirements of poetic drama. It must 
 take genuine and substantial human emotions, such 
 emotions as observation can confirm, typical emotions, 
 and give them artistic form ; the degree of abstraction 
 is a question for the method of each author. In 
 Shakespeare the form is determined in the unity of 
 
"Rhetoric" and Poetic Drama 
 
 the whole, as well as single scenes ; it is something to 
 attain this unity, as Rostand does, in scenes if not the 
 whole play. Not only as a dramatist, but as a poet, 
 he is superior to Maeterlinck, whose drama, in failing 
 to be dramatic, fails also to be poetic. Maeterlinck 
 has a literary perception of the dramatic and a literary 
 perception of the poetic, and he joins the two; the 
 two are not, as sometimes they are in the work of 
 Rostand, fused. His characters take no conscious 
 delight in their role they are sentimental. With 
 Rostand the centre of gravity is in the expression of 
 the emotion, not as with Maeterlinck in the emotion 
 which cannot be expressed. Some writers appear to 
 believe that emotions gain in intensity through being 
 inarticulate. Perhaps the emotions are not significant 
 enough to endure full daylight. 
 
 In any case, we may take our choice : we may 
 apply the term "rhetoric" to the type of dramatic 
 speech which I have instanced, and then we must 
 admit that it covers good as well as bad. Or we may 
 choose to except this type of speech from rhetoric. 
 In that case we must say that rhetoric is any adornment 
 or inflation of speech which'is not done for a particular 
 effect but for a general impressiveness. And in this 
 case, too, we cannot allow the term to cover all bad 
 writing. 
 
 77 
 
Some Notes on the Blank Verse of Chris- 
 topher Marlowe o o o o o 
 
 " Marloe was stabd with a dagger, and dyed swearing " 
 
 A MORE friendly critic, Mr. A. C. Swinburne, 
 observes of this poet that "the father of 
 English tragedy and the creator of English blank 
 verse was therefore also the teacher and the guide of 
 Shakespeare." In this sentence there are two mis- 
 leading assumptions and two misleading conclusions. 
 Kyd has as good a title to the first honour as Mar- 
 lowe; Surrey has a better title to the second; and 
 Shakespeare was not taught or guided by one of his 
 predecessors or contemporaries alone. The less 
 questionable judgment is, that Marlowe exercised a 
 strong influence over later drama, though not himself 
 as great a dramatist as Kyd ; that he introduced 
 several new tones into blank verse, and commenced 
 the dissociative process which drew it farther and 
 farther away from the rhythms of rhymed verse ; 
 and that when Shakespeare borrowed from him, 
 which was pretty often at the beginning, Shake- 
 speare either made something inferior or something 
 different. 
 
 The comparative study of English versification at 
 various periods is a large tract of unwritten history. 
 To make a study of blank verse alone, would be to 
 78 
 
The Blank Verse of Christopher Marlowe 
 
 elicit some curious conclusions. It would show, I 
 believe, that blank verse within Shakespeare's lifetime 
 was more highly developed, that it became the vehicle 
 of more varied and more intense art-emotions than it 
 has ever conveyed since ; and that after the erection 
 of the Chinese Wall of Milton, blank verse has suffered 
 not only arrest but retrogression. That the blank 
 verse of Tennyson, for example, a consummate master 
 of this form in certain applications, is cruder (not 
 " rougher " or less perfect in technique) than that of 
 half a dozen contemporaries of Shakespeare ; cruder, 
 because less capable of expressing complicated, subtle, 
 and surprising emotions. 
 
 Every writer who has written any blank verse worth 
 saving has produced particular tones which his verse 
 and no other's is capable of rendering ; and we should 
 keep this in mind when we talk about " influences " 
 and "indebtedness." Shakespeare is "universal" 
 (if you like) because he has more of these tones than 
 anyone else ; but they are all out of the one man ; 
 one man cannot be more than one man ; there might 
 have been six Shakespeares at once without conflicting 
 frontiers; and to say that Shakespeare expressed 
 nearly all human emotions, implying that he left very 
 little for anyone else, is a radical misunderstanding of 
 art and the artist a misunderstanding which, even 
 when explicitly rejected, may lead to our neglecting 
 the effort of attention necessary to discover the specific 
 properties of the verse of Shakespeare's contemporaries. 
 The development of blank verse may be likened to 
 the analysis of that astonishing industrial product 
 coal-tar. Marlowe's verse is one of the earlier 
 derivatives, but it possesses properties which are not, 
 79 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 repeated in any of the analytic or synthetic blank 
 verses discovered somewhat later. 
 
 The "vices of style" of Marlowe's and Shake- 
 speare's age is a convenient name for a number of 
 vices, no one of which, perhaps, was shared by all 
 of the writers. It is pertinent, at least, to remark 
 that Marlowe's " rhetoric " is not, or not characteristi- 
 cally, Shakespeare's rhetoric ; that Marlowe's rhetoric 
 consists in a pretty simple huffe-snuffe bombast, while 
 Shakespeare's is more exactly a vice of style, a tortured 
 perverse ingenuity of images which dissipates instead 
 of concentrating the imagination, and which may be 
 due in part to influences by which Marlowe was 
 untouched. Next, we find that Marlowe's vice is 
 one which he was gradually attenuating, and even, 
 what is more miraculous, turning into a virtue. And 
 we find that this bard of torrential imagination recog- 
 nized many of his best bits (and those of one or two 
 others), saved them, and reproduced them more than 
 once, almost invariably improving them in the process. 
 
 It is worth while noticing a few of these versions, 
 because they indicate, somewhat contrary to usual 
 opinion, that Marlowe was a deliberate and conscious 
 workman. Mr. J. G. Robertson has spotted an 
 interesting theft of Marlowe's from Spenser. Here is 
 Spenser (Faery Queen t i. vii. 32) : 
 
 Like to an almond tree y-mounted high 
 
 On top of green Selinis all alone, 
 With blossoms brave bedecked daintily; 
 
 Whose tender locks do tremble every one 
 At every little breath that under heaven is blown. 
 
 And herejMarlowe (Tamburlaine^ Part II. Act iv. 
 sc. Hi.) : 
 
 80 
 
The Blank Verse of Christopher Marlowe 
 
 Like to an almond tree y-mounted high 
 
 Upon the lofty and celestial mount 
 
 Of evergreen Selinus, quaintly deck'd 
 
 With blooms more white than Erycina's brows, 
 
 Whose tender blossoms tremble every one 
 
 At every little breath that thorough heaven is blown. 
 
 This is interesting, not only as showing that 
 Marlowe's talent, like that of most poets, was partly 
 synthetic, but also because it seems to give a clue 
 to some particularly "lyric" effects found in Tam- 
 burlaine> not in Marlowe's other plays, and not, I 
 believe, anywhere else. For example, the praise of 
 Zenocrate in Part II. Act. n. sc. iv. : 
 
 Now walk the angels on the walls of heaven, 
 As sentinels to warn th* immortal souls 
 To entertain divine Zenocrate : etc. 
 
 This is not Spenser's movement, but the influence 
 of Spenser must be present. There had been no 
 great blank verse before Marlowe ; but there was the 
 powerful presence of this great master of melody 
 immediately precedent; and the combination pro- 
 duced results which could not be repeated. I do 
 not think that it can be claimed that Peele had any 
 influence here. 
 
 The passage quoted from Spenser has a further 
 interest. It will be noted that the fourth line : 
 
 With blooms more white than Erycina's brows 
 
 is Marlowe's contribution. Compare this with these 
 other lines of Marlowe : 
 
 So looks my love, shadowing in her brows 
 
 (Tamburtaine) 
 
 Like to the shadows of Pyramides 
 
 (Tambnrlainc) 
 
 F 8l 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 and the final and best version : 
 
 Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows 
 Than have the white breasts of the queen of love. 
 
 (Doctor Faustus) 
 
 and compare the whole set with Spenser again (f. Q.) : 
 
 Upon her eyelids many graces sate 
 Under the shadow of her even brows, 
 
 a passage which Mr. Robertson says Spenser himself 
 used in three other places. 
 
 This economy is frequent in Marlowe. Within 
 Tamburlaine it occurs in the form of monotony, 
 especially in the facile use of resonant names (e.g. 
 the recurrence of "Caspia" or "Caspian" with the 
 same tone effect), a practice in which Marlowe was 
 followed by Milton, but which Marlowe himself 
 outgrew. Again, 
 
 Zenocrate, lovlier than the love of Jove, 
 Brighter than is the silver Rhodope, 
 
 is paralleled later by 
 
 Zenocrate, the lovliest maid alive, 
 
 Fairer than rocks of pearl and precious stone. 
 
 One line Marlowe remodels with triumphant 
 success : 
 
 And set black streamers in the firmament 
 
 ( Tamburlaine) 
 
 becomes 
 
 See, see, where Christ's blood streams in the firmament ! 
 
 (Doctor Faustus) 
 
 The verse accomplishments of Tamburlaim are 
 notably two : Marlowe gets into blank verse the 
 82 
 
The Blank Verse of Christopher Marlowe 
 
 melody of Spenser, and he gets a new driving power 
 by reinforcing the sentence period against the line 
 period. The rapid long sentence, running line into 
 line, as in the famous soliloquies " Nature com- 
 pounded of four elements " and " What is beauty, 
 saith my sufferings, then ? " marks the certain escape 
 of blank verse from the rhymed couplet, and from 
 the elegiac or rather pastoral note of Surrey, to which 
 Tennyson returned. If you contrast these two solilo- 
 quies with the verse of Marlowe's greatest contem- 
 porary, Kyd by no means a despicable versifier 
 you see the importance of the innovation : 
 
 The one took sanctuary, and, being sent for out, 
 Was murdered in Southwark as he passed 
 To Greenwich, where the Lord Protector lay. 
 Black Will was burned in Flushing on a stage ; 
 Green was hanged at Osbridge in Kent . . . 
 
 which is not really inferior to : 
 
 So these four abode 
 
 Within one house together ; and as years 
 Went forward, Mary took another mate ; 
 But Dora lived unmarried till her death. 
 
 (Tennyson, Dora) 
 
 In Faustus Marlowe went farther : he broke up the 
 line, to a gain in intensity, in the last soliloquy ; and 
 he developed a new and important conversational 
 tone in the dialogues of Faustus with the devil. 
 Edward II. has never lacked consideration : it is 
 more desirable, in brief space, to remark upon two 
 plays, one of which has been misunderstood and the 
 other underrated. These are the Jew of Malta and 
 Dido Queen of Carthage. Of the first of these, it has 
 always been said that the end, even the last two acts, 
 
 83 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 are unworthy of the first three. If one takes the 
 Jew of Malta not as a tragedy, or as a " tragedy of 
 blood," but as a farce, the concluding act becomes 
 intelligible j and if we attend with a careful ear to the 
 versification, we find that Marlowe develops a tone 
 to suit this farce, and even perhaps that this tone is 
 his most powerful and mature tone. I say farce, but 
 with the enfeebled humour of our times the word is a 
 misnomer ; it is the farce of the old English humour, 
 the terribly serious, even savage comic humour, the 
 humour which spent its last breath on the decadent 
 genius of Dickens. It has nothing in common with 
 J. M. Barrie, Captain Bairnsfather, or Punch. It is 
 the humour of that very serious (but very different) 
 play, Volpone. 
 
 First, be thou void of these affections, 
 Compassion, love, vain hope, and heartless fear ; 
 Be moved at nothing, see thou pity none . . . 
 As for myself, I walk abroad o' nights, 
 And kill sick people groaning under walls : 
 Sometimes I go about and poison wells . . . 
 
 and the last words of Barabas complete this pro- 
 digious caricature : 
 
 But now begins th' extremity of heat 
 To pinch me with intolerable pangs : 
 Die, life ! fly, soul ! tongue, curse thy fill, and die ! 
 
 It is something which Shakespeare could not do, 
 and which he could not have understood. 
 
 Dido appears to be a hurried play, perhaps done to 
 order with the sEneid in front of him. But even here 
 there is progress. The account of the sack of Troy 
 is in this newer style of Marlowe's, this style which 
 
The Blank Verse of Christopher Marlowe 
 
 secures its emphasis by always hesitating on the edge 
 of caricature at the right moment : 
 
 The Grecian soldiers, tir'd with ten years war, 
 Began to cry, " Let us unto our ships, 
 Troy is invincible, why stay we here?" . . . 
 
 By this, the camp was come unto the walls, 
 
 And through the breach did march into the streets, 
 
 Where, meeting with the rest, " Kill, kill ! " they cried. . . . 
 
 And after him, his band of Myrmidons, 
 
 With balls of wild-fire in their murdering paws . . . 
 
 At last, the soldiers pull'd her by the heels, 
 And swung her howling in the empty air. . . . 
 
 We saw Cassandra sprawling in the streets . . . 
 
 This is not Vergil, or Shakespeare; it is pure 
 Marlowe. By comparing the whole speech with 
 Clarence's dream, in Richard ///., one acquires a 
 little insight into the difference between Marlowe and 
 Shakespeare : 
 
 What scourge for perjury 
 Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence? 
 
 There, on the other hand, is what Marlowe's style 
 could not do ; the phrase has a concision which is 
 almost classical, certainly Dantesque. Again, as often 
 with the Elizabethan dramatists, there are lines in 
 Marlowe, besides the many lines that Shakespeare 
 adapted, that might have been written by either : 
 
 If thou wilt stay, 
 
 Leap in mine arms ; mine arms are open wide ; 
 If not, turn from me, and I'll turn from thee ; 
 For though thou hast the heart to say farewell, 
 I have not power to stay thee. 
 
 85 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 But the direction in which Marlowe's verse might 
 have moved, had he not " dyed swearing," is quite un- 
 Shakespearean, is toward this intense and serious and 
 indubitably great poetry, which, like some great 
 painting and sculpture, attains its effects by some- 
 thing not unlike caricature. 
 
 86 
 
Hamlet and His Problems & <* o 
 
 FEW critics have even admitted that Hamlet 
 the play is the primary problem, and Hamlet the 
 character only secondary. And Hamlet the character 
 has had an especial temptation for that most danger- 
 ous type of critic : the critic with a mind which is 
 naturally of the creative order, but which through 
 some weakness in creative power exercises itself in 
 criticism instead. These minds often find in Hamlet 
 a vicarious existence for their own artistic realization. 
 Such a mind had Goethe, who made of Hamlet a 
 Werther; and such had Coleridge, who made of 
 Hamlet a Coleridge ; and probably neither of these 
 men in writing about Hamlet remembered that his 
 first business was to study a work of art. The kind 
 of criticism that Goethe and Coleridge produced, in 
 writing of Hamlet, is the most misleading kind 
 possible. For they both possessed unquestionable 
 critical insight, and both make their critical aberrations 
 the more plausible by the substitution of their own 
 Hamlet for Shakespeare's which their creative gift 
 effects. We should be thankful that Walter Pater 
 did not fix his attention on this play. 
 
 Two recent writers, Mr. J. M. Robertson and 
 
 Professor Stoll of the University of Minnesota, have 
 
 issued small books which can be praised for moving 
 
 in the other direction. Mr. Stoll performs a service 
 
 87 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 in recalling to our attention the labours of the critics 
 of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, 1 observing 
 that 
 
 they knew less about psychology than more recent 
 Hamlet critics, but they were nearer in spirit to 
 Shakespeare's art ; and as they insisted on the im- 
 portance of the effect of the whole rather than on 
 the importance of the leading character, they were 
 nearer, in their old-fashioned way, to the secret of 
 dramatic art in general. 
 
 Qua work of art, the work of art cannot be inter- 
 preted; there is nothing to interpret; we can only 
 criticize it according to standards, in comparison to 
 other works of art ; and for " interpretation " the chief 
 task is the presentation of relevant historical facts 
 which the reader is not assumed to know. Mr. 
 Robertson points out, very pertinently, how critics have 
 failed in their " interpretation " of Hamlet by ignor- 
 ing what ought to be very obvious: that Hamlet 
 is a stratification, that it represents the efforts of a 
 series of men, each making what he could out of the 
 work of his predecessors. The Hamlet of Shake- 
 speare will appear to us very differently if, instead of 
 treating the whole action of the play as due to Shake- 
 speare's design, we perceive his Hamlet to be super- 
 posed upon much cruder material which persists even 
 in the final form. 
 
 We know that there was an older play by Thomas 
 Kyd, that extraordinary dramatic (if not poetic) genius 
 who was in all probability the author of two plays so 
 dissimilar as the Spanish Tragedy and Arden of 
 
 1 1 have never, by the way, seen a cogent refutation of Thomas 
 Rymer's objections to Othello* 
 
 88 
 
Hamlet and His Problems 
 
 Fever sham \ and what this play was like we can 
 guess from three clues : from the Spanish Tragedy 
 itself, from the tale of Belleforest upon which Kyd's 
 Hamlet must have been based, and from a version 
 acted in Germany in Shakespeare's lifetime which 
 bears strong evidence of having been adapted from 
 the earlier, not from the later, play. From these three 
 sources it is clear that in the earlier play the motive 
 was a revenge-motive simply ; that the action or delay 
 is caused, as in the Spanish Tragedy, solely by the 
 difficulty of assassinating a monarch surrounded by 
 guards; and that the "madness" of Hamlet was 
 feigned in order to escape suspicion, and successfully. 
 In the final play of Shakespeare, on the other hand, 
 there is a motive which is more important than that 
 of revenge, and which explicitly " blunts " the latter ; 
 the delay in revenge is unexplained on grounds of 
 necessity or expediency ; and the effect of the " mad- 
 ness " is not to lull but to arouse the king's suspicion. 
 The alteration is not complete enough, however, to 
 be convincing. Furthermore, there are verbal parallels 
 so close to the Spanish Tragedy as to leave no doubt 
 that in places Shakespeare was merely revising the 
 text of Kyd. And finally there are unexplained scenes 
 the Polonius-Laertes and the Polonius-Reynaldo 
 scenes for which there is little excuse ; these scenes 
 are not in the verse style of Kyd, and not beyond doubt 
 in the style of Shakespeare. These Mr. Robertson 
 believes to be scenes in the original play of Kyd 
 reworked by a third hand, perhaps Chapman, before 
 Shakespeare touched the play. And he concludes, 
 with very strong show of reason, that the origina 
 play of Kyd was, like certain other revenge plays, 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 in two parts of five acts each. The upshot of Mr. 
 Robertson's examination is, we believe, irrefragable : 
 that Shakespeare's Hamlet, so far as it is Shake- 
 speare's, is a play dealing with the effect of a mother's 
 guilt upon her son, and that Shakespeare was unable 
 to impose this motive successfully upon the "in- 
 tractable " material of the old play. 
 
 Of the intractability there can be no doubt. So 
 far from being Shakespeare's masterpiece, the play is 
 most certainly an artistic failure. In several ways the 
 play is puzzling, and disquieting as is none of the 
 others. Of all the plays it is the longest and is 
 possibly the one on which Shakespeare spent most 
 pains ; and yet he has left in it superfluous and incon- 
 sistent scenes which even hasty revision should have 
 noticed. The versification is variable. Lines like 
 
 Look, the morn, in russet mantle clad, 
 Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill, 
 
 are of the Shakespeare of Romeo and Juliet* The 
 lines in Act v. sc. ii., 
 
 Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting 
 
 That would not let me sleep . . . 
 
 Up from my cabin, 
 
 My sea-gown scarfd about me, in the dark 
 
 Grop'd I to find out them : had my desire ; 
 
 Finger'd their packet ; 
 
 are of his quite mature. Both workmanship and 
 thought are in an unstable condition. We are surely 
 justified in attributing the play, with that other pro- 
 foundly interesting play of " intractable " material and 
 astonishing versification, Measure for Measure, to a 
 period of crisis, after which follow the tragic successes 
 90 
 
Hamlet and His Problems 
 
 which culminate in Coriolanus. Coriolanus may 
 be not as "interesting" as Hamlet, but it is, with 
 Antony and Cleopatra, Shakespeare's most assured 
 artistic success. And probably more people have 
 thought Hamlet a work of art because they found 
 it interesting, than have found it interesting because 
 it is a work of art. It is the "Mona Lisa" of 
 literature. 
 
 The grounds of Hamlefs failure are not 
 immediately obvious. Mr. Robertson is undoubtedly 
 correct in concluding that the essential emotion of 
 the play is the feeling of a son towards a guilty 
 mother : 
 
 [Hamlet's] tone is that of one who has suffered 
 tortures on the score of his mother's degradation. . . . 
 The guilt of a mother is an almost intolerable 
 motive for drama, but it had to be maintained and 
 emphasized to supply a psychological solution, or 
 rather a hint of one. 
 
 This, however, is by no means the whole story. It is 
 not merely the " guilt of a mother " that cannot be 
 handled as Shakespeare handled the suspicion of 
 Othello, the infatuation of Antony, or the pride of 
 Coriolanus. The subject might conceivably have 
 expanded into a tragedy like these, intelligible, 
 self-complete, in the sunlight. Hamlet, like the 
 sonnets, is full of some stuff that the writer could not 
 drag to light, contemplate, or manipulate into art. 
 And when we search for this feeling, we find it, as in 
 the sonnets, very difficult to localize. You cannot 
 point to it in the speeches ; indeed, if you examine 
 the two famous soliloquies you see the versification of 
 Shakespeare, but a content which might be claimed 
 91 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 by another, perhaps by the author of the Revenge of 
 Bussy d'AmboiS) Act v. sc. i. We find Shakespeare's 
 Hamlet not in the action, not in any quotations 
 that we might select, so much as in an unmistakable 
 tone which is unmistakably not in the earlier play. 
 
 The only way of expressing emotion in the form of 
 art is by finding an " objective correlative " ; in other 
 words, a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events 
 which shall be the formula of that particular emotion ; 
 such that when the external facts, which must ter- 
 minate in sensory experience, are given, the emotion 
 is immediately evoked. If you examine any of 
 Shakespeare's more successful tragedies, you will find 
 this exact equivalence ; you will find that the state of 
 mind of Lady Macbeth walking in her sleep has been 
 communicated to you by a skilful accumulation of 
 imagined sensory impressions ; the words of Macbeth 
 on hearing of his wife's death strike us as if, given the 
 sequence of events, these words were automatically 
 released by the last event in the series. The artistic 
 " inevitability " lies in this complete adequacy of the 
 external to the emotion ; and this is precisely what is 
 deficient in Hamlet. Hamlet (the man) is domin- 
 ated by an emotion which is inexpressible, because it 
 is in excess of the facts as they appear. And the 
 supposed identity of Hamlet with his author is 
 genuine to this point : that Hamlet's bafflement at the 
 absence of objective equivalent to his feelings is a 
 prolongation of the bafflement of his creator in the face 
 of his artistic problem. Hamlet is up against the 
 difficulty that his disgust is occasioned by his mother, 
 but that his mother is not an adequate equivalent for 
 it ; his disgust envelops and exceeds her. It is thus 
 92 
 
Hamlet and His Problems 
 
 a feeling which he cannot understand; he cannot 
 objectify it, and it therefore remains to poison life and 
 obstruct action. None of the possible actions can 
 satisfy it ; and nothing that Shakespeare can do with 
 the plot can express Hamlet for him. And it must be 
 noticed that the very nature of the donn'ees of the 
 problem precludes objective equivalence. To have 
 heightened the criminality of Gertrude would have 
 been to provide the formula for a totally different 
 emotion in Hamlet; it is just because her character 
 is so negative and insignificant that she arouses in 
 Hamlet the feeling which she is incapable of repre- 
 senting. 
 
 The "madness" of Hamlet lay to Shakespeare's 
 
 hand ; in the earlier play a simple ruse, and to the 
 
 end, we may presume, understood as a ruse by the 
 
 audience. For Shakespeare it is less than madness 
 
 and more than feigned. The levity of Hamlet, his 
 
 repetition of phrase, his puns, are not part of a 
 
 deliberate plan of dissimulation, but a form of 
 
 emotional relief. In the character Hamlet it is the 
 
 buffoonery of an emotion which can find no outlet 
 
 in action ; in the dramatist it is the buffoonery of an 
 
 emotion which he cannot express in art. The intense 
 
 feeling, ecstatic or terrible, without an object or 
 
 exceeding its object, is something which every person 
 
 of sensibility has known; it is doubtless a study to 
 
 pathologists. It often occurs in adolescence: the 
 
 ordinary person puts these feelings to sleep, or trims 
 
 down his feeling to fit the business world ; the artist 
 
 keeps it alive by his ability to intensify the world 
 
 to his emotions. The Hamlet of Laforgue is an 
 
 adolescent ; the Hamlet of Shakespeare is not, he has 
 
 93 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 not that explanation and excuse. We must simply 
 admit that here Shakespeare tackled a problem which 
 proved too much for him. Why he attempted it at 
 all is an insoluble puzzle ; under compulsion of what 
 experience he attempted to express the inexpressibly 
 horrible, we cannot ever know. We need a great 
 many facts in his biography ; and we should like to 
 know whether, and when, and after or at the same 
 time as what personal experience, he read Montaigne, 
 n. xii., Apologie de Raimond Sebond. We should 
 have, finally, to know something which is by 
 hypothesis unknowable, for we assume it to be an 
 experience which, in the manner indicated, exceeded 
 the facts. We should have to understand things 
 which Shakespeare did not understand himself. 
 
 94 
 
Ben Jonson *> *> o o o 
 
 THE reputation of Jonson has been of the 
 most deadly kind that can be compelled upon 
 the memory of a great poet. To be universally ac- 
 cepted ; to be damned by the praise that quenches 
 all desire to read the book; to be afflicted by the 
 imputation of the virtues which excite the least 
 pleasure ; and to be read only by historians and anti- 
 quaries this is the most perfect conspiracy of ap- 
 proval. For some generations the reputation of 
 Jonson has been carried rather as a liability than as 
 an asset in the balance-sheet of English literature. 
 No critic has succeeded in making him appear 
 pleasurable or even interesting. Swinburne's book on 
 Jonson satisfies no curiosity and stimulates no 
 thought. For the critical study in the "Men of 
 Letters Series" by Mr. Gregory Smith there is a 
 place; it satisfies curiosity, it supplies many just 
 observations, it provides valuable matter on the 
 neglected masques ; it only fails to remodel the image 
 of Jonson which is settled in our minds. Probably 
 the fault lies with several generations of our poets. It 
 is not that the value of poetry is only its value to 
 living poets for their own work ; but appreciation is 
 akin to creation, and true enjoyment of poetry is 
 related to the stirring of suggestion, the stimulus that 
 95 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 a poet feels in his enjoyment of other poetry. Jonson 
 has provided no creative stimulus for a very long time ; 
 consequently we must look back as far as Dryden 
 precisely, a poetic practitioner who learned from Jonson 
 before we find a living criticism of Jonson's work. 
 
 Yet there are possibilities for Jonson even now. 
 We have no difficulty in seeing what brought him to 
 this pass; how, in contrast, not with Shakespeare, 
 but with Marlowe, Webster, Donne, Beaumont, and 
 Fletcher, he has been paid out with reputation instead 
 of enjoyment. He is no less a poet than these men, 
 but his poetry is of the surface. Poetry of the surface 
 cannot be understood without study; for to deal 
 with the surface of life, as Jonson dealt with it, is to 
 deal so deliberately that we too must be deliberate, 
 in order to understand. Shakespeare, and smaller 
 men also, are in the end more difficult, but they offer 
 something at the start to encourage the student or to 
 satisfy those who want nothing more; they are 
 suggestive, evocative, a phrase, a voice; they offer 
 poetry in detail as well as in design. So does Dante 
 offer something, a phrase everywhere (tu se' ombra ed 
 ombra vedi) even to readers who have no Italian ; and 
 Dante and Shakespeare have poetry of design as well 
 as of detail. But the polished veneer of Jonson 
 reflects only the lazy reader's fatuity; unconscious 
 does not respond to unconscious ; no swarms of in- 
 articulate feelings are aroused. The immediate 
 appeal of Jonson is to the mind ; his emotional tone 
 is not in the single verse, but in the design of the 
 whole. But not many people are capable of discover- 
 ing for themselves the beauty which is only found 
 after labour; and Jonson's industrious readers have 
 
 96 
 
Ben Jonson 
 
 been those whose interest was historical and curious, 
 and those who have thought that in discovering the 
 historical and curious interest they had discovered the 
 artistic value as well. When we say that Jonson 
 requires study, we do not mean study of his classical 
 scholarship or of seventeenth-century manners. We 
 mean intelligent saturation in his work as a whole ; 
 we mean that in order to enjoy him at all, we must 
 get to the centre of his work and his temperament, 
 and that we must see him unbiased by time, as a 
 contemporary. And to see him as a contemporary 
 does not so much require the power of putting our- 
 selves into seventeenth-century London as it requires 
 the power of setting Jonson in our London : a more 
 difficult triumph of divination. 
 
 It is generally conceded that Jonson failed as a 
 tragic dramatist; and it is usually agreed that he 
 failed because his genius was for satiric comedy and 
 because of the weight of pedantic learning with which 
 he burdened his two tragic failures. The second 
 point marks an obvious error of detail ; the first is 
 too crude a statement to be accepted ; to say that he 
 failed because his genius was unsuited to tragedy is 
 to tell us nothing at all. Jonson did not write a 
 good tragedy, but we can see no reason why he should 
 not have written one. If two plays so different 
 as The Tempest and The Silent Woman are both 
 comedies, surely the category of tragedy could be 
 made wide enough to include something possible for 
 Jonson to have done. But the classification of 
 tragedy and comedy, while it may be sufficient to 
 mark the distinction in a dramatic literature of more 
 rigid form and treatment it may distinguish Aristo- 
 G 97 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 phanes from Euripides is not adequate to a drama 
 of such variations as the Elizabethans. Tragedy is a 
 crude classification for plays so different in their 
 tone as Macbeth, The Jew of Malta, and The Witch of 
 Edmonton ; and it does not help us much to say 
 that The Merchant of Venice and The Alchemist are 
 comedies. Jonson had his own scale, his own in- 
 strument. The merit which Catiline possesses is the 
 same merit that is exhibited more triumphantly in 
 Volpone \ Catiline fails, not because it is too laboured 
 and conscious, but because it is not conscious 
 enough; because Jonson in this play was not alert 
 to his own idiom, not clear in his mind as to what 
 his temperament wanted him to do. In Catiline 
 Jonson conforms, or attemps to conform, to con- 
 ventions ; not to the conventions of antiquity, which 
 he had exquisitely under control, but to the con- 
 ventions of tragico-historical drama of his time. It 
 is not the Latin erudition that sinks Catiline, but 
 the application of that erudition to a form which was 
 not the proper vehicle for the mind which had 
 amassed the erudition. 
 
 If you look at Catiline that dreary Pyrrhic victory 
 of tragedy you find two passages to be successful : 
 Act ii. scene i, the dialogue of the political ladies, 
 and the Prologue of Sylla's ghost. These two 
 passages are genial. The soliloquy of the ghost 
 is a characteristic Jonson success in content and in 
 versification 
 
 Dost thou not feel me, Rome ? not yet ! is night 
 
 So heavy on thee, and my weight so light? 
 
 Can Sylla's ghost arise within thy walls, 
 
 Less threatening^than an earthquake, the'quick falls 
 
 98 
 
Ben Jonson 
 
 Of thee and thine ? Shake not the frighted heads 
 
 Of thy steep towers, or shrink to their first beds? 
 
 Or as their ruin the large Tyber fills. 
 
 Make that swell up, and drown thy seven proud hills? . . . 
 
 This is the learned, but also the creative, Jonson. 
 Without concerning himself with the character of 
 Sulla, and in lines of invective, Jonson makes Sylla's 
 ghost, while the words are spoken, a living and 
 terrible force. The words fall with as determined 
 beat as if they were the will of the morose Dictator 
 himself. You may say : merely invective ; but mere 
 invective, even if as superior to the clumsy fisticuffs 
 of Marston and Hall as Jonson's verse is superior to 
 theirs, would not create a living figure as Jonson has 
 done in this long tirade. And you may say : rhetoric ; 
 but if we are to call it "rhetoric" we must subject 
 that term to a closer dissection than any to which it 
 is accustomed. What Jonson has done here is not 
 merely a fine speech. It is the careful, precise filling 
 in of a strong and simple outline, and at no point 
 does it overflow the outline ; it is far more careful and 
 precise in its obedience to this outline than are many 
 of the speeches in Tamburlainc. The outline is not 
 Sulla, for Sulla has nothing to do with it, but " Sylla's 
 ghost." The words may not be suitable to an 
 historical Sulla, or to anybody in history, but they 
 are a perfect expression for "Sylla's ghost." You 
 cannot say they are rhetorical "because people do 
 not talk like that," you cannot call them "verbi- 
 age " ; they do not exhibit prolixity or redundancy or 
 the other vices in the rhetoric books; there is a 
 definite artistic emotion which demands expression at 
 that length. The words themselves are mostly simple 
 90 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 words, the syntax is natural, the language austere 
 rather than adorned. Turning then to the induction 
 of The Poetaster^ we find another success of the same 
 kind- 
 Light, I salute thee, but with wounded nerves . . . 
 
 Men may not talk in that way, but the spirit of envy 
 does, and in the words of Jonson envy is a real and 
 living person. It is not human life that informs envy 
 and Sylla's ghost, but it is energy of which human 
 life is only another variety. 
 
 Returning to Catiline^ we find that the best scene 
 in the body of the play is one which cannot be 
 squeezed into a tragic frame, and which appears to 
 belong to satiric comedy. The scene between Fulvia 
 and Galla and Sempronia is a living scene in a 
 wilderness of oratory. And as it recalls other scenes 
 there is a suggestion of the college of ladies in The 
 Silent Woman it looks like a comedy scene. And it 
 appears to be satire. 
 
 They shall all give and pay well, that come here, 
 
 If they will have it ; and that, jewels, pearl, 
 
 Plate, or round sums to buy these. I'm not taken 
 
 With a cob-swan or a high-mounting bull, 
 
 As foolish Leda and Europa were ; 
 
 But the bright gold, with Danae. For such price 
 
 I would endure a rough, harsh Jupiter, 
 
 Or ten such thundering gamesters, and refrain 
 
 To laugh at 'em, till they are gone, with my much suffering. 
 
 This scene is no more comedy than it is tragedy, and 
 the " satire " is merely a medium for the essential 
 emotion. Jonson's drama is only incidentally satire, 
 because it is only incidentally a criticism upon the 
 100 
 
Ben Jonson 
 
 actual world. It is not satire in the way in which 
 the work of Swift or the work of Moliere may be 
 called satire : that is, it does not find its source in 
 any precise emotional attitude or precise intellectual 
 criticism of the actual world. It is satire perhaps as 
 the work of Rabelais is satire ; certainly not more so. 
 The important thing is that if fiction can be divided 
 into creative fiction and critical fiction, Jonson's is 
 creative. That he was a great critic, our first great 
 critic, does not affect this assertion. Every creator 
 is also a critic ; Jonson was a conscious critic, but he 
 was also conscious in his creations. Certainly, one 
 sense in which the term " critical " may be applied to 
 fiction is a sense in which the term might be used 
 of a method antithetical to Jonson's. It is the 
 method of Education Sentimentale. The characters of 
 Jonson, of Shakespeare, perhaps of all the greatest 
 drama, are drawn in positive and simple outlines. 
 They may be filled in, and by Shakespeare they are 
 filled in, by much detail or many shifting aspects; 
 but a clear and sharp and simple form remains 
 through these though it would be hard to say in 
 what the clarity and sharpness and simplicity of 
 Hamlet consists. But Fre'de'ric Moreau is not made 
 in that way. He is constructed partly by negative 
 definition, built up by a great number of observa- 
 tions. We cannot isolate him from the environment 
 in which we find him; it may be an environment 
 which is or can be much universalized ; nevertheless 
 it, and the figure in it, consist of very many observed 
 particular facts, the actual world. Without this world 
 the figure dissolves. The ruling faculty is a critical 
 perception, a commentary upon experienced feeling 
 101 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 and sensation. If this is true of Flaubert, it is true 
 in a higher degree of Moliere than of Jonson. The 
 broad farcical lines of Moliere may seem to be the 
 same drawing as Jonson's. But Moliere say in 
 Alceste or Monsieur Jourdain is criticizing the 
 actual; the reference to the actual world is more 
 direct. And having a more tenuous reference, the 
 work of Jonson is much less directly satirical. 
 
 This leads us to the question of Humours. 
 Largely on the evidence of the two Humour plays, 
 it is sometimes assumed that Jonson is occupied with 
 types ; typical exaggerations, or exaggerations of type. 
 The Humour definition, the expressed intention of 
 Jonson, may be satisfactory for these two plays. 
 Every Man in his Humour is the first mature work 
 of Jonson, and the student of Jonson must study it ; 
 but it is not the play in which Jonson found his 
 genius : it is the last of his plays to read first. If one 
 reads Volpone, and after that re-reads the Jew of 
 Malta ; then returns to Jonson and reads Bartholomeiv 
 Fair, The Alchemist, Epicxne and The Devil is an 
 Ass, and finally Catiline, it is possible to arrive at a 
 fair opinion of the poet and the dramatist. 
 
 The Humour, even at the beginning, is not a type, 
 as in Marston's satire, but a simplified and somewhat 
 distorted individual with a typical mania. In the 
 later work, the Humour definition quite fails to 
 account for the total effect produced. The characters 
 of Shakespeare are such as might exist in different 
 circumstances than those in which Shakespeare sets 
 them. The latter appear to be those which extract 
 from the characters the most intense and interesting 
 realization; but that realization has not exhausted 
 I O2 
 
Ben Jonson 
 
 their possibilities. Volpone's life, on the other hand, 
 is bounded by the scene in which it is played; in 
 fact, the life is the life of the scene and is derivatively 
 the life of Volpone; the life of the character is 
 inseparable from the life of the drama. This is not 
 dependence upon a background, or upon a substratum 
 of fact. The emotional effect is single and simple. 
 Whereas in Shakespeare the effect is due to the way 
 in which the characters act upon one another, in 
 Jonson it is given by the way in which the characters 
 fit in with each other. The artistic result of Volpone 
 is not due to any effect that Volpone, Mosca, 
 Corvino, Corbaccio, Voltore have upon each other, 
 but simply to their combination into a whole. And 
 these figures are not personifications of passions; 
 separately, they have not even that reality, they are 
 constituents. It is a similar indication of Jonson's 
 method that you can hardly pick out a line of 
 Jonson's and say confidently that it is great poetry ; 
 but there are many extended passages to which you 
 cannot deny that honour. 
 
 I will have all my beds blown up, not stuft ; 
 Down is too hard ; and then, mine oval room 
 Fill'd with such pictures as Tiberius took 
 From Elephantis, and dull Aretine 
 But coldly imitated. Then, my glasses 
 Cut in more subtle angles, to disperse 
 And multiply the figures, as I walk. . . . 
 
 Jonson is the legitimate heir of Marlowe. The 
 man who wrote, in Volpone : 
 
 for thy love, 
 
 In varying figures, I would have contended 
 With the blue Proteus, or the horned flood. . . . 
 103 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 and 
 
 See, a carbuncle 
 
 May put out both the eyes of our Saint Mark ; 
 A diamond would have bought Lollia Paulina, 
 When she came in like star-light, hid with jewels. . . . 
 
 is related to Marlowe as a poet ; and if Marlowe is 
 a poet, Jonson is also. And, if Jonson's comedy is 
 a comedy of humours, then Marlowe's tragedy, a large 
 part of it, is a tragedy of humours. But Jonson has 
 too exclusively been considered as the typical repre- 
 sentative of a point of view toward comedy. He has 
 suffered from his great reputation as a critic and 
 theorist, from the effects of his intelligence. We 
 have been taught to think of him as the man, the 
 dictator (confusedly in our minds with his later 
 namesake), as the literary politician impressing his 
 views upon a generation; we are offended by 
 the constant reminder of his scholarship. We 
 forget the comedy in the humours, and the serious 
 artist in the scholar. Jonson has suffered in public 
 opinion, as anyone must suffer who is forced to talk 
 about his art. 
 
 If you examine the first hundred lines or more of 
 Volpone the verse appears to be in the manner of 
 Marlowe, more deliberate, more mature, but without 
 Marlowe's inspiration. It looks like mere " rhetoric," 
 certainly not "deeds and language such as men do 
 use " ! It appears to us, in fact, forced and flagitious 
 bombast. That it is not " rhetoric," or at least not 
 vicious rhetoric, we do not know until we are able 
 to review the whole play. For the consistent main- 
 tenance "of this manner conveys in the end an effect 
 not of verbosity, but of bold, even shocking and 
 104 
 
Ben Jonson 
 
 terrifying directness. We have difficulty in saying 
 exactly what produces this simple and single effect. 
 It is not in any ordinary way due to management of 
 intrigue. Jonson employs immense dramatic con- 
 structive skill : it is not so much skill in plot as skill 
 in doing without a plot. He never manipulates as 
 complicated a plot as that of The Merchant of Venice ; 
 he has in his best plays nothing like the intrigue of 
 Restoration comedy. In Bartholomew Fair it is 
 hardly a plot at all; the marvel of the play is the 
 bewildering rapid chaotic action of the fair ; it is the 
 fair itself, not anything that happens to take place 
 in the fair. In Volpone, or The Alchemist^ or The 
 Silent Woman> the plot is enough to keep the players 
 in motion ; it is rather an " action " than a plot. The 
 plot does not hold the play together ; what holds the 
 play together is a unity of inspiration that radiates 
 into plot and personages alike. 
 
 We have attempted to make more precise the sense 
 in which it was said that Jonson's work is "of the 
 surface " ; carefully avoiding the word " superficial." 
 For there is work contemporary with Jonson's which 
 is superficial in a pejorative sense in which the word 
 cannot be applied to Jonson the work of Beaumont 
 and Fletcher. If we look at the work of Jonson's 
 great contemporaries, Shakespeare, and also Donne 
 and Webster and Tourneur (and sometimes Middleton), 
 have a depth, a third dimension, as Mr. Gregory 
 Smith rightly calls it, which Jonson's work has not. 
 Their words have often a network of tentacular roots 
 reaching down to the deepest terrors and desires. 
 Jonson's most certainly have not ; but in Beaumont 
 and Fletcher we may think that at times we find it. 
 105 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 Looking closer, we discover that the blossoms of 
 Beaumont and Fletcher's imagination draw no sus- 
 tenance from the soil, but are cut and slightly 
 withered flowers stuck into sand. 
 
 Wilt thou, hereafter, when they talk of me, 
 
 As thou shalt hear nothing but infamy, 
 
 Remember some of these things? . . . 
 
 I pray thee, do ; for thou shalt never see me so again. 
 
 Hair woven in many a curious warp, 
 Able in endless error to enfold 
 The wandering soul ; . . . 
 
 Detached from its context, this looks like the verse 
 of the greater poets ; just as lines of Jonson, detached 
 from their context, look like inflated or empty fustian. 
 But the evocative quality of the verse of Beaumont 
 and Fletcher depends upon a clever appeal to 
 emotions and associations which they have not them- 
 selves grasped; it is hollow. It is superficial with 
 a vacuum behind it; the superficies of Jonson is 
 solid. It is what it is; it does not pretend to be 
 another thing. But it is so very conscious and 
 deliberate that we must look with eyes alert to the 
 whole before we apprehend the significance of any 
 part. We cannot call a man's work superficial when 
 it is the creation of a world ; a man cannot be 
 accused of dealing superficially with the world which 
 he himself has created ; the superficies is the world. 
 Jonson's characters conform to the logic of the 
 emotions of their world. It is a world like Lobat- 
 chevsky's ; the worlds created by artists like Jonson 
 are like systems of non-Euclidean geometry. They 
 are not fancy, because they have a logic of their 
 own ; and this logic illuminates the actual world, 
 106 
 
Ben Jonson 
 
 because it gives us a new point of view from which 
 to inspect it. 
 
 A writer of power and intelligence, Jonson en- 
 deavoured to promulgate, as a formula and programme 
 of reform, what he chose to do himself; and he not 
 unnaturally laid down in abstract theory what is in 
 reality a personal point of view. And it is in the end 
 of no value to discuss Jonson's theory and practice 
 unless we recognize and seize this point of view, 
 which escapes the formulae, and which is what makes 
 his plays worth reading. Jonson behaved as the 
 great creative mind that he was : he created his own 
 world, a world from which his followers, as well as 
 the dramatists who were trying to do something 
 wholly different, are excluded. Remembering this, 
 we turn to Mr. Gregory Smith's objection that 
 Jonson's characters lack the third dimension, have no 
 life out of the theatrical existence in which they 
 appear and demand an inquest. The objection 
 implies that the characters are purely the work of 
 intellect, or the result of superficial observation of 
 a world which is faded or mildewed. It implies that 
 the characters are lifeless. But if we dig beneath the 
 theory, beneath the observation, beneath the deliberate 
 drawing and the theatrical and dramatic elaboration, 
 there is discovered a kind of power, animating 
 Volpone, Busy, Fitzdottrel, the literary ladies of 
 Epiccene, even Bobadil, which comes from below 
 the intellect, and for which no theory of humours 
 will account. And it is the same kind of power 
 which vivifies Trimalchio, and Panurge, and some 
 but not all of the "comic" characters of Dickens. 
 The fictive life of this kind is not to be circum- 
 107 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 scribed by a reference to " comedy " or to " farce " ; 
 it is not exactly the kind of life which informs the 
 characters of Moliere or that which informs those of 
 Marivaux two writers who were, besides, doing 
 something quite different the one from the other. 
 But it is something which distinguishes Barabas from 
 Shylock, Epicure Mammon from Falstaff, Faustus 
 from if you will Macbeth ; Marlowe and Jonson 
 from Shakespeare and the Shakespearians, Webster, 
 and Tourneur. It is not merely Humours: for 
 neither Volpone nor Mosca is a humour. No theory 
 of humours could account for Jonson's best plays or 
 the best characters in them. We want to know at 
 what point the comedy of humours passes into a work 
 of art, and why Jonson is not Brome. 
 
 The creation of a work of art, we will say the crea- 
 tion of a character in a drama, consists in the process 
 of transfusion of the personality, or, in a deeper sense, 
 the life, of the author into the character. This is a 
 very different matter from the orthodox creation in 
 one's own image. The ways in which the passions 
 and desires of the creator may be satisfied in the work 
 of art are complex and devious. In a painter they 
 may take the form of a predilection for certain colours, 
 tones, or lightings; in a writer the original impulse 
 may be even more strangely transmuted. Now, we 
 may say with Mr. Gregory Smith that Falstaff or a 
 score of Shakespeare's characters have a "third 
 dimension " that Jonson's have not. This will mean, 
 not that Shakespeare's spring from the feelings or 
 imagination and Jonson's from the intellect or inven- 
 tion ; they have equally an emotional source ; but that 
 Shakespeare's represent a more complex tissue of 
 108 
 
Ben Jonson 
 
 feelings and desires, as well as a more supple, a more 
 susceptible temperament. Falstaff is not only the 
 roast Malmesbury ox with the pudding in his belly ; 
 he also " grows old," and, finally, his nose is as sharp 
 as a pen. He was perhaps the satisfaction of more, 
 and of more complicated feelings ; and perhaps he was, 
 as the great tragic characters must have been, the off- 
 spring of deeper, less apprehensible feelings : deeper, 
 but not necessarily stronger or more intense, than 
 those of Jonson. It is obvious that the spring of the 
 difference is not the difference between feeling and 
 thought, or superior insight, superior perception, on the 
 part of Shakespeare, but his susceptibility to a greater 
 range of emotion, and emotion deeper and more 
 obscure. But his characters are no more " alive " 
 than are the characters of Jonson. 
 
 The world they live in is a larger one. But small 
 worlds the worlds which artists create do not differ 
 only in magnitude ; if they are complete worlds, drawn 
 to scale in every part, they differ in kind also. And 
 Jonson's world has this scale. His type of personality 
 found its relief in something falling under the category 
 of burlesque or farce though when you are dealing 
 with a unique world, like his, these terms fail to 
 appease the desire for definition. It is not, at all 
 events, the farce of Moliere: the latter is more 
 analytic, more an intellectual redistribution. It is 
 not defined by the word " satire." Jonson poses as a 
 satirist. But satire like Jonson's is great in the end 
 not by hitting off its object, but by creating it ; the 
 satire is merely the means which leads to the aesthetic 
 result, the impulse which projects a new world into a 
 new orbit. In Every Man in his Humour there is 
 109 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 a neat, a very neat, comedy of humours. In dis- 
 covering and proclaiming in this play the new genre 
 Jonson was simply recognizing, unconsciously, the 
 route which opened out in the proper direction for 
 his instincts. His characters are and remain, like 
 Marlowe's, simplified characters; but the simplification 
 does not consist in the dominance of a particular 
 humour or monomania. That is a very superficial 
 account of it. The simplification consists largely in 
 reduction of detail, in the seizing of aspects relevant to 
 the relief of an emotional impulse which remains the 
 same for that character, in making the character 
 conform to a particular setting. This stripping is 
 essential to the art, to which is also essential a flat 
 distortion in the drawing ; it is an art of caricature, of 
 great caricature, like Marlowe's. It is a great carica- 
 ture, which is beautiful ; and a great humour, which is 
 serious. The " world " of Jonson is sufficiently large ; 
 it is a world of poetic imagination ; it is sombre. He 
 did not get the third dimension, but he was not 
 trying to get it. 
 
 If we approach Jonson with less frozen awe of his 
 learning, with a clearer understanding of his " rhetoric " 
 and its applications, if we grasp the fact that the 
 knowledge required of the reader is not archaeology 
 but knowledge of Jonson, we can derive not only 
 instruction in non Euclidean humanity but enjoy- 
 ment. We can even apply him, be aware of him as a 
 part of our literary inheritance craving further expres- 
 sion. Of all the dramatists of his time, Jonson is 
 probably the one whom the present age would find the 
 most sympathetic, if it knew him. There is a brutality, 
 a lack of sentiment, a polished surface, a handling of 
 IIO 
 
Ben Jonson 
 
 large bold designs in brilliant colours, which ought to 
 attract about three thousand people in London and 
 elsewhere. At least, if we had a contemporary 
 Shakespeare and a contemporary Jonson, it would be 
 the Jonson who would arouse the enthusiasm of the 
 intelligentsia! Though he is saturated in literature, 
 he never sacrifices the theatrical qualities theatrical 
 in the most favourable sense to literature or to the 
 study of character. His work is a titanic show. But 
 Jonson's masques, an important part of his work, are 
 neglected ; our flaccid culture lets shows and literature 
 fade, but prefers faded literature to faded shows. 
 There are hundreds of people who have read Comus 
 to ten who have read the Masque of Blackness. Comus 
 contains fine poetry, and poetry exemplifying some 
 merits to which Jonson's masque poetry cannot 
 pretend. Nevertheless, Comus is the death of the 
 masque ; it is the transition of a form of art even of 
 a form which existed for but a short generation into 
 " literature," literature cast in a form which has lost 
 its application. Even though Comus was a masque at 
 Ludlow Castle, Jonson had, what Milton came per- 
 haps too late to have, a sense for living art ; his art 
 was applied. The masques can still be read, and with 
 pleasure, by anyone who will take the trouble a 
 trouble which in this part of Jonson is, indeed, a study 
 of antiquities to imagine them in action, displayed 
 with the music, costume, dances, and the scenery of 
 Inigo Jones. They are additional evidence that 
 Jonson had a fine sense of form, of the purpose for 
 which a particular form is intended; evidence that 
 he was a literary artist even more than he was 
 of letters. 
 
 Ill 
 
Philip Massinger 
 
 MASSINGER has been more fortunately and 
 more fairly judged than several of his greater 
 contemporaries. Three critics have done their best 
 by him : the notes of Coleridge exemplify Coleridge's 
 fragmentary and fine perceptions ; the essay of Leslie 
 Stephen is a piece of formidable destructive analysis ; 
 and the essay of Swinburne is Swinburne's criticism 
 at its best. None of these, probably, has put 
 Massinger finally and irrefutably into a place. 
 
 English criticism is inclined to argue or persuade 
 rather than to state; and, instead of forcing the 
 subject to expose himself, these critics have left in 
 their work an undissolved residuum of their own good 
 taste, which, however impeccable, is something that 
 requires our faith. The principles which animate 
 this taste remain unexplained. Mr. Cruickshank's 
 book is a work of scholarship ; and the advantage of 
 good scholarship is that it presents us with evidence 
 which is an invitation to the critical faculty of the 
 reader: its bestows a method, rather than a judg- 
 ment. 
 
 It is difficult it is perhaps the supreme difficulty 
 of criticism to make the facts generalize themselves ; 
 but Mr. Cruickshank at least presents us with facts 
 
Philip Massinger 
 
 which are capable of generalization. This is a service 
 of value ; and it is therefore wholly a compliment to 
 the author to say that his appendices are as valuable 
 as the essay itself. 
 
 The sort of labour to which Mr. Cruickshank has 
 devoted himself is one that professed critics ought 
 more willingly to undertake. It is an important part 
 of criticism, more important than any mere expres- 
 sion of opinion. To understand Elizabethan drama 
 it is necessary to study a dozen playwrights at once, 
 to dissect with all care the complex growth, to ponder 
 collaboration to the utmost line. Reading Shake- 
 speare and several of his contemporaries is pleasure 
 enough, perhaps all the pleasure possible, for most. 
 But if we wish to consummate and refine this pleasure 
 by understanding it, to distil the last drop of it, to 
 press and press the essence of each author, to apply 
 exact measurement to our own sensations, then we 
 must compare; and we cannot compare without 
 parcelling the threads of authorship and influence. 
 We must employ Mr. Cruickshank's method to 
 examine Mr. Cruickshank's judgments ; and perhaps 
 the most important judgment to which he has com- 
 mitted himself is this : 
 
 Massinger, in his grasp of stagecraft, his flexible 
 metre, his desire in the sphere of ethics to exploit 
 both vice and virtue, is typical of an age which had 
 much culture, but which, without being exactly 
 corrupt, lacked moral fibre. 
 
 Here, in fact, is our text : to elucidate this sentence 
 would be to account for Massinger. We begin 
 vaguely with good taste, by a recognition that 
 H 113 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 Massinger is inferior: can we trace this inferiority, 
 dissolve it, and have left any element of merit ? 
 
 We turn first to the parallel quotations from Massinger 
 and Shakespeare collocated by Mr. Cruickshank 
 to make manifest Massinger's indebtedness. One of 
 the surest of tests is the way in which a poet borrows. 
 Immature poets imitate ; mature poets steal ; bad 
 poets deface what they take, and good poets make it 
 into something better, or at least something different. 
 The good poet welds his theft into a whole of feeling 
 which is unique, utterly different from that from which 
 it was torn; the bad poet throws it into something 
 which has no cohesion. A good poet will usually 
 borrow from, authors remote in time, or alien in 
 language, or diverse in interest. Chapman borrowed 
 from Seneca ; Shakespeare and Webster from Mon- 
 taigne. The two great followers of Shakespeare, 
 Webster and Tourneur, in their mature work do not 
 borrow from him ; he is too close to them to be of 
 use to them in this way. Massinger, as Mr. Cruick- 
 shank shows, borrows from Shakespeare a good deal. 
 Let us profit by some of the quotations with which he 
 has provided us 
 
 Massinger : Can I call back yesterday, with all their aids 
 That bow unto my sceptre? or restore 
 My mind to that tranquillity and peace 
 It then enjoyed ? 
 
 Shakespeare'. Not poppy, nor mandragora, 
 
 Nor all the drowsy syrops of the world 
 Shall ever medecine thee to that sweet sleep 
 Which thou owedst yesterday. 
 
 Massinger's is a general rhetorical question, the 
 
 language just and pure, but colourless. Shakespeare's 
 
 114 
 
Philip Massinger 
 
 has particular significance; and the adjective 
 " drowsy " and the verb " medecine " infuse a precise 
 vigour. This is, on Massinger's part, an echo rather 
 than an imitation or a plagiarism the basest, because 
 least conscious form of borrowing. " Drowsy syrop " 
 is a condensation of meaning frequent in Shakespeare, 
 but rare in Massinger. 
 
 Massinger : Thou didst not borrow of Vice her indirect, 
 Crooked, and abject means. 
 
 Shakespeare: God knows, my son, 
 
 By what by-paths and indirect crook'd ways 
 I met this crown. 
 
 Here, again, Massinger gives the general forensic 
 statement, Shakespeare the particular image. "In- 
 direct crook'd" is forceful in Shakespeare; a mere 
 pleonasm in Massinger. " Crook'd ways " is a 
 metaphor ; Massinger's phrase only the ghost of a 
 metaphor. 
 
 Massinger : And now, in the evening, 
 
 When thou shoud'st pass with honour to thy rest, 
 Wilt thou fall like a meteor? 
 
 Shakespeare'. I shall fall 
 
 Like a bright exhalation in the evening, 
 And no man see me more. 
 
 Here the lines of Massinger have their own beauty. 
 Still, a " bright exhalation " appears to the eye and 
 makes us catch our breath in the evening ; " meteor " 
 is a dim simile ; the word is worn. 
 
 Massinger'. What you deliver to me shall be lock'd up 
 In a strong cabinet, of which you yourself 
 Shall keep the key. 
 
 "5 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 Shakespeare : 'Tis in my memory locked, 
 
 And you yourself shall keep the key of it. 
 
 In the preceding passage Massinger had squeezed 
 his simile to death, here he drags it round the city 
 at his heels ; and how swift Shakespeare's figure is ! 
 We may add two more passages, not given by our 
 commentator; here the model is Webster. They 
 occur on the same page, an artless confession. 
 
 Here he comes, 
 His nose held up ; he hath something in the wind, 
 
 is hardly comparable to "the Cardinal lifts up his 
 nose like a foul porpoise before a storm," and when 
 we come upon 
 
 as tann'd galley-slaves 
 Pay such as do redeem them from the oar 
 
 it is unnecessary to turn up the great lines in the 
 Duchess of Malfi. Massinger fancied this galley- 
 slave ; for he comes with his oar again in the Bond- 
 man 
 
 Never did galley-slave shake off his chains, 
 
 Or looked on his redemption from the oar. . . . 
 
 Now these are mature plays ; and the Roman Actor 
 (from which we have drawn the two previous extracts) 
 is said to have been the preferred play of its author. 
 
 We may conclude directly from these quotations 
 that Massinger's feeling for language had outstripped 
 his feeling for things ; that his eye and his vocabulary 
 were not in close co-operation. One of the greatest 
 distinctions of several of his elder contemporaries 
 we name Middleton, Webster, Tourneur is a gift 
 116 
 
Philip Massinger 
 
 for combining, for fusing into a single phrase, two 
 or more diverse impressions. 
 
 .... in her strong toil of grace 
 
 of Shakespeare is such a fusion; the metaphor 
 identifies itself with what suggests it ; the resultant 
 is one and is unique 
 
 Does the silk worm expend her yellow labours ? . . . 
 Why does yon fellow falsify highways 
 And lays his life between the judge's lips 
 To refine such a one? keeps horse and men 
 To beat their valours for her? 
 
 Let the common sewer take it from distinction. . . . 
 Lust and forgetfulness have been amongst us. ... 
 
 These lines of Tourneur and of Middleton exhibit 
 that perpetual slight alteration of language, words 
 perpetually juxtaposed in new and sudden com- 
 binations, meanings perpetually eingeschachtelt into 
 meanings, which evidences a very high development 
 of the senses, a development of the English language 
 which we have perhaps never equalled. And, indeed, 
 with the end of Chapman, Middleton, Webster, 
 Tourneur, Donne we end a period when the intellect 
 was immediately at the tips of the senses. Sensation 
 became word and the word was sensation. The next 
 period is the period of Milton (though still with a 
 Marvell in it); and this period is initiated by 
 Massinger. 
 
 It is not that the word becomes less exact. 
 Massinger is, in a wholly eulogistic sense, choice and 
 correct. And the decay of the senses is not incon- 
 sistent with a greater sophistication of language. 
 But every vital development in language is a 
 117 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 development of feeling as well. The verse of 
 Shakespeare and the major Shakespearian dramatists 
 is an innovation of this kind, a true mutation of 
 species. The verse practised by Massinger is a 
 different verse from that of his predecessors ; but it is 
 not a development based on, or resulting from, a new 
 way of feeling. On the contrary, it seems to lead us 
 away from feeling altogether. 
 
 We mean that Massinger must be placed as much 
 at the beginning of one period as at the end of 
 another. A certain Boyle, quoted by Mr. Cruick- 
 shank, says that Milton's blank verse owes much to 
 the study of Massinger's. 
 
 In the indefinable touches which make up the 
 music of a verse [says Boyle], in the artistic distribu- 
 tion of pauses, and in the unerring choice and 
 grouping of just those words which strike the ear as 
 the perfection of harmony, there are, if we leave 
 Cyril Tourneur's Atheists Tragedy out of the ques- 
 tion, only two masters in the drama, Shakespeare 
 in his latest period and Massinger. 
 
 This Boyle must have had a singular ear to have 
 
 preferred Tourneur's apprentice work to his 
 
 Revenger's Tragedy ', and one must think that he had 
 
 never glanced at Ford. But though the appraisal be 
 
 ludicrous, the praise is not undeserved. Mr. 
 
 Cruickshank has given us an excellent example of 
 Massinger's syntax 
 
 What though my father 
 
 Writ man before he was so, and confirm'd it, 
 By numbering that day no part of his life 
 In which he did not service to his country ; 
 Was he to be free therefore from the laws 
 And ceremonious form in your decrees? 
 
 118 
 
Philip Massinger 
 
 Or else because he did as much as man 
 In those three memorable overthrows, 
 At Granson, Morat, Nancy, where his master, 
 The warlike Charalois, with whose misfortunes 
 I bear his name, lost treasure, men, and life, 
 To be excused from payment of those sums 
 Which (his own patrimony spent) his zeal 
 To serve his country forced him to take up ! 
 
 It is impossible to deny the masterly construction of 
 this passage ; perhaps there is not one living poet who 
 could do the like. It is impossible to deny the 
 originality. The language is pure and correct, free 
 from muddiness or turbidity. Massinger does not 
 confuse metaphors, or heap them one upon another. 
 He is lucid, though not easy. But if Massinger's age, 
 "without being exactly corrupt, lacks moral fibre," 
 Massinger's verse, without being exactly corrupt, 
 suffers from cerebral anaemia. To say that an 
 involved style is necessarily a bad style would be 
 preposterous. But such a style should follow the 
 involutions of a mode of perceiving, registering, and 
 digesting impressions which is also involved. It is 
 to be feared that the feeling of Massinger is simple 
 and overlaid with received ideas. Had Massinger 
 had a nervous system as refined as that of Middleton, 
 Tourneur, Webster, or Ford, his style would be a 
 triumph. But such a nature was not at hand, and 
 Massinger precedes, not another Shakespeare, but 
 Milton. 
 
 Massinger is, in fact, at a further remove from 
 Shakespeare than that other precursor of Milton 
 John Fletcher. Fletcher was above all an opportunist, 
 in his verse, in his momentary effects, never quite a 
 pastiche ; in his structure ready to sacrifice everything 
 119 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 to the single scene. To Fletcher, because he was 
 more intelligent, less will be forgiven. Fletcher had 
 a cunning guess at feelings, and betrayed them; 
 Massinger was unconscious and innocent. As an 
 artisan of the theatre he is not inferior to Fletcher, 
 and his best tragedies have an honester unity than 
 Bonduca. But the unity is superficial. In the Roman 
 Actor the development of parts is out of all proportion 
 to the central theme ; in the Unnatural Combat, in 
 spite of the deft handling of suspense and the quick 
 shift from climax to a new suspense, the first part of 
 the play is the hatred of Malefort for his son and the 
 second part is his passion for his daughter. It is 
 theatrical skill, not an artistic conscience arranging 
 emotions, that holds the two parts together. In the 
 Duke of Milan the appearance of Sforza at the Court 
 of his conqueror only delays the action, or rather 
 breaks the emotional rhythm. And we have named 
 three of Massinger's best 
 
 A dramatist who so skilfully welds together parts 
 which have no reason for being together, who 
 fabricates plays so well knit and so remote from unity, 
 we should expect to exhibit the same synthetic 
 cunning in character. Mr. Cruickshank, Coleridge, 
 and Leslie Stephen are pretty well agreed that 
 Massinger is no master of characterization. You 
 can, in fact, put together heterogeneous parts to form 
 a lively play ; but a character, to be living, must be 
 conceived from some emotional unity. A character 
 is not to be composed of scattered observations of 
 human nature, but of parts which are felt together. 
 Hence it is that although Massinger's failure to draw 
 a moving character is no greater than his failure to 
 1 20 
 
Philip Massinger 
 
 make a whole play, and probably springs from the 
 same defective sensitiveness, yet the failure in 
 character is more conspicuous and more disastrous. 
 A " living " character is not necessarily " true to life." 
 It is a person whom we can see and hear, whether he 
 be true or false to human nature as we know it. 
 What the creator of character needs is not so much 
 knowledge of motives as keen sensibility; the 
 dramatist need not understand people ; but he must 
 be exceptionally aware of them. This awareness was 
 not given to Massinger. He inherits the traditions 
 of conduct, female chastity, hymeneal sanctity, the 
 fashion of honour, without either criticizing or 
 informing them from his own experience. In the 
 earlier drama these conventions are merely a frame- 
 work, or an alloy necessary for working the metal ; 
 the metal itself consisted of unique emotions resulting 
 inevitably from the circumstances, resulting or 
 inhering as inevitably as the properties of a chemical 
 compound. Middleton's heroine, for instance, in the 
 Changeling, exclaims in the well-known words 
 
 Why, 'tis impossible thou canst be so wicked, 
 
 To shelter such a cunning cruelty 
 
 To make his death the murderer of my honour ! 
 
 The word "honour" in such a situation is out of 
 date, but the emotion of Beatrice at that moment, 
 given the conditions, is as permanent and substantial 
 as anything in human nature. The emotion of 
 Othello in Act v. is the emotion of a man who 
 discovers that the worst part of his own soul has been 
 exploited by some one more clever than he ; it is this 
 emotion carried by the writer to a very high degree of 
 121 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 intensity. Even in so late and so decayed a drama 
 as that of Ford, the framework of emotions and morals 
 of the time is only the vehicle for statements of 
 feeling which are unique and imperishable: Ford's 
 and Ford's only. 
 
 What may be considered corrupt or decadent in 
 the morals of Massinger is not an alteration or 
 diminution in morals ; it is simply the disappearance 
 of all the personal and real emotions which this 
 morality supported and into which it introduced a 
 kind of order. As soon as the emotions disappear 
 the morality which ordered it appears hideous. 
 Puritanism itself became repulsive only when it 
 appeared as the survival of a restraint after the feelings 
 which it restrained had gone. When Massinger's 
 ladies resist temptation they do not appear to undergo 
 any important emotion; they merely know what is 
 expected of them ; they manifest themselves to us as 
 lubricious prudes. Any age has its conventions; 
 and any age might appear absurd when its conven- 
 tions get into the hands of a man like Massinger a 
 man, we mean, of so exceptionally superior a literary 
 talent as Massinger's, and so paltry an imagination. 
 The Elizabethan morality was an important conven- 
 tion ; important because it was not consciously of one 
 social class alone, because it provided a framework 
 for emotions to which all classes could respond, and 
 it hindered no feeling. It was not hypocritical, and 
 it did not suppress ; its dark corners are haunted by 
 the ghosts of Mary Fitton and perhaps greater. It is 
 a subject which has not been sufficiently investigated. 
 Fletcher and Massinger rendered it ridiculous; not 
 by not believing in it, but because they were men of 
 122 
 
Philip Massinger 
 
 great talents who could not vivify it; because they 
 could not fit into it passionate, complete human 
 characters. 
 
 The tragedy of Massinger is interesting chiefly 
 according to the definition given before ; the highest 
 degree of verbal excellence compatible with the most 
 rudimentary development of the senses. Massinger 
 succeeds better in something which is not tragedy; 
 in the romantic comedy. A Very Woman deserves 
 all the praise that Swinburne, with his almost unerring 
 gift for selection, has bestowed upon it. The probable 
 collaboration of Fletcher had the happiest result ; for 
 certainly that admirable comic personage, the tipsy 
 Borachia, is handled with more humour than we expect 
 of Massinger. It is a play which would be enjoyable 
 on the stage. The form, however, of romantic 
 comedy is itself inferior and decadent. There is an 
 inflexibility about the poetic drama which is by no 
 means a matter of classical, or neoclassical, or pseudo- 
 classical law. The poetic drama might develop forms 
 highly different from those of Greece or England, 
 India or Japan. Conceded the utmost freedom, the 
 romantic drama would yet remain inferior. The 
 poetic drama must have an emotional unity, let the 
 emotion be whatever you like. It must have a 
 dominant tone; and if this be strong enough, the 
 most heterogeneous emotions may be made to rein- 
 force it. The romantic comedy is a skilful concoction 
 of inconsistent emotion, a revue of emotion. A Very 
 Woman is surpassingly well plotted. The debility of 
 romantic drama does not depend upon extravagant 
 setting, or preposterous events, or inconceivable 
 coincidences; all these might be found in a serious 
 123 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 tragedy or comedy. It consists in an internal incoher- 
 ence of feelings, a concatenation of emotions which 
 signifies nothing. 
 
 From this type of play, so eloquent of emotional 
 disorder, there was no swing back of the pendulum. 
 Changes never come by a simple reinfusion into the 
 form which the life has just left. The romantic drama 
 was not a new form. Massinger dealt not with 
 emotions so much as with the social abstractions of 
 emotions, more generalized and therefore more quickly 
 and easily interchangeable within the confines of a 
 single action. He was not guided by direct com- 
 munications through the nerves. Romantic drama 
 tended, accordingly, toward what is sometimes called 
 the " typical," but which is not the truly typical ; for the 
 typical figure in a drama is always particularized an 
 individual. The tendency of the romantic drama was 
 toward a form which continued it in removing its 
 more conspicuous vices, was toward a more severe 
 external order. This form was the Heroic Drama. 
 We look into Dryden's " Essay on Heroic Plays," and 
 we find that " love and valour ought to be the subject 
 of an heroic poem." Massinger, in his destruction of 
 the old drama, had prepared the way for Dryden. 
 The intellect had perhaps exhausted the old con- 
 ventions. It was not able to supply the impoverish- 
 ment of Reeling. 
 
 Such are the reflections aroused by an examination 
 of some of Massinger's plays in the light of Mr. 
 Cruickshank's statement that Massinger's age "had 
 much culture, but, without being exactly corrupt, 
 lacked moral fibre." The statement may be supported. 
 In order to fit into our estimate of Massinger the two 
 124 
 
Philip Massinger 
 
 admirable comedies A New Way to Pay Old Debts 
 and The City Madam a more extensive research 
 would be required than is possible within our limits. 
 
 II 
 
 Massinger's tragedy may be summarized for the 
 unprepared reader as being very dreary. It is dreary, 
 unless one is prepared by a somewhat extensive 
 knowledge of his livelier contemporaries to grasp 
 without fatigue precisely the elements in it which are 
 capable of giving pleasure; or unless one is incited 
 by a curious interest in versification. In comedy, 
 however, Massinger was one of the few masters in the 
 language. He was a master in a comedy which is 
 serious, even sombre ; and in one aspect of it there 
 are only two names to mention with his : those of 
 Marlowe and Jonson. In comedy, as a matter of 
 fact, a greater variety of methods were discovered and 
 employed than in tragedy. The method of Kyd, as 
 developed by Shakespeare, was the standard for 
 English tragedy down to Otway and to Shelley. But 
 both individual temperament, and varying epochs, 
 made more play with comedy. The comedy of Lyly 
 is one thing; that of Shakespeare, followed by 
 Beaumont and Fletcher, is another; and that of 
 Middleton is a third. And Massinger, while he has 
 his own comedy, is nearer to Marlowe and Jonson 
 than to any of these. 
 
 Massinger was, in fact, as a comic writer, fortunate 
 
 in the moment at which he wrote. His comedy is 
 
 transitional; but it happens to be one of those 
 
 transitions which contain some merit not anticipated 
 
 125 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 by predecessors or refined upon by later writers. The 
 comedy of Jonson is nearer to caricature; that of 
 Middleton a more photographic delineation of low 
 life. Massinger is nearer to Restoration comedy, and 
 more like his contemporary, Shirley, in assuming a 
 certain social level, certain distinctions of class, as 
 a postulate of his comedy. This resemblance to later 
 comedy is also the important point of difference 
 between Massinger and earlier comedy. But 
 Massinger's comedy differs just as widely from the 
 comedy of manners proper ; he is closer to that in his 
 romantic drama in A Very Woman than in A New 
 Way to Pay Old Debts \ in his comedy his interest 
 is not in the follies of love-making or the absurdities 
 of social pretence, but in the unmasking of villainy 
 Just as the Old Comedy of Moliere differs in principle 
 from the New Comedy of Marivaux, so the Old 
 Comedy of Massinger differs from the New Comedy 
 of his contemporary Shirley. And as in France, so 
 in England, the more farcical comedy was the more 
 serious. Massinger's great comic rogues, Sir Giles 
 Overreach and Luke Frugal, are members of the large 
 English family which includes Barabas and Sir 
 Epicure Mammon, and from which Sir Tunbelly 
 Clumsy claims descent. 
 
 What distinguishes Massinger from Marlowe and 
 Jonson is in the main an inferiority. The greatest 
 comic characters of these two dramatists are slight 
 work in comparison with Shakespeare's best Falstaff 
 has a third dimension and Epicure Mammon has 
 only two. But this slightness is part of the nature of 
 the art which Jonson practised, a smaller art than 
 Shakespeare's. The inferiority of Massinger to Jonson 
 126 
 
Philip Massinger 
 
 is an inferiority, not of one type of art to another, but 
 within Jonson's type. It is a simple deficiency. 
 Marlowe's and Jonson's comedies were a view of life ; 
 they were, as great literature is, the transformation of 
 a personality into a personal work of art, their life- 
 time's work, long or short. Massinger is not simply 
 a smaller personality: his personality hardly exists. 
 He did not, out of his own personality, build a world 
 of art, as Shakespeare and Marlowe and Jonson 
 built. 
 
 In the fine pages which Remy de Gourmont devotes 
 to Flaubert in his Probleme du Style, the great 
 critic declares : 
 
 La vie est un de*pouillement. Le but de 1'activite* 
 propre de rhomme est de nettoyer sa personnalite', de 
 la laver de toutes les souillures qu'y ddposa 1'e'duca- 
 tion, de la ddgager de toutes les empreintes qu'y 
 laisserent nos admirations adolescentes ; 
 
 and again : 
 
 Flaubert incorporait toute sa sensibilite* k ses 
 ceuvres. . . . Hors de ses livres, ou il se transvasait 
 goutte a goutte, jusqu'a la lie, Flaubert est fort peu 
 inte'ressant. . . . 
 
 Of Shakespeare notably, of Jonson less, of Marlowe 
 (and of Keats to the term of life allowed him), one 
 can say that they se transvasaient goutte a goutte ; and 
 in England, which has produced a prodigious number 
 of men of genius and comparatively few works of art, 
 there are not many writers of whom one can say it. 
 Certainly not of Massinger. A brilliant master of 
 technique, he was not, in this profound sense, an 
 artist. And so we come to inquire how, if 
 127 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 this is so, he could have written two great comedies. 
 We shall probably be obliged to conclude that a 
 large part of their excellence is, in some way 
 which should be defined, fortuitous ; and that there- 
 fore they are, however remarkable, not works of 
 perfect art. 
 
 This objection raised by Leslie Stephen to 
 Massinger's method of revealing a villain has great 
 cogency; but I am inclined to believe that the 
 cogency is due to a somewhat different reason from 
 that which Leslie Stephen assigns. His statement is 
 too apriorist to be quite trustworthy. There is no 
 reason why a comedy or tragedy villain should not 
 declare himself, and in as long a period as the author 
 likes ; but the sort of villain who may run on in this 
 way is a simple villain (simple not stmpliste). 
 Barabas and Volpone can declare their character, 
 because they have no inside j appearance and reality 
 are coincident ; they are forces in particular directions. 
 Massinger's two villains are not simple. Giles Over- 
 reach is essentially a great force directed upon small 
 objects ; a great force, a small mind ; the terror of a 
 dozen parishes instead of the conqueror of a world. 
 The force is misapplied, attenuated, thwarted, by the 
 man's vulgarity : he is a great man of the City, with- 
 out fear, but with the most abject awe of the 
 aristocracy. He is accordingly not simple, but a 
 product of a certain civilization, and he is not wholly 
 conscious. His monologues are meant to be, not 
 what he thinks he is, but what he really is : and yet 
 they are not the truth about him, and he himself 
 certainly does not know the truth. To declare him- 
 self, therefore, is impossible. 
 128 
 
Philip Massinger 
 
 Nay, when my ears are pierced with widows' cries, 
 And undone orphans wash with tears my threshold, 
 I only think what 'tis to have my daughter 
 Right honourable ; and 'tis a powerful charm 
 Makes me insensible of remorse, or pity, 
 Or the least sting of conscience. 
 
 This is the wrong note. Elsewhere we have the 
 
 right : 
 
 Thou art a fool ; 
 
 In being out of office, I am out of danger ; 
 Where, if I were a justice, besides the trouble, 
 I might or out of wilfulness, or error, 
 Run myself finely into a praemunire, 
 And so become a prey to the informer, 
 No, I'll have none oft ; 'tis enough I keep 
 Greedy at my devotion : so he serve 
 My purposes, let him hang, or damn, I care not ... 
 
 And how well tuned, well modulated, here, the 
 diction ! The man is audible and visible. But from 
 passages like the first we may be permitted to infer 
 that Massinger was unconscious of trying to develop 
 a different kind of character from any that Marlowe 
 or Jonson had invented. 
 
 Luke Frugal, in The City Madam, is not so 
 great a character as Sir Giles Overreach. But Luke 
 Frugal just misses being almost the greatest of all 
 hypocrites. His humility in the first act of the play 
 is more than half real. The error in his portraiture is 
 not the extravagant hocus-pocus of supposed Indian 
 necromancers by which he is so easily duped, but the 
 premature disclosure of villainy in his temptation of 
 the two apprentices of his brother. But for this, he 
 would be a perfect chameleon of circumstance. Here, 
 again, we feel that Massinger was conscious only of 
 i 129 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 inventing a rascal of the old simpler farce type. But 
 the play is not a farce, in the sense in which The Jew 
 of Malta,) The Alchemist^ Bartholomew Fair are 
 farces. Massinger had not the personality to create 
 great farce, and he was too serious to invent trivial 
 farce. The ability to perform that slight distortion of 
 all the elements in the world of a play or a story, so 
 that this world is complete in itself, which was given 
 to Marlowe and Jonson (and to Rabelais) and which 
 is prerequisite to great farce, was denied to Massinger. 
 On the other hand, his temperament was more closely 
 related to theirs than to that of Shirley or the Restora- 
 tion wits. His two comedies therefore occupy a 
 place by themselves. His ways of thinking and feel- 
 ing isolate him from both the Elizabethan and the 
 later Caroline mind. He might almost have been a 
 great realist ; he is killed by conventions which were 
 suitable for the preceding literary generation, but not 
 for his. Had Massinger been a greater man, a man 
 of more intellectual courage, the current of English 
 literature immediately after him might have taken a 
 different course. The defect is precisely a defect of 
 personality. He is not, however, the only man of 
 letters who, at the moment when a new view of life is 
 wanted, has looked at life through the eyes of his 
 predecessors, and only at manners through his own. 
 
 130 
 
Swinburne as Poet o o o o 
 
 IT is a question of some nicety to decide how 
 much must be read of any particular poet. And 
 it is not a question merely of the size of the poet. 
 There are some poets whose every line has unique 
 value. There are others who can be taken by a 
 few poems universally agreed upon. There are 
 others who need be read only in selections, but what 
 selections are read will not very much matter. Of 
 Swinburne, we should like to have the Atalanta 
 entire, and a volume of selections which should 
 certainly contain The Leper^ Laus Veneris, and The 
 Triumph of Time. It ought to contain many more, 
 but there is perhaps no other single poem which 
 it would be an error to omit. A student of Swin- 
 burne will want to read one of the Stuart plays 
 and dip into Tristram of Lyonesse. But almost no 
 one, to-day, will wish to read the whole of Swinburne. 
 It is not because Swinburne is voluminous ; certain 
 poets, equally voluminous, must be read entire. The 
 necessity and the difficulty of a selection are due to 
 the peculiar nature of Swinburne's contribution, 
 which, it is hardly too much to say, is of a very 
 different kind from that of any other poet of equal 
 reputation. 
 
 We may take it as undisputed that Swinburne did 
 make a contribution; that he did something that 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 had not been done before, and that what he did will 
 not turn out to be a fraud. And from that we may 
 proceed to inquire what Swinburne's contribution 
 was, and why, whatever critical solvents we employ 
 to break down the structure of his verse, this con- 
 tribution remains. The test is this : agreed that we 
 do not (and I think that the present generation does 
 not) greatly enjoy Swinburne, and agreed that (a 
 more serious condemnation) at one period of our 
 lives we did enjoy him and now no longer enjoy 
 him ; nevertheless, the words which we use to state 
 our grounds of dislike or indifference cannot be 
 applied to Swinburne as they can to bad poetry. 
 The words of condemnation are words which express 
 his qualities. You may say "diffuse." But the 
 diffuseness is essential; had Swinburne practised 
 greater concentration his verse would be, not better 
 in the same kind, but a different thing. His diffuse- 
 ness is one of his glories. That so little material as 
 appears to be employed in The Triumph of Time 
 should release such an amazing number of words, 
 requires what there is no reason to call anything but 
 genius. You could not condense The Triumph of 
 Time. You could only leave out. And this would 
 destroy the poem; though no one stanza seems 
 essential. Similarly, a considerable quantity a 
 volume of selections is necessary to give the quality 
 of Swinburne although there is perhaps no one poem 
 essential in this selection. 
 
 If, then, we must be very careful in applying terms 
 of censure, like " diffuse," we must be equally care- 
 ful of praise. " The beauty of Swinburne's verse is 
 the sound," people say, explaining, "he had little 
 132 
 
Swinburne as Poet 
 
 visual imagination." I am inclined to think that the 
 word " beauty " is hardly to be used in connection 
 with Swinburne's verse at all; but in any case the 
 beauty or effect of sound is neither that of music nor 
 that of poetry which can be set to music. There is 
 no reason why verse intended to be sung should not 
 present a sharp visual image or convey an important 
 intellectual meaning, for it supplements the music 
 by another means of affecting the feelings. What we 
 get in Swinburne is an expression by sound, which 
 could not possibly associate itself with music. For 
 what he gives is not images and ideas and music, it 
 is one thing with a curious mixture of suggestions of 
 all three. 
 
 Shall I come, if I swim ? wide are the waves, you see ; 
 Shall I come, if I fly, my dear Love, to thee ? 
 
 This is Campion, and an example of the kind of 
 music that is not to be found in Swinburne. It is an 
 arrangement and choice of words which has a sound- 
 value and at the same time a coherent comprehensible 
 meaning, and the two things the musical value and 
 meaning are two things, not one. But in Swinburne 
 there is no pure beauty no pure beauty of sound, 
 or of image, or of idea. 
 
 Music, when soft voices die, 
 Vibrates in the memory ; 
 Odours, when sweet violets sicken, 
 Live within the sense they quicken. 
 
 Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, 
 Are heaped for the beloved's bed ; 
 And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, 
 Love itself shall slumber on. 
 
 133 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 I quote from Shelley, because Shelley is supposed 
 to be the master of Swinburne ; and because his 
 song, like that of Campion, has what Swinburne 
 has not a beauty of music and a beauty of content ; 
 and because it is clearly and simply expressed, with 
 only two adjectives. Now, in Swinburne the meaning 
 and the sound are one thing. He is concerned with 
 the meaning of the word in a peculiar way : he 
 employs, or rather " works," the word's meaning. And 
 this is connected with an interesting fact about his 
 vocabulary : he uses the most general word, because 
 his emotion is never particular, never in direct line 
 of vision, never focused ; it is emotion reinforced, not 
 by intensification, but by expansion. 
 
 There lived a singer in France of old 
 By the tideless dolorous midland sea. 
 
 In a land of sand and ruin and gold 
 
 There shone one woman, and none but she. 
 
 You see that Provence is the merest point of diffusion 
 here. Swinburne defines the place by the most 
 general word, which has for him its own value. 
 "Gold," "ruin," "dolorous": it is not merely the 
 sound that he wants, but the vague associations of 
 idea that the words give him. He has not his eye 
 on a particular place, as 
 
 Li ruscelletti che dei verdi colli 
 
 Del Casentin discendon giuso in Arno . . . 
 
 It is, in fact, the word that gives him the thrill, not 
 the object. When you take to pieces any verse of 
 Swinburne, you find always that the object was not 
 there only the word. Compare 
 
 Snowdrops that plead for pardon 
 And pine for fright 
 
 134 
 
Swinburne as Poet 
 
 with the daffodils that come before the swallow dares. 
 The snowdrop of Swinburne disappears, the daffodil 
 of Shakespeare remains. The swallow of Shakespeare 
 remains in the verse in Macbeth ; the bird of 
 Wordsworth 
 
 Breaking the silence of the seas 
 
 remains ; the swallow of " Itylus " disappears. Com- 
 pare, again, a chorus of Atalanta with a chorus 
 from Athenian tragedy. The chorus of Swinburne 
 is almost a parody of the Athenian : it is sententious, 
 but it has not even the significance of commonplace. 
 
 At least we witness of thee ere we die 
 
 That these things are not otherwise, but thus. . . . 
 
 Before the beginning of years 
 
 There came to the making of man 
 
 Time with a gift of tears ; 
 
 Grief with a glass that ran. . . . 
 
 This is not merely " music " ; it is effective because it 
 appears to be a tremendous statement, like statements 
 made in our dreams ; when we wake up we find that 
 the " glass that ran " would do better for time than 
 for grief, and that the gift of tears would be as 
 appropriately bestowed by grief as by time. 
 
 It might seem to be intimated, by what has been 
 said, that the work of Swinburne can be shown to 
 be a sham, just as bad verse is a sham. It would 
 only be so if you could produce or suggest something 
 that it pretends to be and is not. The world of 
 Swinburne does not depend upon some other world 
 which it simulates ; it has the necessary completeness 
 and self-sufficiency for justification and permanence. 
 It is impersonal, and no one else could have made it. 
 135 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 The deductions are true to the postulates. It is 
 indestructible. None of the obvious complaints that 
 were or might have been brought to bear upon the 
 first Poems and Ballads holds good. The poetry is 
 not morbid, it is not erotic, it is not destructive. These 
 are adjectives which can be applied to the material, 
 the human feelings, which in Swinburne's case do 
 not exist. The morbidity is not of human feeling 
 but of language. Language in a healthy state 
 presents the object, is so close to the object that 
 the two are identified. 
 
 They are identified in the verse of Swinburne solely 
 because the object has ceased to exist, because the 
 meaning is merely the hallucination of meaning, 
 because language, uprooted, has adapted itself to an 
 independent life of atmospheric nourishment. In 
 Swinburne, for example, we see the word " weary " 
 flourishing in this way independent of the particular 
 and actual weariness of flesh or spirit. The bad poet 
 dwells partly in a world of objects and partly in a 
 world of words, and he never can get them to fit. 
 Only a man of genius could dwell so exclusively and 
 consistently among words as Swinburne. His language 
 is not, like the language of bad poetry, dead. It is 
 very much alive, with this singular life of its own. 
 But the language which is more important to us is 
 that which is struggling to digest and express new 
 objects, new groups of objects, new feelings, new 
 aspects, as, for instance, the prose of Mr. James 
 Joyce or the earlier Conrad. 
 
 136 
 
Blake 
 
 IF one follow Blake's mind through the several 
 stages of his poetic development it is impossible to 
 regard him as a naif, a wild man, a wild pet for the 
 supercultivated. The strangeness is evaporated, the 
 peculiarity is seen to be the peculiarity of all great 
 poetry: something which is found (not everywhere) 
 in Homer and ^Eschylus and Dante and Villon, and 
 profound and concealed in the work of Shakespeare 
 and also in another form in Montaigne and in Spinoza. 
 It is merely a peculiar honesty, which, in a world too 
 frightened to be honest, is peculiarly terrifying. It is 
 an honesty against which the whole world conspires, 
 because it is unpleasant. Blake's poetry has the un- 
 pleasantness of great poetry. Nothing that can be 
 called morbid or abnormal or perverse, none of the 
 things which exemplify the sickness of an epoch or a 
 fashion, have this quality ; only those things which, 
 by some extraordinary labour of simplification, exhibit 
 the essential sickness or strength of the human soul. 
 And this honesty never exists without great technical 
 accomplishment. The question about Blake the man 
 is the question of the circumstances that concurred 
 to permit this honesty in his work, and what circum- 
 137 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 stances define its limitations. The favouring con- 
 ditions probably include these two : that, being early 
 apprenticed to a manual occupation, he was not 
 compelled to acquire any other education in literature 
 than he wanted, or to acquire it for any other reason 
 than that he wanted it; and that, being a humble 
 engraver, he had no journalistic-social career open to 
 him. 
 
 There was, that is to say, nothing to distract him 
 from his interests or to corrupt these interests : 
 neither the ambitions of parents or wife, nor the 
 standards of society, nor the temptations of success ; 
 nor was he exposed to imitation of himself or of any- 
 one else. These circumstances not his supposed 
 inspired and untaught spontaneity are what make 
 him innocent. His early poems show what the poems 
 of a boy of genius ought to show, immense power of 
 assimilation. Such early poems are not, as usually 
 supposed, crude attempts to do something beyond 
 the boy's capacity ; they are, in the case of a boy of 
 real promise, more likely to be quite mature and 
 successful attempts to do something small. So with 
 Blake, his early poems are technically admirable, and 
 their originality is in an occasional rhythm. The 
 verse of Edward III deserves study. But his 
 affection for certain Elizabethans is not so surprising 
 as his affinity with the very best work of his own 
 century. He is very like Collins, he is very eighteenth 
 century. The poem Whether on Idds shady brow 
 is eighteenth-century work ; the movement, the weight 
 of it, the syntax, the choice of words 
 
 The languid strings do scarcely move ! 
 The sound is forced, the notes are few ! 
 
 138 
 
Blake 
 
 this is contemporary with Gray and Collins, it is the 
 poetry of a language which has undergone the 
 discipline of prose. Blake up to twenty is decidedly 
 a traditional. 
 
 Blake's beginnings as a poet, then, are as normal 
 as the beginnings of Shakespeare. His method of 
 composition, in his mature work, is exactly like that 
 of other poets. He has an idea (a feeling, an image), 
 he develops it by accretion or expansion, alters his 
 verse often, and hesitates often over the final choice. 1 
 The idea, of course, simply comes, but upon arrival 
 it is subjected to prolonged manipulation. In the 
 first phase Blake is concerned with verbal beauty ; in 
 the second he becomes the apparent naif, really the 
 mature intelligence. It is only when the ideas be- 
 come more automatic, come more freely and are less 
 manipulated, that we begin to suspect their origin, to 
 suspect that they spring from a shallower source. 
 
 The Songs of Innocence and of Experience, and 
 the poems from the Rossetti manuscript, are the 
 poems of a man with a profound interest in human 
 emotions, and a profound knowledge of them. The 
 emotions are presented in an extremely simplified, 
 abstract form. This form is one illustration of the 
 
 1 I do not know why M. Berger should say, without qualifica- 
 tion, in his William Blake: mysticisme et patsie^ that "son 
 respect pour 1'esprit qui soufflait en lui et qui dictait ses paroles 
 1'empechait de les corriger jamais." Dr. Sampson, in his 
 Oxford edition of Blake, gives us to understand that Blake 
 believed much of his writing to be automatic, but observes 
 that Blake's "meticulous care in composition is everywhere 
 apparent in the poems preserved in rough draft . . . altera- 
 tion on alteration, rearrangement after rearrangement, de- 
 letions, additions, and inversions. ..." 
 
 139 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 eternal struggle of art against education, of the literary 
 artist against the continuous deterioration of language. 
 It is important that the artist should be highly 
 educated in his own art; but his education is one 
 that is hindered rather than helped by the ordinary 
 processes of society which constitute education for 
 the ordinary man. For these processes consist 
 largely in the acquisition of impersonal ideas which 
 obscure what* we really are and feel, what we really 
 want, and what really excites our interest. It is of 
 course not the actual information acquired, but the 
 conformity which the accumulation of knowledge is 
 apt to impose, that is harmful. Tennyson is a very 
 fair example of a poet almost wholly encrusted with 
 parasitic opinion, almost wholly merged into his 
 environment. Blake, on the other hand, knew what 
 interested him, and he therefore presents only the 
 essential, only, in fact, what can be presented, and 
 need not be explained. And because he was not 
 distracted, or frightened, or occupied in anything but 
 exact statement, he understood. He was naked, and 
 saw man naked, and from the centre of his own crystal. 
 To him there was no more reason why Swedenborg 
 should be absurd than Locke. He accepted Sweden- 
 borg, and eventually rejected him, for reasons of his 
 own. He approached everything with a mind un- 
 clouded by current opinions. There was nothing of 
 the superior person about him. This makes him 
 terrifying. 
 
 II 
 
 But if there was nothing to distract him from 
 sincerity there were, on the other hand, the dangers 
 140 
 
Blake 
 
 to which the naked man is exposed. His philo- 
 sophy, like his visions, like his insight, like his 
 technique, was his own. And accordingly he was 
 inclined to attach more importance to it than an 
 artist should ; this is what makes him eccentric, and 
 makes him inclined to formlessness. 
 
 But most through midnight streets I hear 
 
 How the youthful harlot's curse 
 
 Blasts the new-born infant's tear, 
 
 And blights with plagues the marriage hearse, 
 
 is the naked vision ; 
 
 Love seeketh only self to please, 
 
 To bind another to its delight, 
 
 Joys in another's loss of ease, 
 
 And builds a Hell in Heaven's despite, 
 
 is the naked observation; and The Marriage of 
 Heaven and Hell is naked philosophy, presented. 
 But Blake's occasional marriages of poetry and 
 philosophy are not so felicitous. 
 
 He who would do good to another must do it in Minute 
 
 Particulars. 
 General Good is the plea of the scoundrel, hypocrite, and 
 
 flatterer ; 
 For Art and Science cannot exist but in minutely organized 
 
 particulars. . . . 
 
 One feels that the form is not well chosen. The 
 borrowed philosophy of Dante and Lucretius is 
 perhaps not so interesting, but it injures their form 
 less. Blake did not have that more Mediterranean 
 gift of form which knows how to borrow as Dante 
 borrowed his theory of the soul; he must needs 
 create a philosophy as well as a poetry. A similar 
 formlessness attacks his draughtsmanship. The fault 
 141 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 is most evident, of course, in the longer poems or 
 rather, the poems in which structure is important. 
 You cannot create a very large poem without intro- 
 ducing a more impersonal point of view, or splitting 
 it up into various personalities. But the weakness of 
 the long poems is certainly not that they are too 
 visionary, too remote from the world. It is that 
 Blake did not see enough, became too much occupied 
 with ideas. 
 
 We have the same respect for Blake's philosophy 
 (and perhaps for that of Samuel Butler) that we have 
 for an ingenious piece of home-made furniture: we 
 admire the man who has put it together out of the 
 odds and ends about the house. England has pro- 
 duced a fair number of these resourceful Robinson 
 Crusoes; but we are not really so remote from the 
 Continent, or from our own past, as to be deprived of 
 the advantages of culture if we wish them. 
 
 We may speculate, for amusement, whether it 
 would not have been beneficial to the north of 
 Europe generally, and to Britain in particular, to 
 have had a more continuous religious history. The 
 local divinities of Italy were not wholly exterminated 
 by Christianity, and they were not reduced to the 
 dwarfish fate which fell upon our trolls and pixies. 
 The latter, with the major Saxon deities, were 
 perhaps no great loss in themselves, but they left an 
 empty place ; and perhaps our mythology was further 
 impoverished by the divorce from Rome. Milton's 
 celestial and infernal regions are large but in- 
 sufficiently furnished apartments filled by heavy 
 conversation ; and one remarks about the Puritan 
 mythology an historical thinness. And about Blake's 
 142 
 
Blake 
 
 supernatural territories, as about the supposed ideas 
 that dwell there, we cannot help commenting on a 
 certain meanness of culture. They illustrate the 
 crankiness, the eccentricity, which frequently affects 
 writers outside of the Latin traditions, and which 
 such a critic as Arnold should certainly have re- 
 buked. And they are not essential to Blake's 
 inspiration. 
 
 Blake was endowed with a capacity for considerable 
 understanding of human nature, with a remarkable 
 and original sense of language and the music of 
 language, and a gift of hallucinated vision. Had 
 these been controlled by a respect for impersonal 
 reason, for common sense, for the objectivity of 
 science, it would have been better for him. What 
 his genius required, and what it sadly lacked, was a 
 framework of accepted and traditional ideas which 
 would have prevented him from indulging in a philo- 
 sophy of his own, and concentrated his attention 
 upon the problems of the poet. Confusion of 
 thought, emotion, and vision is what we find in such 
 a work as Also Sprach Zarathustra ; it is eminently 
 not a Latin virtue. The concentration resulting 
 from a framework of mythology and theology and 
 philosophy is one of the reasons why Dante is a 
 classic, and Blake only a poet of genius. The fault 
 is perhaps not with Blake himself, but with the 
 environment which failed to provide what such a 
 poet needed ; perhaps the circumstances compelled 
 him to fabricate, perhaps the poet required the 
 philosopher and mythologist ; although the conscious 
 Blake may have been quite unconscious of the 
 motives. 
 
Dante o o o *<> o o o 
 
 MPAUL VALERY, a writer for whom I have 
 . considerable respect, has placed in his 
 most recent statement upon poetry a paragraph which 
 seems to me of very doubtful validity. I have not 
 seen the complete essay, and know the quotation 
 only as it appears in a critical notice in the 
 Athenceum, July 23, 1920: 
 
 La philosophic, et meme la morale tendirent a fuir 
 les ceuvres pour se placer dans les reflexions qui les 
 precedent. . . . Parler aujourd'hui de poetic philo- 
 sophique (fut-ce en invoquant Alfred de Vigny, 
 Leconte de Lisle, et quelques autres), c'est naivement 
 confondre des conditions et des applications de 
 1'esprit incompatibles entre elles. N'est-ce pas 
 oublier que le but de celui qui sp^cule est de fixer 
 ou de cre*er une notion c'est-a-dire un pouvoir et un 
 instrument depouvoir, cependant que le poete moderne 
 essaie de produire en nous un etat et de porter 
 cet tat exceptionnel au point d'une jouissance 
 parfaite. . . . 
 
 It may be that I do M. Vale'ry an injustice which 
 I must endeavour to repair when I have the pleasure 
 of reading his article entire. But the paragraph gives 
 the impression of more than one error of analysis. 
 In the first place, it suggests that conditions have 
 changed, that " philosophical " poetry may once have 
 been permissible, but that (perhaps owing to the 
 144 
 
Dante 
 
 greater specialization of the modern world) it is now 
 intolerable. We are forced to assume that what we 
 do not like in our time was never good art, and that 
 what appears to us good was always so. If any 
 ancient "philosophical" poetry retains its value, a 
 value which we fail to find in modern poetry of the 
 same type, we investigate on the assumption that we 
 shall find some difference to which the mere differ- 
 ence of date is irrelevant. But if it be maintained that 
 the older poetry has a " philosophic " element and a 
 " poetic " element which can be isolated, we have 
 two tasks to perform. We must show first in a par- 
 ticular case our case is Dante that the philosophy 
 is essential to the structure and that the structure is 
 essential to the poetic beauty of the parts ; and we 
 must show that the philosophy is employed in a 
 different form from that which it takes in admittedly 
 unsuccessful philosophical poems. And if M. Vale'ry 
 is in error in his complete exorcism of " philosophy," 
 perhaps the basis of the error is his apparently com- 
 mendatory interpretation of the effort of the modern 
 poet, namely, that the latter endeavours " to produce 
 in us a state" 
 
 The early philosophical poets, Parmenides and 
 Empedocles, were apparently persons of an impure 
 philosophical inspiration. Neither their predecessors 
 nor their successors expressed themselves in verse; 
 Parmenides and Empedocles were persons who 
 mingled with genuine philosophical ability a good 
 deal of the emotion of the founder of a second-rate 
 religious system. They were not interested ex- 
 clusively in philosophy, or religion, or poetry, but in 
 something which was a mixture of all three; hence 
 K 145 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 their reputation as poets is low and as philosophers 
 should be considerably below Heraclitus, Zeno, 
 Anaxagoras, or Democritus. The poem of Lucretius 
 is quite a different matter. For Lucretius was 
 undoubtedly a poet. He endeavours to expound a 
 philosophical system, but with a different motive from 
 Parmenides or Empedocles, for this system is already 
 in existence; he is really endeavouring to find the 
 concrete poetic equivalent for this system to find 
 its complete equivalent in vision. Only, as he is an 
 innovator in this art, he wavers between philosophical 
 poetry and philosophy. So we find passages such as : 
 
 But the velocity of thunderbolts is great and their 
 stroke powerful, and they run through their course 
 with a rapid descent, because the force when aroused 
 first in all cases collects itself in the clouds and . . . 
 Let us now sing what causes the motion of the stars. 
 ... Of all these different smells then which strike 
 the nostrils one may reach to a much greater distance 
 than another. . . . l 
 
 But Lucretius' true tendency is to express an 
 ordered vision of the life of man, with great vigour 
 of real poetic image and often acute observation. 
 
 quod petiere, premunt arte faciuntque dolorem 
 corporis et dentes inlidunt saepe labellis 
 osculaque adfligunt, quia non est pura voluptas 
 et stimuli subsunt qui instigant laedere id ipsum 
 quodcumque est, rabies unde illaec germina surgunt . . . 
 
 medio de fonte leporum 
 surgit amari aliquid quod in ipsis floribus angat . . . 
 
 nee procumbere humi prostratum et pandere palmas 
 
 1 Munro's translation, passim. 
 146 
 
Dante 
 
 ante deum delubra nee aras sanguine multo 
 spargere quadrupedum nee votis nectere vota, 
 sed mage pacata posse omnia mente tueri. 
 
 The philosophy which Lucretius tackled was not 
 rich enough in variety of feeling, applied itself to 
 life too uniformly, to supply the material for a wholly 
 successful poem. It was incapable of complete ex- 
 pansion into pure vision. But I must ask M. Vale"ry 
 whether the " aim " of Lucretius' poem was "to fix 
 or create a notion " or to fashion " an instrument of 
 power." 
 
 Without doubt, the effort of the philosopher proper, 
 the man who is trying to deal with ideas in themselves, 
 and the effort of the poet, who may be trying to realize 
 ideas, cannot be carried on at the same time. But 
 this is not to deny that poetry can be in some sense 
 philosophic. The poet can deal with philosophic 
 ideas, not as matter for argument, but as matter for 
 inspection. The original form of a philosophy cannot 
 be poetic. But poetry can be penetrated by a philo- 
 sophic idea, it can deal with this idea when it has 
 reached the point of immediate acceptance, when it 
 has become almost a physical modification. If we 
 divorced poetry and philosophy altogether, we should 
 bring a serious impeachment, not only against Dante, 
 but against most of Dante's contemporaries. 
 
 Dante had the benefit of a mythology and a theology 
 which had undergone a more complete absorption 
 into life than those of Lucretius. It is curious that 
 not only Dante's detractors, like the Petrarch of 
 Landor's Pentameron (if we may apply so strong a 
 word to so amiable a character), but some of his 
 admirers, insist on the separation of Dante's "poetry" 
 147 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 and Dante's " teaching." Sometimes the philosophy 
 is confused with the allegory. The philosophy is an 
 ingredient, it is a part of Dante's world just as it is a 
 part of life ; the allegory is the scaffold on which the 
 poem is built. An American writer of a little primer 
 of Dante, Mr. Henry Dwight Sidgwick, who desires 
 to improve our understanding of Dante as a " spiritual 
 leader," says : 
 
 To Dante this literal Hell was a secondary matter ; 
 so it is to us. He and we are concerned with the 
 allegory. That allegory is simple. Hell is the ab- 
 sence of God. ... If the reader begins with the 
 consciousness that he is reading about sin, spiritually 
 understood, he never loses the thread, he is never at 
 a loss, never slips back into the literal signification. 
 
 Without stopping to question Mr. Sidgwick on the 
 difference between literal and spiritual sin, we may 
 affirm that his remarks are misleading. Undoubtedly 
 the allegory is to be taken seriously, and certainly 
 the Comedy is in some way a "moral education." 
 The question is to find a formula for the correspond- 
 ence between the former and the latter, to decide 
 whether the moral value corresponds directly to the 
 allegory. We can easily ascertain what importance 
 Dante assigned to allegorical method. In the Con- 
 vivio we are seriously informed that 
 
 the principal design [of the odes] is to lead men to 
 knowledge and virtue, as will be seen in the progress 
 of the truth of them \ 
 
 and we are also given the familiar four interpretations 
 
 of an ode : literal, allegorical, moral, and anagogical. 
 
 148 
 
Dante 
 
 And so distinguished a scholar as M. Hauvette repeats 
 again and again the phrase " didactique d'intention." 
 We accept the allegory. Accepted, there are two 
 usual ways of dealing with it. One may, with Mr. 
 Sidgwick, dwell upon its significance for the seeker of 
 "spiritual light," or one may, with Landor, deplore 
 the spiritual mechanics and find the poet only in 
 passages where he frees himself from his divine 
 purposes. With neither of these points of view can 
 we concur. Mr. Sidgwick magnifies the "preacher 
 and prophet," and presents Dante as a superior Isaiah 
 or Carlyle ; Landor reserves the poet, reprehends the 
 scheme, and denounces the politics. Some of Lander's 
 errors are more palpable than Mr. Sidgwick's. He 
 errs, in the first place, in judging Dante by the 
 standards of classical epic. Whatever the Comedy 
 is, an epic it is not. M. Hauvette well says : 
 
 Rechercher dans quelle mesure le poeme se rap- 
 proche du genre classique de Pepopee, et dans quelle 
 mesure il s'en ecarte, est un exdrcice de rhe'torique 
 entierement inutile, puisque Dante, a n'en pas douter, 
 n'a jamais eu 1'intention de composer une action 
 pique dans les regies. 
 
 But we must define the framework of Dante's poem 
 from the result as well as from the intention. The 
 poem has not only a framework, but a form ; and even 
 if the framework be allegorical, the form may be 
 something else. The examination of any episode 
 in the Comedy ought to show that not merely the 
 allegorical interpretation or the didactic intention, but 
 the emotional significance itself, cannot be isolated 
 from the rest of the poem. Landor appears, for 
 instance, to have misunderstood such a passage as 
 149 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 the Paolo and Francesca, by failing to perceive its 
 relations : 
 
 In the midst of her punishment, Francesca, when 
 she comes to the tenderest part of her story, tells it 
 with complacency and delight. 
 
 This is surely a false simplification. To have lost all 
 recollected delight would have been, for Francesca, 
 either loss of humanity or relief from damnation. The 
 ecstasy, with the present thrill at the remembrance of 
 it, is a part of the torture. Francesca is neither 
 stupefied nor reformed ; she is merely damned ; and 
 it is a part of damnation to experience desires that we 
 can no longer gratify. For in Dante's Hell souls are 
 not deadened, as they mostly are in life; they are 
 actually in the greatest torment of which each is 
 capable. 
 
 E il modo ancor m'offende. 
 
 It is curious that Mr. Sidgwick, whose approbation 
 is at the opposite pole from Landor's, should have 
 fallen into a similar error. He says : 
 
 In meeting [Ulysses], as in meeting Pier della Vigna 
 and Brunetto Latini, the preacher and the prophet 
 are lost in the poet. 
 
 Here, again, is a false simplification. These passages 
 have no digressive beauty. The case of Brunetto is 
 parallel to that of Francesca. The emotion of the 
 passage resides in Brunette's excellence in damnation 
 so admirable a soul, and so perverse. 
 
 e parve de costoro 
 
 Quegli che vince e non colui che perde. 
 150 
 
Dante 
 
 And I think that if Mr. Sidgwick had pondered the 
 strange words of Ulysses, 
 
 com' altrui piacque, 
 
 he would not have said that the preacher and prophet 
 are lost in the poet. " Preacher " and " prophet " are 
 odious terms ; but what Mr. Sidgwick designates by 
 them is something which is certainly not " lost in the 
 poet," but is part of the poet. 
 
 A variety of passages might illustrate the assertion 
 that no emotion is contemplated by Dante purely in 
 and for itself. The emotion of the person, or the 
 emotion with which our attitude appropriately invests 
 the person, is never lost or diminished, is always pre- 
 served entire, but is modified by the position assigned 
 to the person in the eternal scheme, is coloured by 
 the atmosphere of that person's residence in one of the 
 three worlds. About none of Dante's characters is 
 there that ambiguity which affects Milton's Lucifer. 
 The damned preserve any degree of beauty or 
 grandeur that ever rightly pertained to them, and 
 this intensifies and also justifies their damnation. 
 As Jason 
 
 Guarda quel grande che viene ! 
 per dolor non par lagrima spanda, 
 Quanto aspetto reale ancor ritiene ! 
 
 The crime of Bertrand becomes more lurid; the 
 vindictive Adamo acquires greater ferocity, and the 
 errors of Arnaut are corrected 
 
 Poi s'ascose nel foco che gli affina. 
 
 If the artistic emotion presented by any episode of 
 the Comedy is dependent upon the whole, we may 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 proceed to inquire what the whole scheme is. The 
 usefulness of allegory and astronomy is obvious. A 
 mechanical framework, in a poem of so vast an ambit, 
 was a necessity. As the centre of gravity of emotions 
 is more remote from a single human action, or a 
 system of purely human actions, than in drama or 
 epic, so the framework has to be more artificial and 
 apparently more mechanical. It is not essential that 
 the allegory or the almost unintelligible astronomy 
 should be understood only that its presence should 
 be justified. The emotional structure within this 
 scaffold is what must be understood the structure 
 made possible by the scaffold. This structure is an 
 ordered scale of human emotions. Not, necessarily, 
 all human emotions ; and in any case all the emotions 
 are limited, and also extended in significance by their 
 place in the scheme. 
 
 But Dante's is the most comprehensive, and the 
 most ordered presentation of emotions that has ever 
 been made. Dante's method of dealing with any 
 emotion may be contrasted, not so appositely with 
 that of other " epic " poets as with that of Shake- 
 speare. Shakespeare takes a character apparently 
 controlled by a simple emotion, and analyses the 
 character and the emotion itself. The emotion is 
 split up into constituents and perhaps destroyed in 
 the process. The mind of Shakespeare was one of 
 the most critical that has ever existed. Dante, on the 
 other hand, does not analyse the emotion so much 
 as he exhibits its relation to other emotions. You 
 cannot, that is, understand the Inferno without the 
 Purgatorio and the Paradise. " Dante," says Lander's 
 Petrarch, "is the great master of the disgusting." 
 152 
 
Dante 
 
 That is true, though Sophocles at least once ap- 
 proaches him. But a disgust like Dante's is no 
 hypertrophy of a single reaction : it is completed and 
 explained only by the last canto of the Paradiso. 
 
 La forma universal di questo nodo 
 credo ch'io vidi, perche piu di largo 
 dicendo questo, mi sento ch'io godo. 
 
 The contemplation of the horrid or sordid or dis- 
 gusting, by an artist, is the necessary and negative 
 aspect of the impulse toward the pursuit of beauty. 
 But not all succeed as did Dante in expressing the 
 complete scale from negative to positive. The 
 negative is the more importunate. 
 
 The structure of emotions, for which the allegory is 
 the necessary scaffold, is complete from the most 
 sensuous to the most intellectual and the most spiritual. 
 Dante gives a concrete presentation of the most 
 elusive : 
 
 Pareva a me che nube ne coprisse 
 lucida, spessa, solida e polita, 
 quasi adamante che lo sol ferisse. 
 
 Per entro se 1'eterna margarita 
 ne recepette, com' acqua recepe 
 raggio di luce, permanendo unita. 
 
 or 
 
 Nel suo aspetto tal dentro mi fei, 
 qual si fe' Glauco nel gustar dell' erba, 
 che il fe' consorto in mar degli altri dei. 1 
 
 Again, in the Purgatorio^ for instance in Canto XVI 
 and Canto XVIII, occur passages of pure exposition 
 
 1 See E. Pound, The Spirit of Romance, p. 145. 
 153 
 
The Sacred Wood 
 
 of philosophy, the philosophy of Aristotle strained 
 through the schools. 
 
 Lo natural e sempre senza errore, 
 
 ma 1' altro puote errar per malo obbietto, 
 o per poco o per troppo di vigore . . . 
 
 We are not here studying the philosophy, we see 
 it, as part of the ordered world. The aim of the 
 poet is to state a vision, and no vision of life can be 
 complete which does not include the articulate formu- 
 lation of life which human minds make. 
 
 Onde convenne legge per fren porre . . . 
 
 It is one of the greatest merits of Dante's poem 
 that the vision is so nearly complete ; it is evidence 
 of this greatness that the significance of any single 
 passage, of any of the passages that are selected as 
 "poetry," is incomplete unless we ourselves ap- 
 prehend the whole. 
 
 And Dante helps us to provide a criticism of M. 
 Vale*ry's " modern poet " who attempts " to produce 
 in us a state" A state, in itself, is nothing whatever. 
 
 M. Vale*ry's account is quite in harmony with 
 pragmatic doctrine, and with the tendencies of such 
 a work as William James's Varieties of Religious 
 Experience. The mystical experience is supposed 
 to be valuable because it is a pleasant state of unique 
 intensity-. But the true mystic is not satisfied merely 
 by feeling, he must pretend at least that he sees, and 
 the absorption into the divine is only the necessary, 
 if paradoxical, limit of this contemplation. The poet 
 does not aim to excite that is not even a test of his 
 success but to set something down ; the state of the 
 154 
 
Dante 
 
 reader is merely that reader's particular mode of 
 perceiving what the poet has caught in words. 
 Dante, more than any other poet, has succeeded in 
 dealing with his philosophy, not as a theory (in the 
 modern and not the Greek sense of that word) or as 
 his own comment or reflection, but in terms of some- 
 thing perceived. When most of our modern poets 
 confine themselves to what they had perceived, they 
 produce for us, usually, only odds and ends of still 
 life and stage properties ; but that does not imply so 
 much that the method of Dante is obsolete, as that 
 our vision is perhaps comparatively restricted. 
 
 NOTE. My friend the Abb Laban has reproached 
 me for attributing to Landor, in this essay, senti- 
 ments which are merely the expression of his dramatic 
 figure Petrarch, and which imply rather Landor's 
 reproof of the limitations of the historical Petrarch's 
 view of Dante, than the view of Landor himself. 
 The reader should therefore observe this correction 
 of my use of Landor's honoured name. 
 
 155 
 
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