Ex Libris C. K. OGDEN THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES \i$.' V^J-..'i:r- ._^.-; -.a;;:, ■'/••• :,^.,, :.■ 7,:.^' '■'..'■■'t -r-- QUEST AND VISION SEorks bs i^^ (Same ^^ttthov. THE THRESHOLD OF MANHOOD. A Young Man's Words to Young Men. Sixth Thousand. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. THE MAKERS OF MODERN ENGLISH. A Popular Handbook to the Greater Poets of THE Century. Third Thousand. Crown 8vo, cloth, 5s. THE REDEMPTION OF EDWARD STRAHAN. A Social Story. Third Thousand. Crov.'n Evo, cloth, 3s. 6c/. THE CHURCH OF THE FUTURE. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6ci. A VISION OF SOULS: with other Ballads and Poems. Crown Svo, cloth, 6s. Quest and Vision Essays in Xife anb literature BY W. J. DAWSON •'This music crept bj' me upon the waters, Allaying both their fury and my passion With its sweet air; thence I have followed it, Or it hath drawn me rather: — but 'tis gone. No, it begins again ! " — Tempest, Act /., Scene 2. HODDER AND STOUGHTON 27, I'ATERNOSTER ROW MDCCCXCII Printed by Hazell, Watson, & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury. PR PREFACE. '' I "HIS little book was first published in the -*- year 1886, and has long been out of print. It is a temptation to an author when he sees a book of his marked in secondhand catalogues as " rare " and " scarce " to do what he can to prevent the scarcity, in the public interest as well as his own, but more particularly the latter. I am the further attracted to this experiment by the fact that the book has recently been re-discovered in the United States, and has there entered upon a new and fairly prosperous career. This edition may claim to be almost a new book, since the earlier essays have re- ceived careful correction, and the book is a third larger in bulk by the addition of the chapters on "George Meredith: His Method and His Teaching," and " The New Realism : Olive 2000279 VI PREFACE. Schreiner, Mark Rutherford, Rudyard Kipling, and J. M. Barrie." I trust that in its new form it may be fortunate enough to find many new friends. London, 1892. W. T. Dawson. CONTENTS, SHELLEY WOKDSWORTH AND HIS MESSAGE RELIGIOUS DOUBT AND MODERN POETRY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW GEORGE ELIOT GEORGE MEREDITH .... THE NEW REALISM: OLIVE SCHREINEK, MARK RUTHERFORD, RUDYARD KIPLING, AND J M. BARRIE THE POETRY OF DESPAIR .... PAGE 7 41 75 107 128 158 193 246 ART AND TRUTH. The weary years, the summer's gold, Man's feverish joy and pain, Pass like a dream, and all grows old : Tell me, what things remain ? Two names alone, and Truth is one : A face inscrutable. With lips that neither laugh nor moan, Yet all tilings have to tell. And Art the other : at the gate Of her old Paradise, Whoe'er shall come, or soon or late. She opens to the wise. We fade and pass : we fret our days In barren love and strife ; But happier he who only prays Beneath the Tree of Life. M SHELL RY. R. RUSSELL LOWELL has used an admirable phrase about Wordsworth which is worthy of reproduction ; he has spoken of his " ahnost irritating respectabihty." Why respectabihty on the part of a poet should be irritating it is difficult to say, unless it be that the conventional tradition of poets is pre- cisely the reverse of respectable. Poets, from Homer downward, have been more or less at variance with average society. They have not belonged to the sober, tax-paying, ovve-no-man- any-thing type of humanity. Respectable citi- zens have habitually held them in suspicion, as persons of uncertain character, and presenting to the common eye no visible means of sup- port. The Act of Parliament which reckoned the actor a vagabond marked the apotheosis of respectability, its concrete utterance, its defi- nite and unalterable verdict upon all classes of men who live by the exercise or cultivation of the imaginative powers. One of the facts which philosophic moralists have to deal with 8 QUEST AND VISION. is that, more often than not, men of imagina- tive genius have been open transgressors of the received laws and traditions of society. One has but to mention Burns, Byron, and Shelley — the three most commanding influences in the poetry of the century — in order to realize how grave a problem this presents. In each case we have the spectacle of immense genius allied to imperfect morals, and in the latter instances, not merely the outrage, but the defiance of morals. It is surely, therefore, a charming stroke of humor or satire that when at last there is vouchsafed to us a poet of un- questioned respectability, who actually knew how to collect taxes as well as pay them, who was in private life the most sober and decent of citizens, we straightway rebuke him for not being a chartered libertine, like the rest of his craft. Society, having constructed an ideal of what a poet is — namely, all that he should not be — expects every poet to conform to that most improper tradition. A poet without improprie- ties has no piquancy, and his very respectability becomes irritating. Thus is the poet impaled upon the horns of a most unjust dilemma : if vicious, he is a scandal ; if virtuous, a bore. SHELLEY. 9 We all remember the story of Theodore Hook being asked at a dinner-party, by an eager admirer of ten, when he was going to be funny. The question must have probed deep into the sore heart of Hook. There he sat, weighed down with bitter thoughts and shame- ful memories, in his brain madness, in his heart blackness and decay, only too conscious of the old age that made itself felt beneath the " pad- dings and washings," of the eclipse that was fast stealing upon his wit, of the hollownessof that bubble reputation he had made ; and then came this tiny questioner, with no cruelty in his childish heart, asking him when he was going to begin to be funny ! Was not that dinner the price paid for his jests? Had he not for years let himself out at that price to whosoever would ? The jester must needs jest, though his heart be breaking ; the actor who has just looked into the open coffin must never- theless rush hither and thither in the farce, and say comic things in his funniest manner ; it is no concern of society's that Hook is broken- hearted. There is no tyranny so cruel, and often so absurd, as the tyranny of tradition. This little story about Hook has many wide 10 QUEST AND VISION. and obvious applications. The man who is celebrated as a wit must be funny on pain of extinction ; a flash of silence is not permitted him ; he is dragged at the heels of his own reputation, and cannot escape. The class of men society has been pleased to identify as poets must, in similar fashion, abide by the traditional ideal society has set up. The actor may purge himself and his calling, and live in perfect nobility of life ; but the mass of men will still persist in regarding him as an immoral person, whom the law recognizes as a vagrant ; and to the vulgar mind the poet will still remain a person of unsound and unsafe life. You cannot persuade society that you are not what the tradition of your calling says you are ; and the attempt only results in irrita- tion and defiance. As there is nothing more tyrannous, so there is nothing more unjust and even capri- cious, than the action of society toward its men of genius. It sets up one man and puts down another without adequate reason, or any reason at all. What it cheerfully con- dones in one it shrieks itself hoarse over in another. The temper of society toward social SHELLEY. 1 1 offences is an unknown quantity ; no one can with safety calculate the chances. It is just as likely that the daring social iconoclast will be- come famous as infamous by his iconoclasm ; between celebrity and ostracism there is but a step. Society has no settled decalogue, no Code Napoleon, no fixed standard of conduct by which the iconoclast may measure his posi- tion or estimate his peril. It is more often than not governed by the fitfulness of chance opinion, and is drifted along the tide of mere circum- stance. No better instance of this peculiarity can be found than in the relative treatment of Byron and Shelley. Both poets outraged the traditions of society in the same direction, but with difference of degree. The balance of degree would be in favor of Byron and against Shel- ley. Byron never professed himself an atheist, but Shelley did, and wrote a blasphemous poem in favor of atheism. Byron never pro- mulgated perilous doctrines of free love, but Shelley dedicated his life to their promulga- tion and shaped his conduct upon them. Much as may be laid at Byron's door, nothing baser can be alleged of him than the story too well proved of Shelley's treatment of Har- 12 QUEST AND VISION, riet Westbrook. Byron's profligacy was the coarse and commonplace sort of profligacy that thousands of men of fashion in his own time and our time are guilty of. It would have passed unnoticed in a period so corrupt as the period of the Regency but that he himself chose to publish it, to magnify it, and to gloat over it. Shelley was a sensualist, but not a profligate. He was as eager to blazon his sensualism as Byron his profligacy. In one of his longest and finest poems he approves of and glorifies incest. The difference between Byron's and Shelley's treatment of passion is that one treats it with coarse realism, while the other invests it with a subtle glamour. Byron knows he is wicked, and his transgression is ever before him ; Shelley acknowledges no sin, and stands naked but not ashamed in his mis- doing. The verdict of society upon the pair is one of the most anomalous in the history of literature. Byron is dismissed as a monster; Shelley has been recognized by one of his lat- est students as one who, under favoring cir- cumstances, might have been the saviour of the world. Not long since a poor woman, an habitual SHELLEY. 1 3 drankard, informed a magistrate that she be- Heved she had no soul. She was an exception to the entire human race ; she was destitute of what every other human being possessed. It was a flash of grim bitterness; the humiha- tion of despair could sink no lower. Let us for a moment try to conceive the possibility of such error on the part of the Creator; what sort of tragic abortion would this solitary soul- less creature be ? Certainly no despairing creat- ure. Not having a soul, she would not feel the need of one, or be able to realize its exist- ence. She would be destitute of conscience and moral sense. Things morally abhorrent would present no repulsiveness to such a be- ing ; the foul would simply be a different sort of fair ; good and evil, hallowed and unhal- lowed, pure and infamous things would pre- sent merely so many interesting phenomena, and would be regarded with the same impas- sive curiosity. The proportion of moral things would be lost, or rather would never have ex- isted. It would be vain to expect moral con- duct from such a being ; impulse and desire would be the only guides of conduct. The just laws which regulated ordinary mortals 14 QUEST AND VISION. would naturally appear a useless and cum- brous tyranny. To admit such a being into the society of ordinary creatures would consti- tute a constant peril. What safeguard would there be for the preservation of honor, truth, or chastity in the presence of one who was de- void of that primal sense which comprehends what these abstractions mean? Thus one might push the speculation in many direc- tions, and arrive at various grotesque and tragic deductions. A powerful imagination might so treat this conception in the realms of fiction as perhaps to make it one of the most fascinating of literary studies. It is far from me to describe Shelley as a man without a soul, but if one can conceive a great poet almost destitute of all but rudi- mentary moral sense Shelley might very well embody the conception. Let any one take the extraordinary story of his conduct to Harriet Westbrook, Mary Godwin, and Jane Clairmont, or rather the portion of the story which be- longs to the relation of the three women to each other. He leaves Harriet for no tangible reason except that he has discovered she is only a " noble animal," who does not properly SHELLEY. 15 share his poetic sentiments. He then induces, with great difficulty, Mary Godwin, a girl just over sixteen, to leave her father's house with him. When they fly he is not content to rob Godwin of Mary, but actually takes Claire with them also, apparently for no other reason than that she would be an interesting companion. rThen, to complete matters, when he has lived a few weeks with Mary, and under the same roof with Claire, he writes the forsaken Harriet a long and loving letter, suggesting that she shall join them, that they may all be happy to- gether. On his return to London he visits Harriet as if nothing had happened, and thinks it would at least be a very admirable arrangement for Harriet and Mary to know each other. He aids and abets Claire in be- coming the mistress of Lord Byron. Finally, within less than three weeks after the body of Harriet Westbrook has been found in the Serpentine, Shelley has married Mary Godwin. If such a net-work of episode as this were introduced in fiction every critic in the king- dom would declaim against the monstrous improbability of the plot. One can very well fancy the sort of review that would be written. 2 1 6 QUEST AND VISION. *' Before the author of this volume takes an- other flight in fiction," we can hear the wise reviewer saying, " it will perhaps be well for him to consider the following observations : Seduction is unfortunately not uncommon, but young men of two-and-twenty do not fre- quently forsake their wives after two years of marriage, under plea of incompatibility of lit- erary taste, and straightway seduce girls of sixteen while sharing their fathers' hospitality. When a man is base enough to seduce a young girl he does not usually invite her sister to accompany her in her flight from her father's house, that she may become a daily witness of her shame. Neither is it common for such a man to wish his deserted wife to live with his mistress and to connive in bringing to shame the sister of the mistress he has abducted. And it may, perhaps, have come within the knowledge of the author of this book, in his observation of society, that even the most hardened of profligates would be slow to out- rage public decency to the extent of marrying his mistress in less than three weeks from the day on which his wife has committed suicide. There is a secrecy in vice, a certain honor in SHELLEY. 17 passion, a decency in sensuality, which forbid such acts as these. Only a delirious fancy could invent them and a morbid mind conceive them. We beg to assure the author that in real life such things do not occur," etc. To do justice to the novelists, it may be said that no novelist has yet invented such a plot as this. But this is the clear, truthful, and un- biased statement of what Shelley actually did. He does not appear to have realized that there was any incongruity, any unreasonableness, or still less any shamefulness, in his conduct. There was no malicious wit in his letter to Harriet ; he sincerely imagined he had invented an admirable arrangement for the comfort of all parties when he invited her to live with Mary and Claire. On his part it was simple obtuseness, the entire lack of common percep- tion. There is no sign that he recognized either the absurdity or wickedness of his pro- posals, that he even experienced any contrition or remorse for the wreck of Claire's life or the death of Harriet. Byron had too keen a sense of the ridiculous ever to have been involved in such an imbroglio as this, and too great a fac- ulty for remorse not to have suffered bitterly 1 8 QUEST AND VISION. in its contemplation. But to all this Shelley was indifferent ; he looked upon it, but there was no speculation in those orbs. He went placidly on his way wrecking and destroying the lives of others as a child might amuse him- self in a garden by trampling down the rarest flowers, in pure gaiety, and with no knowledge of the damage he was doing. Is not the most charitable assumption in such a case that the wrecker is morally insane, that he is deficient in, or destitute of, all that constitutes the moral sense ? The most remarkable circumstance about the moral errors of Shelley is not so much his own indifference to them as the indifference of his contemporaries and critics. In one sense his contemporaries were not indifferent ; undoubt- edly Shelley did enough to make many people dread his influence and hate his name. He tells us that in Rome he was regarded by all who knew or heard of him as a rare prodigy of crime and pollution, whose very look might in- fect. But, nevertheless, there was a curious purity about Shelley, the existence and depth of which was recognized by those who knew him best. Byron said he was the purest man SHET.LEY. 19 he ever met. Byron may not be the best wit- ness on such a subject, but Leigh Hunt, at all events, is a most respectable witness — a man of conventional ideas on all subjects except the financial obligations of literary men — and there is plenty of evidence that Shelley im- pressed him in precisely the same way. Haz- litt did not like Shelley, but the worst thing he can say about him is that he has a maggot in his brain, a hectic flush, a shrill voice, and the general aspect of a religious fanatic. With all the new weight of evidence which Mr. Jeaffreson has accumulated and the malicious ingenuity v.'ith which he has applied it, it is impossible to believe that Shelley was actuated in his relations with women by the brutal self- ishness and coarse passion of the ordinary bc- guiler of the sex. He was as completely sin- cere in his advocacy of the free contract and his hatred of marriage as the Mormon fanatic is in favor of polygamy. It is surely not un- reasonable to suppose that a Mormon may be a man of pure mind, of upright conduct, even of pious spirit, in spite of his eccentricity of having more wives than other people. Indeed, it is a common statement that in Salt Lake 20 QUEST AND VISION. City ordinary profligacy is unknown. Precisely in the same way Shelley, while holding odious opinions which in the estimation of most civil- ized people would sap, if carried out, the very foundations of society, was himself a man who impressed others by the almost virginal purity of his character. People who were horrified by his writings could scarcely believe they saw the man whose name was a portent, in the fair and gentle youth, of almost girlish aspect, whose ordinary speech was set to a higher music than other men's, and whose ordinary life was un- sullied by a single blot of common profligacy. As we have already said, he was not a profli- gate, and it is almost too much to call him a sensualist. It would be truer to describe him as morally insane upon certain subjects, the chief of which was the marriage relation. This was the maggot in his brain. Governed solely by impulse, and reasoningentirely through the imagination, he allowed himself first to invent pernicious and unwholesome theories, and then with the common fearlessness of mania proceeded to put them into practice. Byron simply took the old road of vice, but went further along that way to everlasting burn- SHELLEY. 21 insf than most other men have dared. Like most vicious men, he felt a morbid pride in boasting of his base exploits, and his vanity enjoyed the reputation of abnormal wicked- ness, which he had done his best to justify. There is no difficulty in classifying Byron ; he was a brilliant rake. But Shelley was an en- tirely new species, and his place is not yet set- tled. He held vile views and yet impressed men with a child-like purity. He cursed his father, deceived his friend, and deserted his wife ; yet every literary critic for sixty years has hesitated to call him a bad man. His poetry is full of a more subtle and perilous poison even than Byron's ; yet its latest editor has declared Shelley one who possessed the qualifications necessary for a saviour of the world. Was Shelley mad? It seems an insult to suggest such a question, and yet it is not so wholly foolish to do so as may appear. Of course, it would be a monstrous absurdity to suppose Shelley mad in tlic ordinary significa- tion of the term. The man whose career was one brilliant and orderly development of genius, whose works grew in splendor and 22 QUEST AND VISION. magnificence, advancing with sure and steady- power, to the very last, was not a man of broken or deranged intellect. But, neverthe- less, a mind may possess the highest qualities and yet miss something of that perfect equi- poise which we call sanity. Christopher Smart was mad, and his stately "Hymn to David" was actually composed while he was an inmate of an asylum. His madness was local, so to speak, and left his genius free. He was in- sane upon certain questions of conduct, but perfectly clear-headed on all other points. The case is perfectly common, and Shelley does seem, in some points, to approximate to it. He was mild and gentle until certain sub- jects were mentioned ; then the hectic flush, which Hazlitt noted, appeared, and he shrieked and gesticulated like a dervish. He ap- proached the most hideous suggestions of moral evil with a smiling nonchalance, and seemed absolutely unconscions that any shame could possibly attach to them. He had no sense of sin. The most vicious man shrinks from contemplating certain forms of vice, which to him had no taint of vice about them ; he was as far above such a man in his conduct SHELLEY. 23 as he was below him in his ideas. His wicked- ness was philosophic wickedness. A man who Avas temperate, self-denying, and chaste in his daily life, in his philosophy of conduct he ut- tered and propagated ideas which visit the bulk of men, if at all, as the passing horror of delirium or madness. He had the madman's fear of being thought mad. One of his con- stant illusions was that his father was seeking to trap him into an asylum, and he declared that attempts had been made to seize his per- son. Indeed, the whole history of these illu- sions — and there were many of them — lends strong color to the proposition that Shelley was not a perfectly sane man. A man who circumstantially describes how his wife has been wronged, how he has been shot at, how the officers of an asylum have entered his own house with orders to carry him off, Avhen there is absolute evidence that nothing of the kind ever occurred, and could not have occurred, would certainly lie under the natural suspicion of unsound intellect in most societies. That he also wrote "Laonand Cyntha" Avould not dis- pel such a suspicion ; indeed, the very manner in which he advocates, with the most brilliant 24 QUEST AND VISION. and alluring genius, immoralities which are not so much as named among decent men, ap- parently without the faintest idea that he is doing any thing criminal or unusual, would only serve to strengthen the belief. The question of art and morals is a very vexed one, and naturally suggests itself in re- lation to Shelley. One reader, having followed me so far, will cry out that a man who glorified incest ought to be drummed out of the regi- ment of genius, for no splendor of eloquence or passion of poetry can afford proper apology for the infamy of his thought. But another will inevitably reply that Milton advocated polygamy; and if you are to make men of genius show a clean bill of moral health, or sign a self-denying ordinance in regard to aber- rations of opinion before you admit them to the temple of fame, in truth your said temple will remain a very solitary place. You will have to reckon with the coarseness of Shakes- peare, and the bestiality of Swift ; you must convict Coleridge of criminal selfishness ; Lamb's humor occasionally has a distinct alcoholic flavor; and poor Burns smells so strongly of whisky, and bears such obvious SHEI.LEY. 25 traces of the ravages of passion, that no re- spectable custodian would dream of admitting him, or even of allowing him to rest within the porch without remonstrance, or possibly- pious vituperation. That is how it ought to be, and no doubt would be, if Respectability- had her way, and could always rely upon the faithfulness of the custodians she might nomi- nate. She would have burned " Hamlet " to- gether with " Lucrece," with much the same indiscriminating horror as that of the pious executor of Wesley, who discovered a much annotated Shakespeare among the testator's papers, and hastened to hide from the world the evidence of such unparalleled backsliding by consigning his master's manuscripts to the flames. In fact, we should have had a pretty regular series of bonfires of the vanities, on a much more extensive scale than the compara- tively humble conflagrations with which Savon- arola startled Florence in the fifteenth cent- ury. But fortunately, as one might show even on the ground of morals itself, Respectability docs not exercise the despotism in literature which she does in drawing-rooms. She gives her orders with unmistakable precision enough, 26 QUEST AND VISION. and doubtless her custodians do their best to obey them. They make an immense bluster, as Jeffrey did about Wordsworth, and announce in stentorian tones that "This wont do." The Austrian general severely criticised Bona- parte for his intolerable audacity in breaking every rule of warfare, by fighting battles in the winter. By every rule of the game the young man was clearly wrong, yet somehow or other he contrived to win it. It is so that genius usually contrives to answer its assailants. The door-keepers of literature have the very best intentions, immaculate orthodoxy, alert dog- matism, unlimited pugnacity, profound belief in their mission, and yet even they hear the voice of the charmer, charming never so sweetly, and are beguiled. The music of the advancing lyre floats like invisible enchantment on their senses ; its divine cadences might well make the trees rustle passionate response, or follow in obedient choirs ; the warders try to lift their hands to the unswung bolts, but cannot, for the spell is on them ; they try to frame the words of ban and doom, but are im- potent, for a magical surprise holds their lips dumb, disparted ; and then, without further SHELLEY. 2'J parley, from the greenwood bursts the young poet, with eyes aflame and face suffused in rapture, and lightly, as though into a sleeping palace, he leaps the golden threshold, and is seated with his peers in immortal life and rev- erence. From that secure throne he cannot be dragged down ; and though the warders still may suffer much uneasy scruple, yet even they are fascinated, and obliterate the memory of defeat by singing paeans to the victor. No doubt this perpetual controversy on art and literature is useful to the printer, but it is hard to find any other class of persons who are benefited by it. It is as futile as the endeavor to build houses from the top, and as impossible of demonstration as the squaring of the circle. The plain case appears to amount to this : that men will take their sides on such a ques- tion according to the degree in which the aes- thetic or the moral sense is developed within them. Like I'llatc and Herod, the two may become friends on the. day when the human centre of their controversy has given up the ghost ; but the truce will last no longer than the thick darkness which covers the earth on the day of irreparable loss and mourning. The 28 QUEST AND VISION. disputants are irreconcilable, because they view their subject from diametrically different stand- points. Carlyle would have called Shelley " a puir creature ; " and we have all had an oppor- tunity of learning with what sickening revul- sion and contempt he read the Life of Keats on its first appearance. Had Carlyle, then, no sense of beauty? Few men had a finer. A great portion of his writing, and that the no- blest portion, is poetry in every thing but the form. Not even Wordsworth showed a ten- derer love of Nature, nor Chaucer a finer fidel- ity in depicting her, than Carlyle has manifested in hundreds of rough jottings, sketches at first hand, which are found in his diaries and let- ters. But such passages spring rather from an unparalleled power of minute observation than from a keen aesthetic sense. The dominant stratum of Carlyle's character was morality, hard Scotch granite, out of which the sweetest waters could break, and on whose top soil the tendcrcst seedlings could thrive — humor, pa- thos, poetr}'-, the most subduing gentleness, all were there ; but the main formation of his mind was all the same vehement sternness, with more than a touch of the Pharisaism that SHELLEY. 29 metes and judges, and swears by the law rather than the Gospel. He had little love of music, no love of art, and considerable con- tempt for any poetry but the poetry of action. To him it was inconceivable that any human creature should claim any dignity or reverence as a minister of the beautiful. Man did not live to write beautifully — Goldsmith, according to Johnson, could have done that about a broomstick — but to act beautifully. When, therefore, you united in one life the art of beautiful writing with the habit of infamous conduct, you presented to Carlyle a monstros- ity upon which all his bitter ire flamed forth, and for \vhich his one remedy was instant an- nihilation. The man of stern moral sense will always side with Carlyle, and will think in his heart — some might add, " with the fool " — that it were better Byron and Shelley had never been born. The man whose aesthetic sense is strong, and wdiose moral sense is weak; to whom poetry is an exhilaration, and music a passion ; who can find the most exquisite of joys in a perfect phrase, and thoughts too deep for tears in the humblest flower that blows — will always be ready to pardon any thing to the man who 30 QUEST AND VISION. has baptized him into such delight and wrought in him such silent rapture. And between these two parties, who have a creed and be- lieve in it, there will always troop certain dis- consolate fugitives, who make the old futile attempt to serve two masters, and perpetually relieve their troubled consciences by casuistical papers in the reviews on the relations of mo- rality and art. Much has been written about the intangibil- ity of Shelley's poetry, but in truth it is no more intangible than the man. I pause at this point to consider what is written, and may make free confession of certain uncomfortable qualms. One looks toward that quiet ghost which rises from the blue waters of Spezzia, or glides like a sunbeam through the pine forests of Pisa, or beside the glittering Serchio, and cries with Marcellus, " 'Tis gone ! We do it wrong, being so niajestical. To offer it the show of violence." One might almost add the other lines, '' For it is, as the air, invulnerable. And our vain blows nialicious mockery." Browning asks, " And did you once see Shelley SHELLEY. 31 plain ? " as though he too felt that Shelley was an ethereal presence, a wandering voice, an Ariel whose life was song, a most complex and almost intangible personality. Other poets have used the poetic fallacy, and made Nat- ure weep with their grief, and transmute their joy into bright sunlight and fragrant winds ; but Shelley seems to have sunk himself in Nature, and made himself the translator of Nature's mute emotions. To use one of his own favorite phrases, his being became " in- woven " with the very life of the universe. We find it hard to realize him as a bodily pres- ence ; he is " as the air, invulnerable." He did not live prose and write poetry ; he Avas poet from, the crown of his head to the sole of his foot ; a creature of imagination all com- pact. Speaking after the manner of men, we may doubt his sanity ; but we arc conscious, not the less, that our diagnosis has not gone to the heart of the case and plucked its mystery out. It is this remoteness, this insubstantial- ity of Shelley, which makes it so difficult to understand him. We never seem to be at home with him ; just when we have got our finger on his pulse, and he stoops to whisper 32 QUEST AND VISION. his secret to us, a luminous mist falls between us and him, and we see him fade into air, thin air. Sometimes he seems to us a creatui'e of demonic origin, but oftener an eternal child. Has any biographer, Mr. Jeaffreson included, given us the real Shelley yet ? To give the real Byron was a v^ery different matter. There a biographer was treading on firm ground, and dealing with flesh and blood ; for that matter, with somewhat offensive flesh and blood. But Shelley eludes all human touch. When all the records are gathered into one, when Medwin has blundered, and Hogg has blabbed, and Mr. Jeaffreson disillusionized us ; when we have honored his enthusiasm, and pitied his errors, and wondered at his moral obtuseness, and written all sorts of smart and malicious and tender things about him, we somehow feel like the old squire with the French wine, that we have got " no forrader." The voice sings on, in sweet passion and thrilling pathos ; it loosens its silver notes and floods us with de- light ; it is hidden in the clouds, or uttered by the skylark, or lingers in the west wind and the sea ; and it sings on as if in supreme con- tempt for us and our poor judgments, the SHELLEY. 33 malicious mockery of our pointless repartee, and stupid cleverness of our mean sarcasms, even as a lark pouring out his soul against the sap- phire sky of noontide thinks nothing of the riot and wrong of man, but only of the bright- ness of the sky and sweetness of the music, and the joy and triumph of life. It is this lack of robust flesh and blood in Shelley which makes both himself and his poetry so difficult of comprehension to the common peo- ple. No man has so completely realized the divine fury of the poet, the half-inspired and half-frenzied utterances of the man who is caught up into the seventh heaven, whether in the body or out of the body we cannot tell, and has become the witness of things which it is not lawful for a man to utter. lie perpetually produces the impression of visionary splendor beyond all speech ; he strains at the barriers of language till his voice rises in one long, languor- ous, melodious wail, a lament for impotence, a passionate invocation to the unattainable: " Woe is me ! Tlie winged words on which my soul would pierce lulo the height of love's rare universe. Are chains of lead around its flight of lire. I pant, I sink, I tremble, I expire." 34 QUEST AND VISION. We listen entranced, as men do to the nightin- gale, and hold our breath, as the deep mellow notes bubble forth, and quicken in passion, and rise in steady flight, higher and yet higher, clearer and yet clearer, till we can well believe, Avhen they cease suddenly at the utmost zenith of rapture, it is because the very throat has burst, and the very heart broken in excess of over-mastering ecstasy. Who has read "Epipsy- chidion" without at least some faint realization of what this means ? Even Mr. Jeaffreson calls it the finest love-poem in the universe, and he is right. But it is no earthly love ; it is spiritual passion, the rapture of a soul broken free of the flesh, but yet using the symbols of fleshly love, "confused in passion's golden purity." We pause and think, "He can soar no higher; mortal speech has done its utmost." We are faint and flushed with the difficult air, and can scarcely breathe. But Shelley is invigorated, and again begins, and soars yet higher, and sings in yet more piercing sweetness, till at last the sense seems to swoon, and the solid world slides from beneath our feet, and we, like the singer, sink and tremble and expire. When we wake it is like waking from delirium. We SHELLEY. 35 have been utterly bewitched in a dream of sensuous beauty, and we rub our eyes to make sure the common earth is still our home. The spell of Shelley has been upon us, and there is no other poet capable of such inimitable magic. But there are few natures that can bear the spell, even as it was a unique nature which pro- duced it, simply because there are many nat- ures capable of pleasure but few of rapture, of pain, but not of agony, for whom indeed, by the necessary limitations of their own character, such words are too divine and deep, and savor more of frenzy than of truth. To men of an imaginative mind and hard mo- rality Shelley will always appear a mere blas- phemous presence. They will never pierce the mist of intangibility and touch the real man. They will find it a congenial task to catalogue his errors and explain the sequence of his sins. What they will not be able to do will be to understand that nature sometimes produces characters of strange complexity, which fall into no category, and touch many classes but belong to none. It is not possible to draw any fixed line between the sheep and the goats at our earthly judgment-seats, or to sc[iaratc the 36 QUEST AND VISION. wheat from tlic tares in human character. It is not possible to label and ticket men, as phrenologists do the sections of the skull, and say to precisely what class they shall be rele- gated. It is difficult even to discern where virtue grows warped and leans to vice, for the golden threads are closely bound up with the stained and blackened ones, and in destroying one you sometimes spoil the other. Criticism may be a very excellent employment in the world of letters, but it is an exceedingly futile one when it applies itself to character. Most futile of all employments is it when it approaches with its yard-measures and compasses a unique nature, and affects to take its true dimensions by rule of thumb, and explain its secret with the offensive glibness of a self-complacency which is " cock-sure of every thing." But if to the bulk of men Shelley will never be a very real presence, or a very lovable one, there will always be those who will have enough imaginative insight to discern the real man, and they will love him with an unfailing devo- tion. There is no more pathetic figure in English literature. From first to last he is solitary and isolated. We see him as a boy, with SHELLEY. 37 eager eyes and bright-flowing hair, alive with fancy, thrilling his sisters and frightening him- self by the grotesque visions of an undisciplined imagination ; a frail wild slip of a child, need- ing more than common children a sympathetic atmosphere, and the kindliest training. But such conditions were utterly denied him. He is the slave of impulse, and with no judgment to regulate that impulse. The benign influ- ence of human goodness, not to say human piety, never fell upon him. The only sort of Christianity he was familiar with was the grotesque distortion embodied in a father whose chief articles of belief were the necessity of orthodoxy and the divine rights of prop- erty. The only elderly man who exercised any real influence over his intellectual growth was Dr. Lind, of Eton, and he was an atheist. It is needless to follow the well-remembered details of his expulsion from Oxford, his quar- rels with his father, his poverty, his abstinence, his generosity, his misfortunes. It is not won- derful if the original morbid taint in his mind fed upon such food as this, and in his almost frantic love for liberty he advocated license. Life must often have seemed a very sorry business 38 QUEST AND VISION. to liim. He never had a public for his writ- ings ; scarcely one of his poems had a sale, and as he himself says, he wrote for himself and not for the public. Yet it cannot be doubted he desired a public, and keenly felt the contrast between his own literary failures and Byron's immense success. He tells us in lines of bittei sweetness : " Alas ! I have nor hope, nor health, Nor peace within, nor calm around, Nor that content surpassing wealth The sage in meditation found, And walked with inward glory crowned — Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure. Others I see whom these surround : Smiling they live and call life pleasure ; To me that cup has been dealt in another measure." Not in that hour of dejection only when he looked in utter sadness on the bright sea and purple noon of Naples, but many times did he feel that he could lie down, " Like a tired child, And weep away the life of care." He could not solve the mystery of life — its shame, its wrong, its anguish ; and like many another pure and ardent spirit bruised him- self in many a wild fluttering against the iron SHELLEY. 39 bars of insoluable problems. And then he flew to Nature. In her freshness and grandeur, in the hospitality of her silence, and the friend- liness of her unchangingness, he took refuge, and hid himself in her starry pavilion against the windy tempest of life's futility and malice. He becomes her high-priest and confidant. He serves her with unquenchable devotion and delight. He thirsts for her beauty, and toils to mirror her glory in fit and perfect speech. At thirty he is gray-headed, and his face h lined and furrowed like an old man's. The spirit of sorrow never leaves him ; his verse is one long lament, and underneath its utmost triumph the voice sobs quietly and the sick heart aches. Then suddenly the end comes, and Nature weaves her blackest tempest for a pall and opens the door of rest in the dim green depths of that unresting ocean he had loved so well. He dies with purpose, charac- ter, and work alike unfinished. We know what he ditl, but know not what he might have done or been. I'-ut life is only just be- gun at thirty, and ended thus in its begin- ning, surely merits the grace of charity, of sympathy, of pity. That meed of reverent 40 QUEST AND VISION. feeling has never yet been denied by any Avho have drunk of the magic stream of his poetry, and never will be wanting so long as English literature endures, and with it the name of Shelley. WORDSWORTH AND HIS MESSAGE. <^l WORDSWORTH AND HIS MESSAGE. IN the ordinary development of personal culture there are certain usual and well- defined stages. There are voices in literature which appeal especially to youth and rouse its strenuous impulses, and there arc voices that do not effectually pierce the soul until the ad- vent of sedater years and the more constant mind. It is seldom that the literary friends of youth are the friends of age, and rare and memorable is that book which casts its gla- mour over boyhood and has lost no portion of its wizardry in the duller period of fading years. There are few books which have this universal charm, and they arc the greatest. They may almost be numbered upon one's fingers, and the names they bear are the peerage of liter- ature. In that august company Wordsworth cannot be enrolled, for the spell of Wordsworth, ex- quisite as it is, is limited and very far from commonly felt. Scott is the poet of boyhood, liyron the poet of youth, Shelley the inspira- 42 QUEST AND VISION. tion of early manhood, while to the young heart Keats is the very minister of sensuous beauty, the thrilling voice that sings from the lattices of •' Magic casements opening on the foam. Of perilous seas in faery lands forlorn." There is a time when the healthy chivalry of Scott sets the boy's heart thrilling, just as later the splendid bitterness of Byron quickens it to revolt, or shadows it with morbid sorrow. Shelley carries that revolt, as it were, into a farther world, and fills the firmament with the same war and passion that Byron breeds upon the earth. It is the revolutionary note in Shelley that secures him the ear of youth, and according to the strength of the poetic fibre in a youth will he choose either Byron or Shel- ley as his singer. The shallower nature, or we might say the grosser nature, will fall a prey to Byron ; the more spiritual nature will kindle with the ethereal fury and rebellion of Shelley. But both, in their measure, will remain over- mastering influences upon the heart of youth. Against these Wordsworth has no chance. There is no fury in his verse. He has no cyn- icism, no quips and pranks of bitter humor or WORDSWORTH AND HIS MESSAGE. 43 bitterer blasphemy. He brings with him no whirlwind, but a fresh and quiet air ; he rises on us with no tumult of tempestuous clouds, but with the ineffable serenity and strength of that "sacred dawn " he loved so well to picture. He has no brilliance wherewith to dazzle us ; no mystery to fascinate our curiosity, no silent anguish on his shut lips to move our sympathy. He is not dramatic ; a more undramatic man never hved. His voice is like the voice of a ballad-singer following a fantasia ; so simple that we fancy we may scorn it, yet so sweet and clear that we begin to listen even in spite of ourselves. The waves of endless storms break in futile wrath upon the iceberg, but the warm Gulf-stream comes at last and dissolves what they could not shatter, and subdues that which it could never carry by assault. The influence of Wordsworth upon his time has been the influence of the Gulf-stream ; it has flowed silently and surely, and has conquered. It is for reasons like these that Wordsworth can afford to wait his time. He had to do so while he lived in relation to his fame ; he has to do so still in relation to his acceptation by individuals. He wrote for nearly fifty years 44 QUEST AND VISION. amid all but universal scorn, and yet suffered no diminution of strength or hope, and over- came at last. He will sing in vain still to the heart of youth full of its first fire and fervor. He will seem to be a singer of no account, an aged bard who stands in the market-place and pipes to those who will not dance. But inev- itably there comes a time in the history of any true personal culture when this quiet bard draws us to himself, and grapples us with hooks of steel. He becomes what no other has become to us — the friend of our solitude, the inspiration of our duty, the consoler of our disillusions ; keeping full pace with us to what- soever heights of thought or deed we may as- pire, and remaining to the end a friend that sticketh closer than a brother. It is not to any detailed criticism of the works of Wordsworth I would now address myself; the libraries already groan with reams of disquisition on that subject. Never has poor mortal been so utterly routed and flouted as Francis Jeffrey for that famous obiter dic- iiun of his, that Wordsworth "wouldn't do." Among all the unhappy ghosts of Hades none can be much more perennially uncomfortable WORDSWORTH AND HIS MESSAGE. 45 than he. Every fresh cargo of critics ferried over by Charon for the last fifty years have brought news of the world-wide fame of the man who " wouldn't do ; " and without doubt, if they have not forgotten their old urbanity, they have sought poor Francis out instantly and given him a piece of their minds. Flay- ing a poet must be quite a mild and humane sport to this posthumous persecution of a king of critics, as Francis has perhaps discovered to his cost. The only question I have to ask about the poetry of Wordsworth is, What is the nature of his message to our age ? The simpler and more interesting question is. What was the nature of the man himself? First of all, as regards the man, it may be said that no one who has written fascinating poetry has ever had less of the secret of fascination in himself. He was destitute of wit, and his at- tempts at humor in " Peter Bell " arc very like the performances of that celebrated German baron who thought humor was best attained by jumping on the table. lie struck most people as a remarkably prosaic man. TIic brilliant con- versationalists of his day fouml him dull, and the Westmoreland peasantry, among whom he 46 QUEST AND VISION. lived, said he was not " lovable in his face, by no means," and judged from his habitual reti- cence that he was " a desolate-minded man." One is tempted to say he lacks individu- ality, though that would not be true, as we shall sec ; but certainly he lacked those daz- zling qualities which have made most great men memorable. There are no enigmas in his character ; he was a simple, just, and temper- ate man, with no electric flash of wayward pas- sion, no black depth of cynical melancholy in his nature. In this he is the very opposite of such a poet as Byron. It is difficult even now to say whether it is Byron the man or Byron the poet who exercises the strongest spell over us. He endears himself by his frailties and fascinates with his suffering. We think, for instance, of such a story as that of Lady Caro- line Lamb meeting by accident the hearse that was turning northward with the body of Byron, and on learning whose it was going home with a shattered brain, to die ; and we feel, in spite of all juster knowledge, that there must have been something deep, something wonderful and fine, in this man's nature that women should have loved him with such pas- WORDSWORTH AND HIS MESSAGE. 47 sionate love. The incident is intensely dra- matic, as a hundred incidents in the Hfe of Byron are, and we are thrilled. That life of Byron, with its strange speed and splendor, its swift alternations of brightness and blackness, its bitterness and baseness and tragic ruin, will always fascinate mankind. It h a play they will never tire of studying; it ihrills them. Thus it will happen in the future, as it has already happened in the past, that the individ- uality of Byron will preserve his poetry from decay ; the man is more than the poetry. In the case of Wordsworth the converse is nearer the truth ; the poetry is greater than the man. This, upon the whole, is the general impres- sion Wordsworth creates, and we simply make note of it as an impression. It finds further and amusing corroboration in the general ideas the Westmoreland peasantry entertained about him. They felt that, while his qualities were of the sterling and durable type, yet there was a total absence of geniality about him. He did not stop and talk to children ; he took his family out with him U>v long walks, but usually went ahead and said nothing to them ; he never laughed and seldom smiled; in fact, "a 48 QUEST AND VIRION. desolate-minded man." " You might tell from his face his poetry would never have no laugh in it," said one of them. " As for his habits he had noan , niver knew him with a pot in his hand or a pipe in his mouth," said another. " He went a-bumming about — bum, bum, bum, and stop; " " He had a rare deep voice ; chil- dren sometimes heard it rising in some solitary place and ran away scared " — are other remi- niscences of his habits, or rather, according to the Westmoreland code of life, his lack of habits. It is curious to find how, in their rough and blundering phrases, these West- moreland peasants precisely discerned the car- dinal defect of Wordsworth's nature — this lack of geniality and fascination. Their ideal poet was poor Hartley Coleridge. He had very de- cided habits, and all of the wrong sort; one fears the greatest part of that sad wasted life of his was spent with a pipe in his mouth and a pot in his hand. But he had this strange secret of personal fascination : every body loved him. His neighbors had great difficulty in accepting the poetic claims of Wordsworth — " he was a well-meaning, quiet, dacent man," but they believed poor Hartley a very great poet WORDSWORTH AND HIS MESSAGE. 49 indeed. It was commonly supposed that Flart- ley's relation to Wordsworth was that of the unfortunate chief to his fortunate subordinate : he " did the best part of his poems for him," so the saying is. Opinion was slightly divided ; some thought Dorothy Wordsworth wrote her brother's poems for him, and some thought Hartley wrote them, but very few gave Words- worth himself the credit of them. In their way these Westmoreland peasants confessed that their ideal of a poet was very much akin to the ideal set up by the morbid school of to- day ; the poet was a frail wild creature, pas- sionate, fascinating, wayward, addicted to pots and pipes and other unholy indulgences — somebody to be pitied by the charitable, hu- mored by the pitiful, and taken to the heart and loved forever by the sentimental. Their ideal of the poet was the Byronic ideal in fact, and that is, after all, the prevalent ideal in middle-class minds ; and Wordsworth, witli his silence, his self-absorption, his love of solitude, his plain ways and undramatic history, is the very opposite to this creature o( vicious and unwholesome sentiment. No doubt the world is very mad and very 50 QUEST AND VISION. foolish, but undoubtedly it sets high store upon this charm of personality of which Wordsworth was so singularly destitute. It rates it above steadfastness and honor, unsullied probity, un- tarnished morals. As a weapon to win fame with it has always proved supreme. Some of the worst of men have been the idols of the people by simple virtue of their power of fas- cination. Probably no two men ever lived with harder, narrower, more intensely selfish natures than Bonaparte or Charles 11. , but see how they fascinated men ! The old gray cloak and cocked hat of Bonaparte were followed by the adoration of millions ; their appearance before a hostile city was sufficient to make every soldier drop his arms and cry, " Vive Napoleon ! " and before their magical approach a throne tottered and a kingdom relented. Charles II. was as shallow and graceless a scamp as ever sullied the name of prince, but men poured gold into his lap when he smiled, and forgot the Dutch fires blazing at Sheerness when he jested. The very gigantic nature of the wickedness of such men has been a source of fame, an element of success ; for men ad- mire great sinners almost as much as they do WORDSWORTH AND HIS MESSAGE. 51 great saints. It is vain to appeal to the Byron- Lytton school on behalf of Wordsworth. Against these giaours and corsairs, these gen- tlemen whose melancholy is permanent and attractive, who reduce seduction to a science and elevate despair into a fine art, these Cag- liostros of poetry, who are most brilliant when most Avickcd and increasingly famous as they are increasingly depraved, William Wordsworth has no chance. Men like to be dazzled, and Wordsworth holds no such spell ; he is not histrionic, he is not melancholy, he is not wicked ; and the public which desires such qualities in a poet will always hold the " quiet, dacent man " of Rydal Mount in vast contempt. It might very well be shown that this By- ronic ideal of the poet is not merely false, but is new. It was a fashion that came in with the Revolution, for nothing was more shaken in that wild whirl of tumult than the moral con- victions of men. One can find no trace of this diseased sentimentalism in the four greatest of all poets — Homer, Dante, Shakespeare^ and Milton. The peculiar virtue of Wordsworth is that amid all that breaking up of laws and customs he kept his sobriety, his serenit}-, and 52 QUEST AND VISION. his faith. He fell back upon the essential facts of the universe, and felt that, though all king- doms were shaken, there was a kingdom that must remain. His theory of poetry was the conscious or unconscious outcome of that calm conviction. What was that theory ? Put in its briefest form it amounted to this : that it was time for poets to return to nature, to natural and simple themes, and to clothe such themes in the plain language of the common people. It asserted the dignity of common life and the sacredness of the natural affections. It was a protest against the diseased senti- ment, the histrionic melancholy, the faithless cynicism which had corrupted the life of En- glish poetry, not less than a protest against the meretricious glitter of the style in which such poetry had been couched. His poetry was meant to be a rebuke against a debased poetic style, and his character and career were a yet finer rebuke against a debased poetic life. Added to this, Wordsworth claimed for poetry a religious mission, and invested it with the sanctity of a divine calling. The long critical warfare waged against the Lakers was not fought out upon the comparatively triv- WORDSWORTH AND HIS MESSAGE. 53 ial issue of pure or ornate style ; it touched far deeper and more essential questions. The poet was in his eyes a high-priest, and his art was a ministration. This was not a new idea in poetry ; it had already been asserted in the splendid and energetic eloquence of Milton. It is curious to notice that not even in Shakes- peare, and still less in Homer, is there any trace of this idea. In what are probably the last lines Shakespeare ever wrote — the epilogue to the " Tempest " — when, like Prospero's, his charms were " all o'erthrown," he especially defines his conception of his work, when he says his art is to enchant, his project is to please ; though he does indeed strike a note of more solemn and pathetic significance when he adds : " And my ending is despair, Unless I be relieved by prayei." But apart from this mere hint at the diviner height and aspect of his art he gives no sign. In Milton alone, among the peers of earlier English poetry, does this conceptit)n of the poet's art find its full expression. Ikit with J\Iilt(jn the idea has a risjidncss and Hiiiil.ilion which arc iiotfuund in Wordsworth. In Milton 54 QUEST AND VISION. it exhales the flavor of the noblest Puritanism ; in Wordsworth it is of wider application, and includes the noble paganism of lofty nature- worship. The poet with him is again a seer, an interpreter, a speaker of the deep things of God ; but he is more : he is a natural man, whose days are bound together by natural piety, and whose spirit is lost in deep com- munion with the spirit of the living universe, lie serves before the everlasting altars of the high mountains, and has passed into the holiest place of the mystery of universal life. His whole attitude is priestly ; the world is a living temple roofed with splendor, and he has in his gift absolution and peace for the souls of erring men. He is no mere ephemeral person ; he is in the great apostolic succession of truth, and his diocese is as wide as the walls of heaven. Let any one weigh such lofty claims as these against the sensational cynicism of Byron, or the light tintinnabulation of Mr. Thomas Moore, and the uniqueness of Wordsworth's position in the dawn of the nineteenth century will be at once apparent. While all the poets of his day were ransacking earth and heaven for some new form of sensationalism, and were WORDSWORTH AND HIS MESSAGE, 55 busy blowing bubbles of brilliant froth in the heated chambers of society, he had taken ref- uge in the serenity and strength of nature, and had found thoughts too deep for tears in the humblest flowers that blew. While they were swept along the wild mill-race of revolu- tion, or whirled in the worse vortex of personal or social debasement, he had stepped aside into the clear light and solemn solitude of the ever- lasting hills, and heard the broken thunder of the mad world only like a distant undertone, too distant to be terrible, but near enough to bear witness to the tragic heart of life — " the still sad music of humanity." While their ideal of a poet was a miserable and misan- thropic being, whose book was written within and without with mourning and lamentation and woe, Wordsworth had formulated his idea of a poet thus — and the sketch is obviously a portrait : " But who is this with modest looks And clad in sober russet gown ? He murmurs by the running brooks A music sweeter than their own ; He is retired as noontide dew Or fountain in a noonday grove." What an apparition is that for the curled $6 QUEST AND VISION. darlings of the Byronic school to gaze upon 1 It is Chaucer, shorn of his humor and turned philosopher ; it is Thomas a Kempis, worship- ing Nature and changed to poet ! What won- der that grave face and russet gown became merely a target for ridicule amid the profligate glitter of the Regency? What marvel that a world which was going mad over the conjugal infelicities of Byron had scant attention for a man who brought them the crystal water of simple joys rather than the delirious cup of passion, and sung of running brooks rather than the diseased secrets of an unhappy life ? We do not ask nowaday which is the truer ideal of the true poet. The world has left Byron and come round to Wordsworth. It is enough to remember that the final achieve- ment of the one is " Don Juan ; " of the other, " The Excursion." Lovers of sensationalism will of course turn from Wordsworth to the end of the story ; but that is simply evidence of their own shame and his glory. The select souls are given to the singer with the russet gown. It must be owned that the poet finds what he brings : the sheep know his voice, and the voice of a WORDSWORTH AND HIS MESSAGE. 5/ stranger do they not know. Wordsworth knew this truth, and thus it was he had so kirge a faith in time and so subhme a confi- dence in himself. To every man of genius the veiled angel of destiny makes offer of two caskets and bids him choose. The one glit- ters with jewels and is ablaze with gold, but it is empty. The other is plain and undcco- rated, but it endures when jewels are scattered and gold lost in the miry roads along which the weary armies of mankind march, and it is full of the suftragcs of posterity. The first casket is the prize of immediate notoriety ; the second is the pledge of enduring fame. Many there are who choose the first, and few are they who trust their deeper instincts and choose the second. Of those few we know now, though sixty years ago none suspected it, that William Wordsworth was one ; and this was the victory that overcame the world, even his faith. We have noted some of the sterner features of Wordsworth's nature which rendered liiin unattractive — his self-absorption, his reticence, his lack ot geniality — but it is ipiit<: possible to construct, from the broken hints that have 58 QUEST AND VISION. come down to us, a picture of the real Words- worth which is as beautiful as it is true. What a tender picture that is, for instance, which one of the old female servants of Rydal Mount draws of him humming the lines of a poem, while " Miss Dorothy kept close behint him, and she picked up the bits as he let 'em fall, and took 'em down, and put 'em together on paper for him." Dorothy Wordsworth is one of the most memorable figures in literary his- tory, and deserves more than passing mention. It was she who met her brother when he re- turned from France, with broken hopes, after the terror of the Revolution, and led him back to Nature, and taught him to attain that calm insight which is the bliss of solitude. Her greatness, and it is the divinest greatness, lay, like Mrs. Carlyle's, in her self-renunciation ; she was content to minister to her brother's genius and to find her chief joy in the growth of his mind. The love of the lake district was hers before it was his, and it was she who transmitted and fostered the passion in him. How many a touch of felicitous energy or ten- der truth she added to his poems we have no means of knowing; but we cannot help sus- WORDSWORTH AND HIS MESSAGE. 59 pecting that it was she, and not Mrs. Words- worth, who added those two most exquisite lines to the poem of the Daffodils : " They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude." Never had poet more fit companion for hi.s lonely walks than Wordsworth had in this woman, who knew what sociality there is in silence, and never broke it with vain words, and knew even better what suggestiveness there is in heartfelt speech, and never spoke save to gather up in memorable phrase the rare and fleeting sensationsof visionary beauty. The two most memorable literary companion- ships of the first half of this century were those between Charles and Mary Lamb and William and Dorothy Wordsworth. The in- effable pathos of the one is as lovely as the calm and simple sentiment of the other. If there is yet a great artist left among us who desires two national themes for two immortal pictures here arc the subjects to his hand. For the first picture let him seize that moment when Charles and Mary Lamb cross the last meadow on the way to the asylum ; the pale, stooping scholar hand-in-hand with the strange. 6o QUEST AND VISION. dark-eyed girl — both weeping, both weighed down with an intolerable secret, both pilgrims on the Via Dolorosa of infinite sacrifice and sorrow, each clinging to the other with despair- ing love and the anguish of foreboding fear. For the second let him paint the tall figure of Wordsworth, with the "round blue cloak and big wide-awake, poorly dressed at the best of times," followed closely, at the distance of half a pace or so, by Dorothy Wordsworth, with her eager face and clear eyes — busy not- ing in her book the last stanza of such a poem as " She dwelt beside the banks of Dove," Avhile round both rise the mountains, chequered by the April drift of light and shade, and in the near distance lies the tarn of Further Gow- barrow, beneath the shadow of whose shore there gleam that " Host of golden daffodils Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze." In one picture there would live the tragic an- guish of life ; in the other, its solemn ecstasy. In both there would be represented immortal love. Quite as fine in their way are other pictures WORDSWORTH AND HIS MESSAGE. 6 1 that might be drawn of the real Wordsworth. Every one will remember his description of the love of skating, and how, hissing along the polished ice, " Not seldom from the uproar lie retired Into a silent bay, or sportively Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng, To cut across the reflex of a star." What a fine picture that would make ! The clear black ice of one of the lonelier mountain tarns, the winter sparkle of the stars, the solemn peaks buttressing the blue and windless vault of heaven, the distant cry of some soli- tary night-bird, and the long vibrating ring of the lonely skater — for sounds can be hinted at in a great picture and interpreted by the sub- tle process of true art to the imagination — and that lonely skater, flying like a winged shadow hither and thither, the poet who has made those solitudes his home, and has dedicated his life to the interpretation of their m)-stcr}'. The only word that strikes like false art in the description is that word " sportively." We are quite sure in such a scene Wordsworth would be touched to solemnity rather than sportiveness. In such a moment a mind like 62 QUEST AND VISION. his would have kindled not so much with the exhilaration of the sport as with the weird beauty of the scene. His thought would be of the swift rush and mystery of life, the im- mensities that lie beneath it and above it, life itself seeming but "a troubled moment in the being of the everlasting silence." Given star- lit midnight, and a belt of darkened mountains, and we have the two great natural agencies best able to produce solemn and searching thoughts in the heart of man. It is a scene in which the ode on " Intimations of Immor- tality from Recollections of Childhood " might have been conceived. It was a scene, as he himself has reminded us, in which he recog- nized " a grandeur in the beatings of the heart," and felt the power of that " Wisdom, and spirit of the universe ! Thou soul, that art the eternity of thought ! And giv'st to forms and images a breath And everlasting motion ! " I think, of all the many pictures full of simple grace and beautiful serenity which crowd upon the memory from the writings of Wordsworth, there is none I would so readily choose as a fit and noble setting for a true WORDSWORTH AND HIS MESSAGE. 63 portrait of him who has taught us more than any other " How exquisitely the individual mind to the external world Is fitted, and how exquisitely, too, The external world is fitted to the mind." Certainly there has ueen not merely no more memorable figure in modern literature than William Wordsworth, but no more memorable figure in relation to modern life itself. Many men feel in the first enthusiasm of youth that they have a mission to fulfill, but few men have the courage and fidelity to pursue their mis- sion. " The world is too much with them;" they are speedily seduced by its fascinations, and enslaved by the overmastering force of its conventionality. Wordsworth found his mis- sion when he went to dwell among the lakes, and he was heroically faithful to it through evil and through good report. He turned aside from the race for honor and place, not with the spiteful cynicism of disappointment or the bitter passion of contempt, but in obedience to the mandate of a serious and simple spirit. Few things in literary history arc more striking than the retirement of Carljlc to the desolate 5 64 QUEST AND VISION. isolation of Craigenputtock ; but Carlyle's re- tirement was limited in time and imperfect in renunciation. In his heart he never ceased to covet the fuller and more passionate life of cities, and felt that Craigenputtock was a prison. It is, perhaps, all the more powerful testimony to the strength of his unique char- acter that he bore so great and painful an im- prisonment of gigantic energies for so long. But he never fully acquiesced in his severance from more social life. He never regarded it as final ; he never thought of it otherwise than as a means to an end. When Wordsworth turned his face northward he broke the last bond that linked him to conventional life, and he did it willingly. He knew that he was go- ing to live as a peasant among peasants, and he was content. He meant to dedicate his great powers to a task that might be hope- less, that must be prolonged, that could not be other than hard and sacrificial in most of its conditions; but he did it, and never re- gretted it. In later days prosperity dawned upon him ; but very few have clearly under- stood what the world would call the " hard- ships " of those earlier days. If ever " high WORDSWORTH AND HIS MESSAGE. 65 thinking and plain living " found not merely an apostle, but an example, it was in him. To the readers of to-day the old ideal of poetry in a garret has become an obsolete fiction. Our poets live in palaces ; they are connoisseurs and patrons of art ; they flit with the easy grace of wealth from country mansion to town-house ; they no longer haunt the patron's gate. Do they not sit cheek by jowl with Dives ? Have they not even been known to descend to the peerage ? And do they not receive yearly cheques that run into the dig- nity of four figures? But Wordsworth was " a mean-livinrr man," as the peasants say, living even more simply than they. " Never wore a boxer in his life," said another — always the round cloak and plain raiment of the peasant. When he rode abroad — we regret to mention so impolite a circum- stance, but Mr. Rawnsley* says his neighbors all aver it — it was in a dung-cart, with a board across and a bit of clean bracken at the bottom. His library had no choice editions or delicate * Mr. Ravvnsley is the autlior of an excellent paper on the *' Reminiscences of Wordsworth among the reasantiy," print- ed in the Transactions of the Wordsworth Society. I am nuuh indebted to him, and liereliy ackno\vledi;e my oMi^alion. 66 QUEST AND VISION. bindings ; it was plain and scanty. In every feature of his life this austerity of habit is visi- ble. He had set himself to teach how few are the real wants of man ; how deep and divine are those common joys of the affections which are within the reach of all ; how self-sufficing is simplicity ; how false and fevered is the life of man when it is withdrawn from the healing in- fluences of nature and degraded into a wild scramble for the soiled gold or tinsel glory of ambition ; and that which he taught he practiced. " We know only what we practice," was his motto, as well as Savonarola's. The well-spring of his philosophy was in the order of his own life. That life thus became the finest sermon ever preached to this hurried age of ours, the finest and the most needful ; and its divine lesson was : "What an empire we inherit, As natural beings in the strength of nature." When we justly consider these things I think we shall find a new William Words- worth emerging from the shadows of the past, and surely not an unlovable Wordsworth. We shall forget his awkwardness and stiffness in those brilliant circles of society which he WORDSWORTH AND I IIS MESSAGE. 6/ visited now and again in the days of his latc- davvning fame. Wc shall forgive him that his poetry has so little of passion in it, and upon the whole we shall be thankful for it. There are many other poets who can give us passion ; but who else can give us peace ? To whom can we go so well in the hour when our hearts are grieved and our nerves worn down by the ceaseless harass of life amid a crowd ? I do not say when our hearts are broken ; for then wc ask for a teacher who has himself passed into the sanctuary of sorrow, and trodden the wine-press alone, and Wordsworth cannot claim to have done that. It may be true, as Matthew Arnold has exquisitely put it, that " Wordsworth's eyes avert tlieir keu From lialf of human fate ;" but that is only saying that Wordsworth has the defects of his qualities. But who else pre- sents the same qualities and ministers to us the same "sweet calm?" And even in the hour of sorrow such serenity as his is some- times even more welcome than the sympathy of others. It is, in fact, a nobler sort of sympa- thy — calm, godlike, healing. Not in vain, and not with sacrilegious arrogance, did he esteem 68 QUEST AND VISION. his art a ministration ; in the oldest and truest sense the minstrel and the minister are one, and such minstrelsy is his. He ministers to the mind diseased, and his medicine has the whole- some potency of nature. He brings the fresh- ness of the mountain air in his presence, and his voice is like the lark's. We love hini as we do that winged " pilgrim of eternity," and we can listen to him when all other soncrs distress our jaded sense. Who has not fled from his Label, vexed, troubled, worn out, and in the blessed solitude of Nature felt his strength renewed while he stood amid the open fields and clothed himself with their silence as with a garment, and felt again the breath of blue sky over him and heard again the magic whisper of the leaves and brooks ? Words- worth has so perfectly absorbed that charm of Nature that his poetry docs for us just what Nature herself does in such hours as these : he purges and refreshes us. If poetry is, as some one has beautifully described it, the Sabbath influence of literature, Wordsworth breathes upon us the very Sabbath of poetry — its rest, its devotion, and its healing calm. Certain it is, no English poet has shown so WORDSWORTH AND HIS MESSAGE. 69 perfect a fidelity in his descriptions of Nature. He may claim to have set a new fashion in regard to her — the fashion of minute and ex- quisite observation. His life was essentially an out-door life, and that is the secret of the perennial freshness of his charm. Nothing es- caped those vigilant eyes of his ; and his sense of sound was as perfect as his power of vision. This wonderful precision finds an admirable example — the best that I can think of— in that terse and perfect picture which he gives of the desolate, windy height of a lonely mountain pass : " The single blicep, and that one blasted tree, And the bleak music of that old stone wall." He was, moreover, what the peasants called "a verra practical-eyed man." He hated to see the slightest wrong inflicted on a land- scape by the stupid folly of man. He used his authority to secure the right building of chimneys and in the prevention of the vulgar use of colors. When a copse was cleared the dalesman would leave a few trees standing that his eye might not be offended. He insti- tuted himself by common consent guardian of that beautiful district which he had learned to 70 QUEST AND VISION. love SO passionately, and he taught the dales- men to take new pride and pleasure in its preservation. This also was part of his mis- sion, and not an inglorious part ; and for this, too, I love him. In those long walks of his he was guarding and securing one of the choicest heritages of the English people ; and all who are still left among that people, who do not bow down and worship before the omnipo- tence of the railroad, and whose chief aim is not to spin a little faster than their neighbors in the wild dervish-whirl of vulgar ostentation, will thank God for William Wordsworth, and thank William Wordsworth for what he did. The gift, then, that Wordsworth brings to us is serenity, and the message he delivers is simplicity. We do not go to him to be ex- cited but to be strengthened. He, in his turn, does not pose before us in a dramatic attitude, as a suppliant for sentimental pity ; he stands before us as a wise teacher, in whose lips are the words of everlasting life. Those who do not love him must revere him ; but, for my part, I find it easy to do both. If poetry be something more than a pool of chaotic senti- ment, that gives forth iridescent vapors, brill- WORDSWORTH AND 1 1 IS MESSAGE. 7 1 iant film.s and bubbles; if it be a healing stream, flowing clear as crystal from the throne of God and bordered by the trees of liic ; if it be an inspired voice, '* a vision and a faculty divine," then in Wordsworth I recog- nize the noblest poet of our century. " This wont do ! " O, Francis Jeffrey ! had you but known it, this man spake the words that made for your peace and ours ; he brought precisely what would do, the book bitter in the lips to critics like you, but sweet and healing to the soul of our vexed, tumultuous generation ; the one medicine, the one message that avc most imperatively needed. It is precisely such ministration as this that our age needs still; and our house of literature will be left to us desolate indeed when such sweet voices shall have died out of it. What he meant to do, and what he did, Wordsworth has severely defined for us in four memorable lines: " Tlic moving accident is not my trade. To freeze the blood I liave no ready arts ; 'Tis my delight alone in summer shade To pipe a simple song to tliinkiiig hearts." " The moving accident " — no ; tor it w.is Wordsworth's creed that life is not tletennined 72 QUEST AND VISION. by its accidents but by its essence, and that its divincst possessions are its simplest and its widest characteristics and emotions. The freez- ing of the blood — no ; for sensationalism is a base and easy trick — the trade of the necro- mancer, but not the function of the poet ; it is his to make sunlight in a shady place ; to call men back to their inalienable heritage of nat- ural joys; to visit them with gifts of benedic- tion and of peace ; to teach them the secret of divine tranquillity in a life freed from haste and lifted high above the unholincss of ava- rice — " To pipe a simple song to thinking hearts." RELIGIOUS DOUBT — MODERN POETRY. ^^ RELIGIOUS DOUBT AND MODERN POETRY. MATTHEW ARNOLD, BROWNING, TENNYSON. MR. W. E. II. LECKY, la liis learned History of European Morals, has com- mented, in a striking foot-note, upon the im- mense growth and influence of the newspaper press, and on the fact that it is chiefly di- rected by lawyers and barristers. Mr. Lecky's inference from the last-named circumstance is that a "judicial" tone is thus introduced into the daily press, and a "judicial" method of thought consequently imparted to the public mind. I'^rom this inference we totally dis- agree ; for the lawyer-barrister mind is essen- tially forensic, not judicial; and one very gen- eral issue of newspaper press influence upon the public mind is political and social parti^^an- ship. A fir more important result of the enormous growth of the press is the great im- petus given to the taste fur reading; among ;4 QUEST AND VISION. the classes to whom at one tunc literature of any kind was a scaled and sworded paradise, whose trees of good and evil were jealously guarded against the encroachments of the multitude and the curiosity of the vulgar. At the present moment it may almost be said that the flaming swords wherewith intolerant and exclusive legislation used to guard the garden have burned them.selvcs out, and the great domain, with its crowded and accumu- lated growth, lies open, without toll or hin- derance, to the poorest. Therein are to be found trees of knowledge as stately as Milton's, and founts of song as pure and deep as Words- worth's; but the face of Villon leers in the shadows, and the pestilent obscenity of Con- greve, Sterne, and Swift has left many a livid pool of poison on the verges of the greenest lawns and at the roots of the mightiest forest- growths of genius. In a word, such freedom brings its natural peril, and the wayfarer finds the serpent close beside the tree of knowledge still. Not merely has the reading public increased, but, as a natural consequence, the writing pub- lic has also steadily grown. RELIGIOUS DOUBT — MODERN POETRY. 75 " The mob of gentlemen who write with. ease " was never so large as in the present day. There is a vast number of minds en- dowed with a mimetic gift which passes for a literary instinct, and education and opportu- nity conspire to kindle a literary ardor which finds its vent in books that benefit nobody but the trunk-maker, and between whose birth and oblivion there is but a step. The mass of so-called poetry which is published, and which actually commands attention and numbers its editions, is what Dominie Sampson might well call " prodigious." Much of this successful verse is the product of fine and cultured minds who find in verse-making one of the many pleasant and most easily acquired arts of liter- ature. Much of it succeeds by following the reigning fashion or by modeling its " silvery see-saw of sibilants " upon the method of the latest favorite ; much more is simply the ludi- crous contortion of ambitious mediocrity, and its whole vocation is endless and very indiffer- ent imitation ; and therefore it is a question of the highest importance, Who and what man. ncr of models are the poets thus set up as ex- amples ? Voltaire's barber hastened to assure 76 QUEST AND VISION. Iiis master that he did not beh'evc in God any more than the gentleman did ; and it is cer- tain, in poetry as in every thing else, that the master-mind finds itself mimicked and echoed in every particular by the inferior. If the mas- ter sing of Chloe and Phyllis, straightway the chorus will sing in hundred-fold laudation of Daphne and Sylvander ; if of blessed damosels and anguished lilies, the chorus multiplies its dirges of faded sunflowers and its raptures at the moving vision of blue china ; and if the master degrade his genius to chant the blas- phemies of atheism and the swinish revels of carnality, the chorus will sing in yet grosser fashion the democratic upheaval and the apoth- eosis of the brute. Moreover, it must be remembered that the chief ministry of poetry is a ministry of sug- gestion. The poet is the interpreter, but not the less the leader, of his age. His words may not become the street-song of the multitude or the solace of the poor man's hearth, but often a higher and more strenuous fate is theirs — they become the inspiration of the thinker. The influence of a great poet on the best minds of his generation is like the action RELIGIOUS DOUBT — MODERN POETRY. 'Jf of the sunlight ; silently it gathers force and spreads itself abroad and marks the fulness of its power by the ripened bloom upon the fruit and the depth of tint and color in the flower. In like manner the highest prose-genius of a time often takes its color from the highest poetry of the period. Often the poet is con- tent to leave his exposition in the hands of the few whom he can trust, knowing well that through the influence of those few his words will not fail of reaching the widest audience of his time. Therefore, if it be said that the great bulk of the people do not read poetr}', we can only retort that every writer for the press in this country does ; that the leaders of opinion on every great social and religious question do ; that the poet first moulds the fervid mind of youth in our public schools, and overshadows our universities with his presence, and meets us in Protean fashion in every avenue of our common literature. Civilization has advanced, but as yet we have not seen any sign of the fulfilment of Macaulay's prophecy in the de- cline of poetry. At the crest of the far-rolling wave of civilization \\\\\ always be fjund the 78 QUEST AND VISION. highest outcome of the poet's " vision and faculty divine." CiviHzation, so far from de- stroying poetry, has really done very much to intensify it ; but it has changed its methods. It has robbed poetry of the old freshness and simplicity of its utterance, the ancient force and directness of its form, and has surcharged it instead with the feverishness and satiety of a complex modern life, full of many aims, throb- bing with the pulse of large and eager pur- pose, and saddened by the vain pursuit of a perfect culture, which more and more proves itself an unattainable and mocking dream. So long as the human heart remains poetry will not die nor the poet's mandate be withdrawn. Man never yet has lived alone upon the bread which the wealthiest civilizations have kneaded for his use ; nor will any " ethics of the dust," any applications of a marvelous science that merely multiplies the conveniences of social life, or claims his curious wonder at the price of the denial of his religious instincts, suffice him now any better than heretofore. Pascal long since reminded us of the undying truth that " the heart has reasons which reason does not know," and poetry may be described as RELIGIOUS DOUBT — MODERN POETRY. 79 the reason of the heart. And it is because we feel that our higher culture will rather indorse and widen the poet's mandate than abridge it that we think there can be no more serious problem presented to the investigation of the thinker, in the interests of the society of the future, than the problem w^iich seeks to meas- ure and define the influence of our modern poetry. Let it be granted, then, that a distinct new note, or rather series of new notes, has been struck in the poetry of the last fifty years, the distinctive characteristic of which is the prob- lem of religious faith. The supreme question of the present day is the attitude of the age toward religion, and that question finds a hundred reflexes and vain solutions in our poetic art. Of course, it may be said the century opened with the fierce strife of religious doubt and denial in the poetry of Byron and Shelley, and that, there- fore, this is no distinctly new feature of our latter-day poets. But there are many respects in which Byron and Shelley differ wholly in their attitude toward religion from their lineal descendants in poetic art. It was said of 6 oO QUEST AND VISION. Byron by Shelley that unfortunately he could not help believing in a hell ; and this statement admirably illustrates his habitual conduct in dealing with matters of faith and piety. His libertinism was ingrained, his infidelity was an affectation. When he is throwing his wildest doubts into the air he never loses self-con- sciousness ; he has his eye upon the gallery, and waits for its applause. He is so ill an actor that whenever he strikes an attitude he pauses to measure its effect. Whatever he says against his beliefs he cannot help believing ; and one cannot help feeling that he writes profanity in much the same spirit in which he talked of his desire to know the sensations of a murderer merely that he might enjoy the childish pleasure of watching the horror he was certain to excite. Shelley's atheism, on the contrary, is undoubtedly sincere. But it is rather the frenzied scream of an excited boy than the iconoclastic fury of a full-grown man. It is not merely rebellion against orthodox faiths, it is wild and unmeasured revolt against every form of use and order which tradition sanctions. And how different this is from the sad wail of our modern agnostic poetry must RELIGIOUS DOUBT — MODERN POETRY. Sf appear in the hastiest comparison. The key- note, the very ground-tone of such poetry, is poignant and unavaiHng regret. It touches its deepest and most pathetic chords in dirges and lamentings, in farewells to the dying faiths and requiems for the dead. The air is full of such notes of sorrow, the tremblings of unmistak- able distress, the vague and wild vibrations of a woe too deep for words. Its very sadness is its fascination, for to many minds the holding of a doubt seems a vastly finer thing than the holding of a creed. And although it must be distinctly acknowledged that doubt, like other things, may become a fashion, and poetic doubt may be the mere affecta- tion of an affectation, yet it may be admit- ted that the bulk of our agnostic poetry is too evidently sincere : " A fever in the pages burns Beneath the cahn they feign ; A wounded human spirit turns Here, on its bed of pain." And it is this very sincerity which makes it so formidable and forcible an influence in mould- ing the age. Sincerity and sadness, weldctl together in high poetic achievement, must in 83 QUEST AND VISION. any age of the world win hearing and alle- giance ; for is it not too common a characteris- tic of the race itself, full of unsatisfied desires and instincts as it is, to listen rather to " the still, sad music of humanity" than to the voice that sings good cheer ? Every generalization has its exceptions, and there are exceptions here. The old revolu- tionary note of Byron and Shelley still vi- brates, and the old revolutionary hope still burns. But for the most part we have grown too familiar with revolutions to expect any swift or bright millennium from the noblest of conspirators or the most magnanimous of patriots. Mr. Swinburne still hurls Byronic defiance, and cherishes the hope of Shelley ; he leaps upon the altar he has made, and when he can withdraw himself from singing in the Les- bian orgies chants before the face of Baal in democratic odes and vituperative sonnets. But he stands alone. The latter poetic move- ment has scarcely heart enough for joining in any song so strenuous ; it is saddened with its disillusions ; it is satiated with its gains ; it is emasculated in its energies, and what offensive RELIGIOUS DOUBT — MODERN POETRY. 83 power it has left is mainly spent in small sneers against the tyranny of creeds and sympathetic lamentation over the decay of ancient faiths and pieties. The culmination of this spirit of sincere and saddened doubt is found in the poetry of Mat- thew Arnold, and a very brief analysis of a very small portion of his writings is sufficient to indicate its scope and character. He has described himself as " Wandering between two worlds, one dead, The other powerless to be born," as an exiled Greek on some far northern strand, thinking of his own gods, *' In pity and mournful awe might stand Before some fallen Runic stone ; For both were faiths, and both are gone." Possibly it was a matter of sombre gratifi- cation to know that the critical public generally consented to accept him at his own esti- mate, and that he is described as a modern Greek oftcncr than by any other phrase ; just as Goethe is rightly described as a modern pagan. But between the Hellenism of Goethe 84 QUEST AND VISION. and that of Matthew Arnold there are wide dif- ferences. A great critic has described Goethe's Hellenism as " the completeness and serenity of a watchful, exigent intellectualism ; " and Matthew Arnold's expressed admiration for " the wide and luminous view of Goethe " leads us to infer that there might be no de- scription he would more earnestly covet or endeavor to deserve. But Goethe's paganism is simply indifferent to all forms of modern faith, and is without moral predilection, while Arnold's is full of wistfulness and yearning. The mission which Arnold has to proclaim is, that with the best desires and intentions to- ward belief, unfortunately he cannot believe. So far from being a modern pagan he has de- scribed in lines of great strength and beauty precisely where the cardinal failure and corrup- tion of ancient paganism lay : " On that hard pagan world disgust And secret loathing fell; Deep weariness and sated lust Made human life a hell. " Stout was its arm ; each thew and bone Seenaed puissant and alive, But, ah ! its heart, its heart was stone, And so it could not thrive." RELIGIOUS DOUBT — MODERN POETRY. 8$ He looks with wistful rapture backward to the hour of the first victories of the Christian faith, and cries : " O, had I lived in that great day, How had its glory new Filled earth and heaven, and caught away My ravished spirit too ! " It is, perhaps, unnecessary to remark that he who will not believe " Moses and the prophets " is not likely to believe even if " one rose from the dead." The poet who sings ag- nosticism in the nineteenth century would probably have sung any thing but Te Deums in the first. Still, it is of painful interest to note how faith, so long repressed, bursts forth Into momentary triumphant assertion, and cleaves to the Crucified when the cross is re- moved to the second century. What cannot be done iit a modern England corrupted by " beer-shops " and " dissent," "■ what it is Im- possible to accomplish with the eyes of Strauss upon us, and agnostic reviews around us, might perhaps have been attempted in that dim be- * III his eloquent article on " Isaiah of Jerusalem " in the Nineteenth Century, Mr. Matthew Arnold, in enumerating the "hinderances with whicli religion in this country has to con- tf-nd," places at the head of tlic list " beer-shciis, Dissent ! " 26 QUEST AND VISION. ginning of years, when at least the great de- lusion was new and beautiful : "No thoughts that to the world belong Had stood against the wave Of love which set so deep and strong From Christ's then open grave. " No lonely life had passed too slow. When I could hourly scan Upon his cross, with head sunk low. That nailed, thorn-crowned man." Yet in the poetry of Matthew Arnold faith is but an artistic freak. The voice of modern denial speedily re-affirms : " Now He is dead ! Far hence he lies In the lone Syrian town ; And on his grave, with shining eyes The Syrian stars look down." There is nothing left for it but to toil on In a waste and weary world full of " forts of folly" manned by coarse Philistines, or to " let the long contention cease," and, like the kings of modern thought, be dumb: "silent — the best are silent now." Some vague and visionary religion of humanity may still be possible : " He only lives in the world's life Who hath renounced his own." RELIGIOUS DOUBT — MODERN POETRY. 8/ Some vaguer pantheism may perchance ex- plain the future ; in the last hour let not need- less priest nor friend be near ; but rather let the poet look forth from the open window on " the wide aerial landscape bathed in the sacred dews of morn," and rejoice to know he will speedily be absorbed in " the pure eternal course of life," and be one with that he gazes on. For his father he shall sing the noblest of dirges, for he was one of the strong souls who led the wavering lines of humanity " On to the bound of the waste, On to the city of God," and stood in the end of the day like a good shepherd with his flock in his hand. But the son is one of those who comes at last to the inn of death alone, and is barely saved out of the peril in which so many comrades have fallen. Surely there can be no more desolate intellectual outlook than this, and it is not surprising that it is the source of the most mournful poetry. This is by no means the place to discuss the actual condition of the Christian faith, and did we dare to dissent from the verdict which Matthew Arnold and his school have returned 88 QUEST AND VISION. against it we should no doubt be immediately catechized as Philistines who are blind to fects, and as optimists who are what they are be- cause they are ignorant. But we may at least be permitted to remark that religious doubt and modern poetry appear to have united themselves in a most unhappy marriage, and are in their most fascinating guise but an ill- assorted couple. The greatest treasures of our English poetry are the product of an age of faith, and were scarcely possible without some wise and deep belief. It was in an age when religion was the paramount subject in English politics and national thought that Spenser and Shakespeare flourished ; it was at the conclu- sion of the greatest war for conscience* sake which any nation has known, and by the pen of a man who more than any other embodied in his own person the stern and holy ardors of the period, that our greatest epic poem was produced; and amid all the loud thunder of the Revolution-time Wordsworth's spirit caught the first rising music of the new age of faith, and that new age of faith fitly inspired his serene and pious strain. The fact is, re- ligious faith is inextricably interwoven with RELIGIOUS DOUBT — MODERN POETRY, 89 our English poetry ; it has given it fuhiess and serenity, and it will secure it permanence. AVe have never yet written " Crush the In- famous " upon the banners of our literature; we have never clothed a harlot in the garb of Reason and called her goddess ; w^e have never yet consented, and never shall consent, to the monstrous modern theory that art can know no morals. We have been spared the demor- alization of many alternate tyrannies and revo- lutions, and so surely has our ordered freedom grown out of our religious life that we may well believe there is some force in hereditary ideas which must ever make a faithless poetry foreign to the English mind. Folk-lore tells us how it is an ancient superstition that man- drakes when torn from the ground shriek in their every root and fibre like dumb living things driven into sudden speech by anguish. May we not apply the fable and declare that poetry dragged from its immemorial rooting in the soil of faith shrieks aloud and becomes a thing of anguish and despair? It is a fatal experiment ; it will not and it cannot come to good. It is too late to try to turn the tide of English literature; it has set too long i\[un\ go QUEST AND VISION. the sunny shores of faith to ebb at last toward the icy sohtudes of agnostic indifference and despair. The English mind will never yield a wide attention to any modern Lucretius in the person of a Matthew Arnold, singing his de- spairing ode concerning " The Nature of Things;" and still less will it "dance to the piping of an educated satyr" in the person of Mr. Swinburne. Indeed, the more the matter is considered the more evident does it become that religious doubt has exercised nothing but a destructive influence on English poetry. Edgar Allan Poe, in one of the most weird and wonderful of his extraordinary stories, pictures a per- plexed and noble genius in the act of suicide. As the clock strikes, and the clear day shines into the perfumed and splendid chamber, the suicide lifts a costly crystal goblet to his lips and pledges his last hour in the fatal draught. When the drained chalice is set down again, behold it is cracked and blackened. In like manner our modern genius sits in garish mis- ery and fills the crystal cup of poesy, which should be for the healing of the nations, with its poison-draught of doubt ; but when the cup RELIGIOUS DOUBT — MODERN POETRV, ol is set down again it is cracked and black- ened. It is not wholly destroyed ; but it is hopelessly disfigured by the base uses to which the unworthy put it. To use a choice and beautiful Venetian goblet to hold the black draught of acrid poison is no greater prostitu- tion than to make poetry, which is the hand- maiden of faith, minister to denial. If the light that is within the poet be darkness " how great is that darkness ! " The very spring of thought is broken, the very light of song is quenched ; the i)oet is like a pianist who plays with one hand and on few notes ; more than half the chords are dumb, and the full compass of the instrument he can never reach. Let any student rise from the perusal of such poetry as that which A. li. Clough has written and say whether this be not the real impression made upon his mind. Here is un- doubted faculty for song ; but this note may not be struck, for it is too high ; nor this, for it is too divinely deep ; and so the poet veils his face, and his voice is heard only in faint whispers and warring thoughts and wailings of an infinite distress. The poet can " only soar in one direction," it has been said ; but if the 92 QUEST AND VISION. blue heavens be closed and unattainable what else can he do other than Hmp along the com- mon earth, with trailing wings and wounded heart, pouring out the sad wild notes of an irremediable woe ? It may of course be said that Tennyson and Browning, incomparably the two greatest poets of our time, have in nowise stood aside from the great controversy of disputed faiths, and that their poetry nevertheless is marked by majestic strength and the noblest artistic com- pleteness. Indeed, in both poets we have dis- tinct and splendid poems wholly devoted to the discussion of moral and religious doubt. In such poems as " Easter Day " and " Christ- mas Eve " Browning may be said to have hunted certain forms of scepticism home to their " Inmost room With lens and scalpel " of the most acute and brilliant analysis. And in poems like " The Two Voices," " The Palace of Art," and above all the " In Memoriam," which stands in unassailable fame above all comparison, Tennyson has wrestled with the toughest doubts that have strained the thews RELIGIOUS DOUBT — MODERN POETRY. 93 and sinews of the mind since the day when Socrates, " Fired with burning failli in Cod and right, Doubted men's doubts away." But it must at once appear that the discus- sion of doubt is a very different thing from the profession of denial. Lite will never cease to be mysterious, and while life is full of mystery doubt "will never cease. A gray under-roof of mystery shuts us down ; a deep sea of mystery moans and thunders at our feet. There are awful moments of eclipse through which the strongest spirit may be called to pass ; sorrows come upon us not alone, but in companies, and sweep all before them ; we move for a while amid such starless desolation, and such waves and billows have passed over us, that it may well happen that our feet have almost slipped. Let the Book of Job serve us for an illustra- tion. The great drama of the trial of Job opens with the scene of Job worshiping in the very moment -when the last messenger lias reached lihn with the bitterest of all his evil tidings; and it closes with the victory of faith, with the patriarch once more worshii)ing, so that the latter end of Jub is more blessed than 94 QUEST AND VISION. his beginning. Now, throughout the history- doubt is only stated as the foil to faith ; it falls with the blackness of eclipse for a little space, but obeys the law of the eclipse and vanishes at last, leaving the sun shining in his strength. It is precisely in this spirit that both Tenny- son and Browning deal with the problems of religious doubt. There are two voices, but the triumph of the great argument does not remain with the mocking voice. There is a "vision of sin," but its black and bitter cyn- icism dies at last in a faint, mysterious dawn- ing splendor ; and though the divine voice speaks in a tongue no man can understand, yet its final utterance is on the side of hope. In the " In Memoriam" we have the dense thunder-cloud, and even the rolling of the thunder, but there comes at last a season of clear shining, when a serene and holy light fills earth and heaven. The great chords of wailing die away, one by one, into the murmur- ous joy of infinite hallelujahs ; the purposes of loss arc seen, the chastening of bereavement is achieved, the wine of sorrow has been drunk, the heavens of song are purged and clear, and in their unfathomable depths there gleam the RELIGIOUS DOUBT — MODERN POETRY. 95 dimly outlined walls of the city where He dwells who has made all things new, and where those lost from earth have larger life and holier knowledge. It is true some " bitter notes " his harp has given, but " Hope has never lost its youth." " If e'er when faith had fall'n asleep I heard a voice, ' Believe no more,' And heard an ever-breaking shore That tumbled in the godless deep ; " A warmth within the heart would melt The freezing reason's colder part, And like a man in wrath the heart Stood up and answered, ' I have felt.' " The reason of the heart has proved itself victor over the reason of the intellect, for it was di- viner. Wailings in the night there may have been, and cryings after light, amid blind clamor and doubt and fear — " Then was I as a child that cries, But crying, knows his father near ; " and in the light of this great spiritual victory the whole problem of the tangled world grows clear ; the world is safe in God's hands, and already there are prophetic signs and hcrald- ings of its full redemption — " That one far-off divine event To which the whole creation moves." 96 QUEST AND VISION. Not less unmistakably has Robert Browning declared himself a singer upon the side of faith. He is a stronger and deeper man than Tenny- son ; an incompleter artist, but a greater poet ; and his method of approaching doubt wholly differs from Tennyson's. He loves to assault it with sardonic humor, to undermine it with subtle suggestion, even to break out into grim laughter as it slowly disintegrates and falls into a cloud of dust before his victorious analysis. But not the less does he sympathize with what- ever there may be of spiritual yearning, of earnest but baffled purpose in it ; and no poet has ever been quicker than he to place in the fullest light of tender recognition the one redeeming quality there may be latent in the thing he hates. For faith, in Robert Brown- ing, is a spiritual fire that never burns low. Through whatever labyrinth of guilt or passion he may lead his readers, God is ever the attend- ing presence, in whose hands all the ravelled skeins of life lie distinct and clear : " He glows above, With scarce an intervention, presses close and palpitatingly." Human life is lived out in every instance beneath the eye of God, and it is the failure to RELIGIOUS DOUBT — MODERN POETRY. 9/ recognize this which is the beginning of all evils in human character. The Hghtning which start- les the guilty lovers hidden in the deep forest is in truth God's sword, plunged again and again through the thick cloud to find them, for they cannot flee from him; and the prison-roof of life that shuts the mourner in will assuredly break some day, and " heaven beam overhead." Whenever Browning walks amid the shadows of human mystery — and darker glooms no poet has moved through — he sees the star of faith shining overhead, he hearsthe voice of God bidding him be of good cheer. David, as he sings in the black tent before Saul, bids him think of his mother held up on her death-bed, and bids him again " Hear her faiiU tongue Juining in while it could to the witness, ' Let one more attest I have lived, seen God's hand through a life-time, and all was for best.'" I.ittle Pippa, as she passes out for her brief holiday, her light feet moving innt)ccnt amid all the crime and tragedy of life, sings: " The year's at the spring, Morning's at seven, The hill-side's dew-pearled ; God's in his heaven, — All's right with the world." 98 QUEST AND VISION. It is the poet's own soul that sings in little Pippa ; this faith of his that all is right never deserts him. He will discuss doubt, but as a strong man who has overcome it ; he will admit it to his temple of song, but he sternly relegates it to its own place, and will allow it no suprem- acy. Indeed, it is not too much to say that the greatness of Robert Browning as a poet is in no small measure due to his greatness as a believer. The first direct result of the presence of doubt in modern poetry is found in that note of weariness and sadness by which it is distin- guished. Its household gods are too clearly shattered ; it is beside the waters of Babylon the poet sits and sings. We do not by any means seek to prove that the element of sad- ness which we find in all exquisite poetry in- variably owes its origin to loss of faith, for no ■conclusion could be more falsely partial. Per- haps the noblest pages in the literature of all •nations are the saddest. The spirit of Dante moves between infinite light and gloom, wear- ing ever a crown of sharpest sorrow ; the ma- jestic woe of the blind and aged Milton has jiot yet ceased to thrill upon the world's ear ; ■RELIGIOUS DOUBT — MODERN POETRY. 99 even the serene genius of Wordsworth finds thoughts that " lie too deep for tears.' * Earthly life is so full of incompletion, is so often baf- fled in its highest purposes, is so often mocked in the moment of its sublimest yearnings, and has so many chapters in its book of years steeped in deepest pathos that it may well be " Our sweetest songs are those Tliat tell of saddest thought." But then life is not wholly sorrowful, and the poetry misjudges life which interprets it alone by tears. Dante has his beatific vision, his " Paradiso " following close upon his " Purga- tory ; " and out of the great blackness and de- sertion of that blind old age of Milton rises the sublime " cathedral music " of his " Par- adise Lost " and the hopeful closing vision of his "Paradise Regained." The exquisite sad- ness of regret, of memory, of vanished hopes and broken fellowships, will ever be one of the noblest elements in any noble poetry. Put all this is very different from that frr- so7ia I noic of weariness and sad dissatisfaction which is lieard so loudly in our later poctrw The greater poets WTite little of themselves ; the lesser modern poets write of little but 100 QUEST AND VISION. themselves. Their chief inspiration Is too fre- quently a sort of cynical melancholy. They have been disillusioned ; there is nothing new and nothing true — and no matter ! The most morbid introspection is interwoven with the saddest worldly wisdom. Few of them, indeed, are there who " Do but sing because they must, And pipe but as the linnet sings." What Matthew Arnold has called the " lyr- ical cry " is genuinely heard ever and again, but too often, while the weariness is sincere enough, the verse falls into spasmodic affecta- tions. We feci while we read that there is no " natural piety " linking day to day in the lives of such poets. The fresh and clear delights of Nature are obscured ; the cheerful gospels of the singing birds and sunny day are dumb ; life is bred upon a hotbed of morbid thought, i j passed in feverish turbulence, or creeps on " wounded wing," and the poetry which ex- presses it is a melodious spasm or a fitful and exceeding bitter cry. How can it be otherwise when the divine aspects of life are blotted out ? What bird can sing in full-throated ease beneath a threatening thunder-cloud ? Faith RELIGIOUS DOUBT — MODERN ROETRY. lOI has ever been the inspiration of the grandest human heroisms, the noblest human thoughts ; what wonder that the clue of life is lost when faith is lost ? Simplicity has always been the crown of highest genius ; what marvel Is it that when the simple heart is lost the whole world of thought falls into mournful bewilder- ment and weariness ? There are many pages in Tennyson which teach us how dangerous it is even for the strongest nature to drink long and deeply of the bitter draught of doubt, how even the final faith of later days cannot wholly heal the old wounds that still " ache and cry." A second result from loss of faith in our modern poetry is the undisguised and contam- inating sensuality which has latterly infected it. In both Tennyson and Browning we meet every-where a profound moral sense. In the poem of " The Palace of Art " we have a dis- tinct and memorable sermon preached upon the world-old text that the noblest culture and the purest art become destroying forces when divorced from moral fervor ; that even when unstained by any breath of baser passion they end inevitably in isolation and despair and I02 QUEST AND VISION. the broken-hearted cry of" All is vanity." The need of some diviner salvation than art can offer haunts with persistent bitterness the human spirit sheltered in its selfish splendor ; at last it falls, like Herod, " struck through with pangs of hell ; " it is on fire within and howls aloud, " What is it that will take away my sin, And save me lest I die ? " The " Palace of Art " is a sermon for which the age owes Lord Tennyson profound grati- tude. How much it is needed we can judge when we remember how often of late years we have heard high critical authorities insisting that art must be loved for art's sake, and that our common notions of morality are wholly opposed to art. We could forgive Mr. Swin- burne the frantic sound and fury of his revo- hitionary odes, but we cannot forgive him when he prostitutes his noble gifts to uphold the monstrous thesis that the priceliest poetry is that which deals in the prurient details of " fleshly fever " and " amorous malady." The laureate calls upon /as soul to *' Arise and fly The reeling Faun, the sensual feast ; Move upward, working out the beast, And let the ape and tiger die." RELIGIOUS DOUBT — MODERN TOETRY. I03 But it is precisely in the filthy carnival of *' ape and tiger " that Mr. Swinburne has chosen to sport. The whole subject is one which will not bear handling, and, for our part, we have no desire to publish any investigations in putrescence. Such poetry can only be la- beled as " unfit for human consumption." Certain of its admirers have ventured to call it " Greek ; " but it is not Greek, it is simply bestial. It is the lowest and most revolting phase of the evil wrought in literature through lack of faith. That lack of faith inevitably leads to such a depth of moral fall we do not say, but we do say that such poetry is in itself an awful illustration of how swiftly godless art may become immoral art. Here, then, we may fitly close this fragment- ary study of one phase in modern English poetry. It is a phase which must be full of sad suggestion alike to the philosophic thinker and the Christian. The fatal narrowing tend- ency which attends the intellectual processes of scepticism is nowhere seen in a more start- ling light than in its action upon poetr}\ The freshness and spontaneity of song is lost, the lyrical cry becomes a lyrical wail, simplicity I04 QUEST AND VISION. and fulness of emotion become unknown, and the imagination, having lost courage for any thing like colossal effort, is frittered away and wastes itself in spasmodic and often morbid creation. There is no clearer lesson taught us by the history of human thought and action than that the greatest deed and utterance are impossible without the serenity and courage which spring from living faith in God. There is no compensation for the loss of faith in poetry. Doubt may sometimes lift its cup full of the wine of misery to the poet's lips, and he shall drink and find a certain bitter exhil- aration in the draught which fires the mind with brief poetic fervor, but that throb of short and daring effort is all too dearly pur- chased. The world asks that its poets shall be prophets, that its singers shall be believers, that their inspiration shall be drawn from above, else it were better that their gift died in them and their song were never sung. The key-stone in the arch of life is God ; if once the poet pluck that down what wonder is it that all his life falls straightway into illim- itable despair and ruin? What wonder that the stars fade one by one above him, until at RELIGIOUS DOUBT — MODERN POETRY. 105 last he sits in cities of dreadful night and bows his head, and only asks to die? In poetry, as in philosophy, it is needful to insist upon the abiding power and presence of the religious instinct. All outrage done to that is outrage upon that which is noblest in humanity. It brings its revenges with it, and the Nemesis which follows scepticism in poetry is confusion and paralysis of power and effort. Nor is it possible, as Tennyson has shown us, for any man to be even indifferent to the religious in- stinct and yet be a great poet. It is not given lo the mightiest genius to " Sit as god holding no form of creed, But contemplating all." In attempting to shun the most solemn problems of the universe, and work out for liimself a perfect intellectual culture, such a poet simply builds a palace of art, whose splendid corridors ring at last with his despair, and all whose glory he is glid to barter for a cottage in the vale where he may mourn and pray. The religious instincts of the race have always been the secret springs which have led the great poetry of the world ; and the icono- clast who would propose to himself tlie daring Io6 QUEST AND VISION. programme of eliminating faith in God from the poetic literature of England would speed- ily discover that his proposition meant the de- struction of every thing which the common consent of four centuries has voted best worth preserving. From Robert Browning we may take one line which should be the first article in any poet's creed: "Eai-th changes, but thy soul and Cod stand sure." From the verse of him " who uttered noth- ing base," we may quote what seems to us as beautiful a conception of the poet as poet ever uttered, and one M'hich our generation were wise in laying to heart : the true poet is " One in whom persuasion and belief Have ripened into faith, and faith beconift A passionate intuition." HENRY WADSWORTII LONGFELLOW. lO/ HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. THE death of the poet Longfellow re- moved a familiar name from the roll of living celebrities, painfully reminding us how fast the giants of our generation arc falling. The round table of the Victorian age of fame shows many empty seats, and there are already significant signs that the old order changeth, yielding place to new. The foremost workers and thinkers of our day are old men, to many of whom the award of fame has come tardily, and from whom little more victorious achieve- ment can be hoped for. The perfect work of a poet is usually that of his middle-manhood, and as seldom that of his latest as of his ear- liest years. America cannot expect any further important contribution to her literature from the serene genius of the inheritor of Longfel- low's fame, J. Greenleaf Whitticr, the "Her- mit of Amesbury ; " and wc must confess that neither England nor America has given any sign at present of a great poet who is likely to succeed tu the throne uf a Tennyson or a loS QUEST AND VISION. Liownlng, a Longfellow or a Whittier. In the moment of common loss, when the master- hand falls into the long sloth of death, and the work is fresh with the final touches of its " cunning," it may be said we arc not likely to form a just estimate of the powers of a de- parted poet, such as future ages will indorse. We can, however, seek to form some proxi- mate idea of the value of the legacy be- queathed to us; and it is both a graceful and fitting thing that the hour of death should be the signal for such a task. The outward landmarks of the life of Long- fellow arc few, and call for no special notice. He was fortunate enough to obtain a profes- sorship of modern languages in Bowdoin College, Brunswick, at the age of twenty, ex- changing it six years later for a similar post in Harvard College, Cambridge, where he suc- ceeded Mr. George Ticknor. This post he held until 1854, when he retired to the quiet country house where his last labors were com- pleted and his last hours spent. He more than once traveled widely on the continent of Europe, leaving the beaten pathways of the mere tourist and seeking the still waters and HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. IO9 green pastures of national life and character in its rural solitudes. On his last visit to En- gland, in 1868, he was received with accla- mation and awarded honorary degrees by both the ancient universities. His life was singularly tranquil, though not unvisited by those sadder of God's angels, against whom, as he reminds us, the strongest cannot close the door, and the best would not if they dared. It was never his lot to be the target of controversy or the by-word of the slanderer ; no foul-lipped or malicious criticism has vexed the poet's soul ; on the contrary, his claim as a poet has been heartily acknowl- edged from the first, and his fame has been wide and constantly increasing. When wc re- member the long and painful struggles of many of our older poets for standing-room and hearing, and the slow and doubting recognition awarded to our most famous living poets, it should surely be accounted a happy thing that there were quick cars in the world to catch the earliest song of this singer, and generous hearts to welcome and applaud it. Immediate space to work, sincere and ungrudging praise, a life of quiet literary toil, serenity and growth no QUEST AND VISION. of intellect, length of days, an old age full of honor, and the mourning of two continents — all this reads like a young poet's idyllic dream of life rather than the narration of prosaic facts. Longfellow had reached the comparatively stable age of thirty-two when his first modest volume of original poems, Voices of the Night, was given to the public. It is no detraction from his great merit to infer that his power of self-restraint must have been enormous, or that he was wanting in the impetuous fire of temperament which has marked the develop- ment of some of the world's greatest poets. At the age when Longfellow launched his first skiff of song upon the wandering sea of opinion Burns and Byron had produced their finest work, and at even an earlier period Keats and Shelley had written all that the world can judge them by. Probably something may be traced to both the above suggestive clauses. Long- fellow has himself reminded us : •' Art is long, and time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave." His lofty conceptions of the dignity of his art would not permit him hastily to challenge HENRY WADSWORTII LONGFELLOW. 1 1 1 the verdict of the pubh'c ; least of all by any- thing crude in form or unpolished in expres- sion. The attentive student of English poetry will have observed among the foremost signs of our own times an exactitude of expression, a delicacy and subtleness of phrase, and a de- gree of reserve and suggestiveness in the poetry of his own generation which may al- most be taken as its distinguishing quality. We do not mean that the older poets of the century display no suggestiveness and finish of phrase, because this is one of the most marked accomplishments of all true poets, and of none in higher degree than Shakespeare. But in the older poets the apt and splendid phrase seems to leap into being without effort, while in the younger it is manifestly the re- sult of patient, and even painful, effort. On the one hand, we cannot but admire the con- summate patience which holds back the poetic genius until the fermenting crudities of youth have worked themselves clear ; and we recog- nize the result in poems which are as perfect in form as they are chaste and polished in expres- sion. On the other hand, we miss the Titanic power that bursts the bondage of form, creating 8 112 QUEST AND VISION. for itself new types in the unhewn granite of its own originality. The truly great artist obeys, but is unconscious of his art. " He does but sing because he must. And pipes but as the linnets sing." It is pretty sure to follow that the young wings will dare the ether before their strength is per- fect, and will droop, and even fail disastrously ; but it often follows that at last they soar into a vaster heaven, whose heights and depths re- main forever closed to spirits less daring. And in truth Longfellow has always shown a nice discernment of the limitation of his own powers, and has not invited failure by at- tempting too much. It is mere nonsense that assigns to any genius the illimitable ; every artist has boundaries which he may not cross, and the truer the artist the more carefully doe:i he abstain from any truant raid into another's kingdom. Longfellow has carefully marked out the frontiers of his domain, and within these he has moved with ease as undisputed lord. He is pre-eminently the poet of the household and the affections. He has never indulged in the slanderous wail of the pam- phleteering or poetic pessimist ; and still HENRY WADSWORTII LONGFELLOW. II3 less has he pandered to the obscene delirium of those modern singers whose heritage of in- famy it is to have founded Avhat is termed " the fleshly school." He has sung of virtue and manliness, of self-restraint and self-sacri- fice, the dignity of labor, and the hidden pur- poses of suffering. He is not unconscious of the sealed enigmas of life which have no per- fect answer here ; he does not stifle those sol- emn questionings which moan like an unquiet wind through the chambers of the heart in the darker moments of experience and thought • but neither does he coquette with doubt or probe the mystery with morbid interest and sensational result. A genial wisdom, a health- ful cheerfulness, a living faith in God's good- ness and the wisdom of his purposes, pervade his pages ; and of the harder riddles of this life he has learned to say : " Let us he patient! Tliese severe afflictions Not from the ground arise; But oftentimes celestial benedictions Assume this dark disguise, " We see hut dimly through tlie mist and vapors, Amid these earthly damps: What seem to us but sad, funereal tajjcrs May be heaven's distant lamps." 114 QUEST AND VISION. It is no lowly gift which enables a human soul to sing forth in imperishable words the sacred joys and sorrows of domestic life. The world needs many poets to keep the fountains of emotion fresh wdth the sweet troubling of sympathy and sentiment ; but the poets of the hearth and household are needed more than any. Such poets may not quicken the impulses of intellectual life, but they do as needful and as great a work ; they purify the atmosphere of the emotions and sweeten the brackish waters of earthly discipline. We are told in the preface of one of the latest and most beautiful of the innumerable editions of Longfellow's poems that the publishers have found Longfellow more in request than any poet save Shakespeare. Of course any attempt to draw a parallel between Shakespeare and Longfellow would be simply absurd. But men cannot help asking on what is such an enor- mous popularity based? If any poet, not a hymnist, be found upon the cottage tables of our artisans, and in the humble homes of our peasantry, that poet is likelier to be Longfel- low than any other; and there are probably thousands of persons, not habitual students of HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 1 1 5 literature, though otherwise well-informed and intelligent, who scarcely know whether Long- fellow was an Englishman or an American, What marvelous combination of splendid faculties has conspired to make this man the most widely-read poet of two hemispheres of English-speaking people ? The probable an- swer is found in the household character, the tender, Christian spirit of his poetry. More- over, he is easily read. There are no obscure passages, which might be construed baclovard as intelligibly as forward. His verse is limpid as a running brook, and as full of music ; it glorifies, but does not drown the thought. He writes in clear, strong, nervous English ; and his lines have the power of clinging to the memory. Few men have already told a story in verse with a more simple directness, and in lines so compact and ringing. And this is the sort of poetry by which the universal heart is always won. The scholar loves the veiled meaning underlying classic form ; the intellectual reader ponders on the subtle beauty, the shadowy and suggestive grace of lines that fascinate by their very indcfiniteness of outline ; but the heart of the people will Il6 QUEST AND VISION. always turn to the troubadour, the story-teller, the man whose clear and simple thought chooses for its raiment the clearest and simplest language. It is half a fashion in the present day to admire obscurity, and value a poet accord- ing to the number of utterly incoherent and contradictory meanings which may be ex- tracted from any given line. In the face of such a fashion, which a coterie would fain persuade us is the higher criticism, it is well to remem- ber that the most popular poet of our own day is one of the most lucid of English writers, and owes his popularity in no small degree to the definite directness of his style. The great need in criticism is breadth and sanity ; the power to distinguish justly the thing that is good after its kind upon its own merits ; and the great danger in criticism is bigotry, subservience to the tyranny of an isolated and perhaps false theory. Thus the reproach against Longfellow, that he is commonplace, is founded upon his manifest lack of certain qualities which constitute the greatness of his contemporaries. But because he has not the mellow and sometimes over- ripe sweetness of Tennyson, nor the subtlety HENRY WADSWORTII LONGFELLOW. II7 of Browning, it is not fair to forget that he has certain gifts of his own whicli are not to be despised. A cameo may be as fine a work of art as a painting crowded with the angels of Fra Angelico ; and the song of a thrush in the fresh glory of an April morning may throb with as real and beautiful a music as a great organ " trumpeting " melodious thunder " from its golden lips." The place that Longfellow claims is the place of a singer in the great tem- ple, and ifhis voice has not the resonant volume of the great masters, it has the delightful flute- like freshness of the choir-boy's unspoiled alto. We have pointed out the absence of creative originality in his poetry ; and we confess that the artistic error which most easily besets him is the proncness to moralize, appending to every simple song of thought or action its ap- propriate lesson, as the moral is appended to the fable. ]5ut all that this proves is that he is debarred from equality with the great crea- tive poets; and it does not invalidate his right to a place as honorable, if not as high, among the second rank of pucts. Longfellow has suffered fnun the very vastness of his popu- larity, lie is reatl in the days of youth ; and Il8 QUEST AND VISION. books that arc read too early are apt to be for- gotten in the later and maturer years of life. Defoe and Bunyan build up their gleaming wonderland round the steps of childhood, and for that very reason arc seldom re-read, until the distracted taste, wearied with novelty and surfeited with the feverish brilliancy of modern styles, is glad to turn again in the evening of life to the immortal pages which made the marvel and the heaven of life's morn- ing. The common and almost inevitable result is that such masterpieces arc underrated ; and this has been the penalty of Longfellow's enormous popularity with the young. But let the reader take up again the pages so familiar to his boyhood, and let him include in his sur- vey the maturer works of the poet, and he will probably be astonished at the sweetness and grace, the power and inspiration, of poems which he read in the holiday moments of a school-boy's life or in the idle interval between school and business. What, then, are the special qualities by which Longfellow will be known in the days to come, and by the authority of which he may claim the bays of the accepted poet ? HENRY WADSWORTII LONGFELLOW. II9 His greatest claim to the seat of earthly fame will undoubtedly be that he is the first truly American poet. But such a statement has im- portant reservations, which must be remem- bered before it can be discussed. It will have escaped no one that a very large number of Longfellow's poems arc cast in mediaeval moulds. He lingers lovingly over the parch- ment scroll written thickly with the fancies of the days of yore ; he is familiar with " the great cloister's stillness and seclusion ; " he watches with a sympathetic eye the patient monk work- ing amid the dusk on the emblazoned page, and praying while he works, " Take it, Lord, and let it be Assomctliing I have done for thee." He has adopted many a quaint turn of monk- ish fancy, and is at home with the weird won- ders of monkish superstition. And few poets have translated from the songs and ballads of other nations so largely as he. Admirable and scholarly translations from the Frcncli, Ger- man, Sp;inish, Swedish, and Norwegian lan- guages are scattered thickly through his works, while Dante has absorbed his constant atten- tion and has found iu him a clear and truth- 120 QUEST AND VISION. ful interpreter. But when we have made these important reservations, when we have glanced over the long hst of translations, the poems with foreign titles and full of foreign yearnings, the ballads drawn from the histories of all na- tions, and bearing in their every fibre the stamp of the Old World inspiration, the fact remains that Longfellow is the author of the three most distinctively American poems in the world. In one of the interludes to the " Tales of a Way- side Inn," when the "long murmur of ap- plause " had died away — " 'These tales you tell are one and all Of the Old World,' the poet said, ' Flowers gathered from a crumbling wall. Dead leaves that rustle as they fall ; Let me present you in their stead Something of our New England eartli, A tale which, though of no great worth, lias still its merit, that it yields A certain freshness of the fields, A sweetness as of home-made bread. " This is precisely what Longfellow has done for the poetry of his country. Any English writer with equal gifts, living in any English county, might have Avritten the measured verse of Bryant, or the serious poems of Lowell, or the bulk of the poetry of Whitticr ; but no purely HENRY WADSWORTII LONGFELLOW. 121 English writer could have composed " Miles Standish," " Evangeline," or " Hiawatha." It has been said that America has every thing but a past. Longfellow has shown that his country is not deficient even in this item of national wealth by successfully unsealing the fountains of her early Puritan history and weaving into the original cadences of one of the longest poems of the century the strange dreams and gospels of her ancient Indian mythology. ** Hiawatha " exhales the very fragrance of the broad prairie and illimitable forest, and is steeped in an atmosphere pecul- iarly and perfectly its own ; " Evangeline," the " tale of Acadic," presents a lovely picture of the idyllic side of Puritan existence, its sweet homeliness, its purity and faith, its restrained but tremulous and intense passion ; " Miles Standish " is a rougher transcript of Puritan life, but equally perfect in verisimilitude and suppressed humor ; and each poem is one which the world will not willingly let die. "Whatever vast advances the literature of Amer- ica may make in the future — and we have the right to expect a marvelous development in the literature of a nation so young, so strong, 122 QUEST AND VISION. SO fertile in resource and eager in invention — • ■\vc may safely prophesy that these three poems will never sink into obscurity. They are three great landmarks in the advancement of Amer- ican history which can never be wholly sub- merged. And If " Hiawatha " and " Miles Standish " in any future age attract the atten- tion only of the antiquary or the critical stu- dent of his country's literature, " Evangeline" will share the nobler fate of a sympathetic welcome from all ages capable of understand- ing a great poem whose highest charm is sim- plicity, and especially in that land where its writer lived and died, and from whose past its history is drawn. We have not space for any elaborate anal- ysis of the purely literary characteristics of Longfellow; it is rather to the high moral value of his writings that we would draw at- tention. But these literary characteristics may be briefly indicated. Those who accuse Long- fellow of mere prcttiness of phrase and com- monplaceness of design must be singularly blind to the exquisite fancy which is found in all his work, and not infrequently the rare power of a vivid and minute imagination. In HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 1 23 such sea-songs as " The Wreck of the Hes- perus," " The Phantom Ship," and especially the " Ballad of Carmilhan," we detect the true master's touch, the high and rare power of painting a perfect picture in perfect words. It would be hard to discover ten simple lines which describe the bursting of a storm at sea more perfectly than these from the lasi-men- tioned poem : " Eight bells ! and suddenly abaft With a great rush of rain, Making the ocean white with spaifie, In darkness like the day of doom, On came the hurricane. "The lightning flashed from cloud to cloud, And tore the dark in two ; A jagged flame, a single jet Of white fire, like a bayonet, That pierced his eyeballs through." So in the ballad of " Scanderbcg " there are lines terse, powerful, and ringing, as ballad lines should be, and instinct with the same quality of casting into clear relief the bodiless vision of the mind. And where there is not the higher triumph of imagination there is al- ways the delicate filagree-work of a pure and tender fancy. Many an exquisite line, and 124 QUEST AND VISION. more than one perfect lyric, has been written on the lark, but Longfellow's lines may still be uttered with delight : " Up soared the lark into the air, A shaft of song, a winged prayer. As if a soul, released from pain, Were flying back to heaven again." Sometimes this power of fancy runs into quaintness, as when he speaks of the cares of the day folding their tents like the Arabs, and as silently stealing away ; and sometimes it approaches the grotesque, as when he speaks of the moon shining on the snow which covers a poet's grave, and the broad sheet of snow " Written o'er With shadows cruciform of leafless trees. As once the winding-sheet of Saladin With chapters of the Koran." But far oftener the fancy casts light upon the facets of some simple image, and causes them to glow with a serene spiritual beauty, as in the musings of the abbot in " The Golden Legend : " " Slowly, slowly up the wall Steals the sunshine, steals the shade. • • • • • Upward steals the life of man As the sunshine from the wall. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 12$ From the wall into the sky, From the roof along the spire ; Ah ! the souls of those that die Are but sunbeams lifted higher." it is needless to quote where every retentive memory can supply its favorite example. There is scarcely a poem which does not man- ifest the same delicate power of admirable fancy, if not of fervid imagination. And it would be still more impertinent to quote examples of the sweetness and pathos which have made so many of Longfellow's poems household words. How many hearts have thrilled to the subduing pathos of the lines : " There is no flock, however watched and tended, But one dead lamb is there ; There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, But has one vacant chair ! " How many aged eyes have looked upon the forms of little children with the same instinct- ive forecast of the future which Longfellow ex- presses in such lines as these : " O little feet ! that such long years Must wander on tlirough hopes and fears. Must ache and bleed beneath your load ; I, nearer to the w.iyside inn, Where toil shall end and rest begin, Am weary, thinking of your road I " 126 QUEST AND VISION. It is one of the distinctive charms of Long- fellow that he is the children's poet ; the fresh grace, the agile hope, the dew-like purity of the child's heart and mind perpetually fascinate him. More than once he takes a little child and sets him in the midst of the world's fever- ish circle, preaching by the child's innocence the highest of all lessons. To say that the conception and thought of such poems as " Resignation " is what any average man of sentiment might feel is not to depreciate them, but to confer the highest praise. It is virtually to acknowledge the supremacy of the poet by confessing that he has interpreted in melodious verse and with just appreciation the sentiment of millions. Such poems as " Excelsior" and "A Psalm of Life" are world-poems and are numbered among the "secular hymns" of humanity. That they are hackneyed is the highest compliment that can be paid them ; it means that they have entered into the world's heart and are on every tongue. Loftier praise than this can sarcely be awarded any poet, for it requires a rare adjustment of faculty to write poems which have been so often parodied but are yet unspoiled, and, used in the common HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 12/ utterance of two generations, are still as fresh as ever. But the highest and most enduring fame of Longfellow must be based upon the calm and happy trust, the noble moral influence of his writings. Before his poetic career commenced he said in his prose poem, " Hyperion," that the surest blessedness was to do the thing that most wanted doing without a thought of fame, and he has assured us, in his poem on the de- spoiled ambitions of Bclisarius, that " The plaudits of the crowd Are but the clatter of feet At midnight in the street, Hollow and restless and loud." We can easily conceive that he has not worked for fame ; but if fame be ever worth the hav- ing, and if it can ever fill the heart with a gen- uine and pure delight, surely it must be the fame that is won by the exercise of rare gifts lor the moral elevation and benefit of mankind. Such a fame is Longfellow's. He has set to all succeeding poets the noble example of greaf gilts employed for great uses, and has left be- hind him no soiled or evil page. 123 QUEST AND VISION. GEORGE ELIOT. THE traveller who stands at the very loot of a mountain is never conscious of its vastness. It is only as he leaves it behind him that its true proportions reveal them- selves. Then, as he journeys far and farther from its base, for the first time he realizes the grandeur and sublimity of those summits which were concealed from him when he stood be- neath the very shadow of their walls. With every step he takes, bigger and bluer swims up into the sky the mountain's crest, changin.or with the shifting light and growing distance, frowning under the shadow of the thunder- cloud, or softened in the evening stillness. It is even so that the great presences of human- ity impress their personality upon the ages. They are rarely measured rightly by their im- mediate contemporaries, and one might add by their earliest biographers. Boswells are iew, and the Boswell instinct is almost unique. Forster can only give us a Forsterized Dickens, and suggest ingenious doubts as to whether GEORGE ELIOT. T29 he or Dickens really wrote Dombey and David Copperficld. Froude certainly gives us Carlyle, " warts and all ; " but the picture lacks balance and proportion, and the warts are seen through the magnifying-glass of an ultra-honesty which very much resembles malice. Mr. Cross gives us a bundle of letters and leaves George Eliot still a shadow and a name. It is charitable to assume that he has lived beneath her influence too completely to realize her greatness, and perhaps the same assumption may be true of the entire age in which her life was lived. We have not yet left the mountain far enough be- hind to realize its grandeur. But if we do not realize the grandeur we at least admit it ; and how great was the place George Eliot filled in modern literature we may measure by the im- possibility of naming her successor. The outline of George Eliot's early life is tolerably familiar to the public, and very great interest attaches to it. Her father was a re- markable man, of great natural shrewdness, in- dividuality, and force of character. He was the son of a village carpenter, and many traits of his character are embodied in Adam Bede and Caleb Garth. His indomitable will, not 130 QUEST AND VISION. less than his business talents, raised him to the position of land agent to Sir Roger Newdigate, and throughout the part of Warwickshire Adhere he resided he was reverenced as a man of ster- ling and invincible uprightness. Adam Bede hated to see men drop their work the moment the clock sounded, as though they grudged an extra moment in their master's service ; and the same proud and generous spirit animated Robert Evans. He was incapable of mean- ness and inflexible in duty. Yet in the granite of that strong nature, as is common in men noted for their usual sternness, many a gentle rill of tenderness welled up. He was forty-six when Marian was born, and " the little wench " was very precious to her father. Her mother is said to have had a touch of Mrs. Poyser in her — a woman of fine administrative ability in the household, with a faculty of incisive speech naturally running into epigram and wit, and not seldom, probably, lacerating softer natures with its sharp criticisms. And there were un- cles and aunts of the Glegg and Pullet type, who no doubt thought the dreamy child a very " strange little gell," and made her fly with all the keener love to the refuge of the GEORGE ELIOT. I3I strong father's affection. A very charming picture is given us of Mr. Robert Evans driv- ing round the country-side with " the httlc gell " between his knees, the said little gell silently absorbing many a glimpse of landscape, or old gabled farm-house, and many a turn of humorous speech, which were all to swim up to the surface again in after years and be woven into the texture of her books. The most painful episode of the book is that which relates to the division which occurred in after- life between father and daughter on the subject of their theological views, the widowed father making up his mind to live alone rather than with a dauglitcr who refused to go to church, and she for a time preferring the prospect of school-drudgery to submission. But the threat- ened separation never happened. The picture that glows before us in these early pages is of quiet home at Griff, a charming red brick, ivy- covered house on the Arbury estate — " the warm little nest where her affections were fledged." There George Eliot spent the first twenty-one years of her life. An excellent passage in I\Ir. Cross's intro- duction puts before us vividly enough the 132 QUEST AND VISION. condition of the times in 18 19, when Marian Evans was born, and reminds us how far we have moved : " That Greater Britain (Canada and Austra- lia) which to-day forms so large a reading public was then scarcely more than a geo- graphical expression, with less than half a million of inhabitants, all told, where at present there arc eight millions ; and in the United States — where more copies of George EHot's works are now sold than in any other quarter of the world — the population then numbered less than ten millions, where to-day it is fifty- five millions. Including Great Britain, these English-speaking races have increased from thirty millions in 1820 to one hundred millions in 1884; and with the corresponding increase in education we can form some conception how a popular English writer's fame has widened Its circle. As Mr. Cross justly observes, much of the quality of George Eliot's writing is due to the character of the times in which her youth was lived. In 1819 the wheels of life ran slowly along ruts of sweet, old-fashioned leisure, and had not begun to break into flame with the GEORGE ELIOT. 1 33 speed of modern energy. There was leisure to grow wise and shelter to grow ripe. The imagination had time to absorb its materials, and a large nature had space and peace m which to develop its powers. " Her roots were down in the pre-railroad, pre-telegraphic period," and her genius was the outcome of these conditions. Perhaps that is saying too much, but it certainly indicates an important truth. If solitude is necessary to the ease and tranquil strength, occasionally rising into maj- esty, and never destitute of force, which are the distinguishing qualities of George Eliot's style, it is easy to imagine how well such a style could grow in the remote serenity of a country house half a century ago, and how much more difficult it would be for any such style to take root and thrive amid the condi- tions of to-day life. Nothing which George Eliot has written is so full of profound interest as the record of her own early life. That life has, indeed, been more than indicated in her own Maggie Tulli- vcr. Wlicn she drew the picture of Maggie, with her pride and her affection, the one lead- ing her into perpetual revolt, the other bring- 134 QUEST AND VISION. ing her back again humble and penitent, sub- dued by the imperious need of being loved ; when she painted the gradual wakening of the spiritual nature in Maggie, the desire for self- sacrifice in perpetual conflict with the needs and yearnings of a sensuous nature, the rev- erence for duty, the clear perception that whatever failed that must be clung to, as with a death-grip — in all this we have much of her own spiritual portraiture. The young girl who stands in the window of the old mill, ab- sorbed in her first glimpse of Thomas a Kem- pis, thrilled with a strange awe, as if " wakened in the night with a strain of solemn music," while the songs of that far-off voice echo for the first time through her soul, saying, " For- sake thyself, resign thyself, and thou shalt en- joy much inward peace ; then shall all vain imagi-nations, evil perturbations, and superflu- ous cares fly away ; then shall immoderate fear leave thee, and inordinate love shall die " — this is Marian Evans at eighteen in the red brick house at Griff. She, too, heard that low penetrating music which has pierced and soothed so many wayward hearts through the long centuries, and drank it in as a draught of GEORGE ELIOT, 1 35 life from the wells of God. Like Maggie, she read on and on in the old book, devouring eagerly the dialogues of the invisible Teacher^ the pattern of sorrow, the source of all strength — with all the hurry of an imagination that could never rest in the present ; and in the ardor of first discovery renunciation seemed to her the entrance into that satisfaction which she had so long been craving for in vain. George Eliot never wrote a passage pervaded by more tender feeling than this passage de- scribing how Maggie Tulliver, amid the miseries of her young life, first saw that heavenly vision of peace won out of sorrow and secret joy, kindled in spite of outward conditions of dis- tress. As we read these early letters we can understand the spiritual emotion, the pathos and power, of this passage ; it was drawn straight from the deeps of the writer's own most sacred experience. In that moment of spiritual revelation to George Eliot, as to many another, the secret of life seemed solved. She was swept by a strong tide, stronger than she knew, far away from her former conceptions of life, and in the delicious sense of surrender and renunciation never paused to ask whether 136 QUEST AND VISION. she had not surrendered too much, whether such a tide might not ebb, whether such self- sacrifice as Thomas a Kern pis taught might not be in fact self-effacement, and produce at last as strong a recoil in the repressed individu- ality. In those days Marian Evans highly enjoyed Hannah More's letters, and found the " con- templation of so blessed a character as hers very salutary." She who in after years was to write that bitterly brilliant essay on " Other Worldliness," in which the works of Young are so mercilessly satirized, at eighteen is in love with his genius and strongly commends cer- tain passages of his writings to her friends. There is a touch of asceticism in her thought which leads her to look upon marriage as an institution tending to dull the heavenly flame ; and she ** can only sigh for those who are mul- tiplying earthly ties which, though powerful enough to detach their hearts and thoughts from heaven, are so brittle as to be liable to be snapped asunder at every breeze." Almost every-wherc in these early letters such sen- tences as these may be culled : " O, that we could live for eternity ! that we could realize GEORGE ELIOT. 13/ its nearness ! May the Lord give me such an insight into what is truly good that I may not rest content with making Christianity a mere addendum to my pursuits, or with tacking it as a fringe on my garments ! May I seek to be sanctified w^ioHy ! " To her aunt, Mrs. Sam- uel Evans — out of whose spiritual experience and work as a Wesleyan preacher she fashioned her Dinah Morris — she deplores her " lack of humility and Christian simplicity, which makes me willing to obtain credit for greater knowl- edge and deeper feeling than I really possess." Novels she has little taste for, and considers hurtful, and says : " Religious novels are more hateful to me than merely worldly ones ; they are a sort of centaur or mermaid, and, like other monsters that we do not know how to class, should be destroyed for the public good as soon as born. The weapons of the Christian warfare were never sharpened at the forge of romance." She complains that the Oxford Tracts contain " a very confused and unscriptural statement of the great doctrine of justification," and " a disposition to frater- nize with the mystery of ini([uity." ITcr fust production ever clollicd with the glory of 138 QUEST AND VISION. print is a poem on the death of St. Peter, which appeared in the CJiristian Observer for January, 1840, with an editorial note explaining that " M. A. E." is quite wrong in supposing that the Bible will be read in heaven. And in a letter written in her eighteenth year we have the germ of that tendency which in after-life led her to choose as her heroes and heroines common people, living homely lives and con- tending with the sordid troubles of an insignifi- cant existence, and which led her to lay such eloquent stress upon the tragedy and passion which dwell in what we are pleased to call " common life." " I verily believe," she writes to Miss Lewis, " that in most cases it requires more of a martyr's spirit to endure with patience and cheerfulness daily crossings and interruptions of our petty desires and pursuits, and to rejoice in them, if they can be made to conduce to God's glory and our own sanctifica- tion, than even to lay down our lives for the truth." This is not merely a beautiful truth expressed with all the force and finish of George Eliot's maturest style, but is indicative of the tone of mind with which she habitually re- garded human life, and which made farm GEORGE ELIOT. 1 39 kitchens and carpenters' shops sufficient the- atres for the noblest creations of her genius to act out their simple heroisms or bitter trage- dies. In 1 84 1 that acquaintance with the Brays of Coventry commenced which had such an important effect on George Eliot's subsequent life. Mr. Bray had married a Miss Hennell, and her brother Charles had published a book entitled An Inquiry into the Origin of Chris- tianity, which, in some important respects, an- ticipated the rationalistic criticism and method of Strauss. The perusal of this book had a great effect on her mind, and completely altered her views of the Christian religion. It directly led to her subsequent translation of Strauss's Lcbcn jfesu, which was her first piece of real literary work. But nothing is more remark- able in these letters and the record of her entire life than the abundant evidence we have that, whatever she ignored in Christian truth, religious feeling never ceased to animate her. While translating the work of Strauss she had an ivory crucifix hung over her desk ; and to Miss Hennell she confesses " she is Strauss-sick ; it makes her ill, dissecting the 140 QUEST AND VISION. beautiful story of the crucifixion, and only the sight of the Christ-image and picture make her endure it." She writes thus of the journey to Emmaus: " That most beautiful passage in Luke's gos- pel ! How universal is its significance ! The soul that has hopelessly followed its Jesus — its impersonation of the highest and best — all in despondency : its thoughts all refuted, its dreams all dissipated ! Then comes another Jesus — another, but the same — the same high- est best, only chastened — crucified instead of triumphant ; and the soul learns that this is the true way to conquest and glory. And then there is the burning of the heart, which assures that this was the Lord — that this is the inspira- tion from above, the true Comforter that leads into truth. But I am not a Methodist." No, she was " not a Methodist ; " but she had drunk so deeply of the wells of early Methodist theology that not even Strauss could prevent this outburst of emotion, this tender, sup- pressed yearning of the lonely heart for some more personal comforter than the " highest best " of Positivism. It is a curious spectacle, no doubt, the heart-sick translator of Strauss GEORGE ELIOT. I4I only nerved to her work by the suspended crucifix, with its tokens of triumphant sorrow. We could more readily have understood the symbol of that divine anguish arresting the hand that was slowly reducing its reality to a fable. But we must remember that in George Eliot we have to do with a nature w^onderfully complex and intricate ; a masculine intellect allied to more than usually sensitive emotions ; a mind capable of the severest study, the subtlest strategies of thought, held in check by all the clinging tenderness of a nature capable of passionate attachments and perpetually yearning for some responding love on which it could repose — some object on which it might lavish the wealth of its affections. It is absolutely necessary to bear this in mind if we are to hold any clue at all to the nature of George Eliot and the motives of her life. No one can read her letters without re- marking on the facility with which she took up new friendships and the almost girlish effusive- ness which characterizes her letters, even when she was in the last stage of life, to her recent as well as her old friends. That hunger for love which led Maggie Tullivcr into so many errors 142 QUEST AND VISION. was precisely the master-passion in the heart of her creator ; but while in George Eliot's case the crowning mistake which Maggie nobly fought down was actually committed, yet, by virtue of that very tenderness, neither Strauss, nor Frederick Harrison, nor G. H. Lewes, nor any other creature could wholly close the door of her heart against the exiled Christ of the intellect. The woman who pictured Dinah Morris preaching on the village green and praying with the penitent Hetty Sorrel in prison ; who, in the highest hour of her des- tiny, makes Maggie Tulliver, amid the fierce stress of mortal anguish, turn from the golden future to the hard, bleak waste of life-long renunciation, crying, " There are memories and affections and longings after a perfect good- ness that have such a strong hold on me I couldn't live at peace if I put the shadow of a willful sin between myself and God ; " who in her greatest story makes the modern world thrill again before the spiritual force and inten- sity of Savonarola, as once all Florence thrilled and trembled when the thunder of his voice pealed through the Duomo — this woman had tasted the mysteries of a religious experience GEORGE ELIOT. I43 foreign enough to the shallow amiability and self-complacency of such a nature as that of Mr. George Henry Lewes. She was " not a Methodist ; " but like many other persons who would disclaim the title both her life and her art owed more than she supposed to those religious influences which moulded her in early days. In any attempt to fix the place of George El- iot among English writers it will be necessary to lay stress upon this strange union in her of what are often opposites. Every page of her life gives evidence of the intensity of her emo- tions, the space and energy of her intellect, and the strength of her religious feeling. Much might be written upon the enormous capacity for work which she possessed, her splendid grasp of abstruse sciences, her use of scientific illustrations in her prose and poetry, the delicacy, subtlety, and acumen of her mind ; and these are the more remarkable not merely because they existed in a woman with more than ordinary susceptibility of nature anti more than common tenderness of affection, but because they were found in a woman who had built up her culture in lonely isolation 10 144 QUEST AND VISION. from great centres of thought, and amid dis- tressing physical conditions which made it often true that her address was, " Grief Castle, on the River of Gloom, in the Valley of Dolor." The unique position George Eliot holds in English literature is due to this combination of gifts, and is at once indicated by compari- son. Take the three greatest names in modern fiction — Scott, Dickens, and Thackeray — and compare with them and their works George Eliot and hers. In Scott is broad health and freedom, breadth of sky, clearness of atmos- phere, not less in the outlook and character of his own mind than in his presentation of artistic effects ; but nowhere does he show himself penetrated by any sense of the mystery and complexity of life. He writes with the good- natured ease of a man blessed with an excellent digestion and familiar with broad moors and sweet country air ; who, in his own life, has never sounded the deeper notes of tragedy and never known the bitter throes of anguish. Dickens is always a boy in his humor, and exaggerates his tragedy, as a man would who relies for his materials on imagination rather than experience ; and, moreover, he seldom GEORGE ELIOT. 145 gives US any sense of intellectual resource. Thackeray, perhaps, impresses us with the greatest sense of intellectual powers ; and in his best and most serious writing is most pene- trated by religious feeling. Each is great in his sphere, and a more or less interesting per- sonality. But George Eliot is much more. She is a great thinker and a great scholar who chooses to write tales, but who might as readily have written histories and philosophies. It is characteristic that she was thirty-seven before she attempted fiction, and then — in spite of Mr. Lewes's opinion that she lacked imagina- tion and dramatic power — with such success as to place her instantly in the rank of great masters. Her popularity only deepened in her mind her sense of responsibility, a sense which latterly became a burden very heavy to be borne, for she never regarded herself in any other light than that of a teacher. She brought to the novelist's art wide scholarship, splendid intellect, and profound experience, and held it in trust as a ministry. One fails anywhere to discern personal vanity in her in relation to her own works; evcry-whcre one docs discern this 146 QUEST AND VISION. intense sense of responsibility. The result is that she is so much more than a novelist that occasionally she is less than one ; the burden of her teaching is too great for the resources of her romance, and it is the voice of the prophet which is sometimes heard instead of the cunning music of the story-teller. But another consequence is that her fiction is wrought with a majesty and power which give it a category of its own and secure for it a noble place in English literature. It is superb fiction ; but it is much more than fiction. George Eliot seldom spoke of her own works even to intimate friends, but in the last year of her life she once asked Mr. Cross a question concerning their general effect upon his mind, which led him to reply that he felt the general effect to be profoundly sad. She was grieved and disappointed with the answer. In spite of endless physical depressions she herself possessed an indomitable cheerfulness, and she naturally supposed she had communi- cated some portion of that cheerfulness to her writings. Yet unquestionably Mr. Cross was right. The dominant chord, sometimes almost lulled into a distant murmur but never silent, GEORGE ELIOT. I47 and continually swelling up into tragic passion and pain, is sadness. Her humor passes like a ripple of swift sunshine or laughter, but the old gray sky closes up again and the smothered wail of pain makes itself heard. The central point of her philosophy is that there is a continuity in actions which cannot be broken, and that noth- ing but an inflexible regard for duty and a perpetual willingness to sacrifice our own hap- piness to supreme moral purposes, br the happiness of others, can save the individual life from shipwreck or mutilation. She never shows us good springing out of evil ; mere optimistic folk may teach that comforting doc- trine ; but she walks in the light of common day and in the presence of the unvarnished realities of life, and prefers to enforce the more terrible truth that evil springs out of evil, and can produce nothing but evil. There are no arresting angels in the path ; healing and com- forting angels there may be, but the bitter consequences of wrong-doing must be paid to the uttermost farthing notwithstanding. With an almost cruel insistency, or an insistency which would be cruel but for the sympathy and pity of the writer, she follows the clue f)f 148 QUEST AND VISION. the first evil step in its unwinding, and forces us to admit the inevitable recompense, the ir- reparable pain. Every book she has written is charged with this stern truth, and its plot ulti- mately reaches this d/nouemeiit. Hetty Sor- rel's vanity and shallowness, her disregard for those homely traditions which have their roots in the dim past and make a code of duty for homely people, with all the hard selfishness which lay under that pretty childishness, work out inevitably the tragedy of her Hfe, and are in fact the very elements out of which that tragedy springs. Godfrey Cass's first error, in concealing what he ought to have confessed, brings a whole string of errors with it, stretch- ing over a life-time, until, after twenty years, the bitter revelation has to be made, and the cry is wrung from him : " There's debts we can't pay like money debts, by paying extra for the years that have slipped by. Marner was right in what he said about a man turning away a blessing from his door ; it falls to some- body else. I wanted to pass for childless once ; I shall pass for childless now against my wish.'" But it is in Romola and in the character of Tito Melema that this lesson is driven home GEORGE ELIOT. I49 with the most merciless force. The smooth young Greek, with his beautiful face and happy smile — who could think of him as Judas? Yet perchance Judas " Had eyes of starry blue, And lips like thine, that gave the tiaitor-kiss." It is one of the minor lessons George Eliot is fond of teaching, that faces can be masks as well as mirrors ; it is the heart and not the face that makes the traitor. Tito shrinks from inflicting pain as from suffering it ; he wishes to be happy himself, and has the most benevo- lent desires for the happiness of the whole hu- man race. But ho is thoroughly resolved to be happy at all costs ; and while he deplores the necessity of making the anguish of others part of that cost, yet he accepts the necessity. It is unpleasant ; he would much rather have gained his base Paradise without injury to any body ; but he is quietly resolved not to forego it on that account. From the moment he re- fuses his first obvious duty of rescuing the old scholar who had lived for him the wrong step is taken which leads onward through an in- creasing maze of difficulties. As a direct con- sequence of his first prevarication he finds 150 QUEST AND VISION. himself under the unpleasant necessity of de- nouncing his foster-father as a madman, of sending him in chains to prison, and, by an- other series of events springing from the first, of becoming a traitor to his wife and the be- trayer of his party. There is no more pro- foundly subtle portrait in English literature than Tito's ; and its artistic truth is as absolute as the technical skill with which it is perfected. Its moral power is even more wonderful. To the last Tito has never succeeded in becoming a hardened and thorough-paced villain ; the ill he does is repugnant to him, and he would much rather not have done it. But his only guide is desire, and his only principle of action present ease and pleasure. And he forgets, or has never recognized, that grim, indefeasible truth which George Eliot makes the soul of her teaching in this as in so many books : " Our deeds are like children that are born to us ; they live and act apart from our will. Nay, children may be strangled, but deeds never ; they have an indestructible life both in and out of our consciousness." For this moral teaching the world owes a great debt of gratitude to George Eliot. But GEORGE ELIOT. 15I it was inevitable that a series of books all more or less permeated with such teaching, all striking this deep chord of the irreparable, all omitting, or else including but faint, far-off snatches of that sweeter music of a divine hope, a divine restoration, should be pro- foundly sad. Even the humor of George Eliot is tinged with this sadness ; it is bitter- sweet, and is akin to pity. It springs from the active contact of a high and broad mind with narrow and confined intelligences, reading their dim thoughts by a wider light and measuring their homely ways by a larger standard. If Dickens had painted the Gleggs and the Pul- lets we should have felt that he himself en- joyed the fun he made, and we should have caught our contagion of laughter straight from his own lips. But George Eliot's humor is a boomerang ; it makes the circle of laughter and ends in pit}'. We feel that she is not really laughing herself at all. She is thinking how sad a si^_;ht it is to look upon people im- prisoned in such small traditions and unable to perceive the larger life that throbs around them ; and while she cannot help describing the "ways of tlic Dodsun family" with evi- 152 QUEST AND VISION. dent relish she is full of gentle pity and regret. She herself was, probably, quite unconscious that this understrain of deep feeling made it- self felt through her humor, and hence her disappointment when more than one intimate friend confessed to the realization of this sense of general sadness produced by her works. But it is an unquestioned element, and it may, perhaps, be said that no writer who has done so much to move our laughter has written so much to make us sad. And though it is not a pleasant thing to say, yet it must be confessed that we rise from the perusal of this life with the consciousness that the sombreness was in the life itself, and in the result of a wrong step which casts its shadow to the end. At the most crucial point of her own career George Eliot did what the whole bulk of her teaching condemns with such majestic sternness: she forgot the inexorable regard for duty, the imperious necessity of purchasing no personal joy by the grief of others or her own errors; the clear need of sacrificing personal joy to the wise traditions of universal law and order which that teaching every-where enforces as the first condition of a truly noble life. GEORGE ELIOT. 153 It has been said that from that wrong step sprang the real development of her life, and that by it was wrought the new intellectual force which gave the world her novels. But there is no evidence of this, and we think George Eliot herself would have been the first to resent such an infei"ence with scorn. She would have said that better no such books were written than written at the price of wrong, and we can readily imagine with what force and eloquence of noble sentiment she would have treated such a position had it found a place in her fiction. As it was she did say, through the lips of Maggie Tulliver, "Many things arc difficult and dark to me; but I can sec one thing quite clearly, that I must not, cannot seek my own happiness by sacrificing others. Love is natural ; but surely j;ity and faithfulness and memory are natural too. And they would live in me still, and punish mc if I did not obey them. I shoukl be haunted by the suffering I had caused. P'aithfulness and constancy mean something else besides doing what is easiest and pleasant- est to ourselves. They mean renouncing what- ever is opposed to the reliance others havi; in 154 QUEST AND VISION. US — whatever would cause misery to those whom the course of our Hves has made depend- ent on us." Is it too much to suppose that liere it is George EHot herself who speaks — that in spite of all intellectual sophistries with which she might impose upon the moral sense, that sensitive and noble nature, that delicate and shrinking womanliness felt the sting, and was indeed haunted by the suffering one wrong step had caused ? It is true there is no evi- dence of any remorse in her published letters, but there is abundant evidence in her stories. The constant reiteration of one painful theme is proof of how large a place it filled in her own experience. Whenever she approaches it her tone deepens into solemnity, and her mes- sage is delivered with intense, even anguished moral earnestness. No v/riter of fiction has treated the temptations of passion with a no- bler moral force or insight, and none has dwelt upon them more persistently. But this very fact is in itself an indication of that con- cealed suffering which confesses itself by sym- pathy with the suffering of others, and it is impossible to dissociate the sadness of George Eliot's books from the error of her life. GEORGE ELIOT. I 55 The whole life of George Eliot was pervaded by her intellectual energy and devoted to in- cessant intellectual toil. She said she began " Romola" a young woman, and it left her an old one. She spared no effort to make her work complete ; and her sense of responsibility to the public, after their first recognition of her great powers, led her to cultivate those powers to the utmost for the public service. The very completeness of that culture reacted dis- astrously upon her later novels ; but just as it has been said no other poet but Milton could have moved under the immense weight of classical learning contained in the " Paradise Lost," so it maybe asserted any other novelist than George Eliot would have been stifled un- der the trappings of so encyclopedic a culture as hers. Her physical sufferings were not less than Carlyle's, but her views of life were never jaundiced by them, nor her tongue envenomed. There is a dignity about her last days which reminds us of the last days of Milton. Like Milton, she always began her day with some chapters from the l>ible, and particularly de- lighted in reading aloud the finer passages of Isaiah, Jeremiah, and St. Paul. Her voice had 156 QUEST AND VISION. " organ-like tones " in it, and when she read the Bible, and the elder English poets, its deep sadness added greatly to the solemnity and majesty of the rhythm. In Shakespeare and Milton, and latterly in Wordsworth, she found constant companionship ; and four lines from the "Samson Agonistes " she was accustomed to repeat with a fullness of effect not to be for- gotten: " But what more oft, in nations grown corrupt. And by their vices brought to servitude, Than to love bondage more than liberty. Bondage ^^"ith ease than strenuous liberty ? " She keenly watched the social life of her time, and with all its intellectual movements she was intimately acquainted. In her the thirst for knowledge was never slaked, and the ardor of the intellect never dimmed. To the last no shadow fell across that spacious mind ; no fac- ulty lost its edge, no function of thought gave intimation of decay. There was no darkening of the stage before the curtain fell — it fell silently and swiftly upon a brilliant intellect at the very culmination of its powers. At her death there was found within reach of the lifeless hand one pathetic memorial of the GEORGE ELIOT. 15/ past, which neither change of creed nor state could exile ; it had accompanied her through all the strange ways which lay between the obscure girl-life at Griff and the famous years of mature womanhood in London — it was a well-worn copy of Thomas a Kempis. I5B QUEST AND VISION. GEORGE MEREDITH: HIS METHOD AND HIS TEACHING. T READ the other day, in an article -■- which professed to be critical, the some- what remarkable statement that there were at least fifty novelists who could have written Oliver Twist better than Dickens wrote it. I was sincerely glad to hear it, for I had no notion that English fiction was so liberally en- dowed in these latter days, and I wish I could believe it. As a matter of fact, unfortunately, every one who knows any thing will know that this statement is ludicrously false, and he will know how it came to be made. It is the re- sult of the new method of criticism, which writes its " appreciations " or " depreciations " at random, and bases its judgments entirely on the comparison of things between which there is no likeness, and therefore ought to be no comparison. Criticism without comparison is impossible, but under such a system it be- comes necessary to depreciate one author in GEORGE MEREDITH. 1 59