jbcatb's lEnglisb Classics. WORDSWORTH'S. PREFACES AND ESSAYS ON POETRY; LETTER TO LADY BEAUMONT. (I798-X845.) itefc frritfj Kntrotiuctt0n anti BY A. J. GEORGE, A.M. .' V E 1 ^ ^JJ " Wordsworth was a great critic, and it is to be sincerely regretted that he has not left us more criticism." MATTHEW ARNOLD. _.,.IT*'"^" " Admirable specimens of philosophical criticism." SIR HENRY TAYLOR. "No one can read the reasoning of these Prefaces without instruction." PROF. SHAIRP. " The Prefaces are most valuable contributions to our literature of criticism." AUBREY DE VERB. BOSTON, U.S.A.: D. C. HEATH & CO., PUBLISHERS. 1892. Sjf-ol COPYRIGHT, 1892, BY A. J. GEORGE. TYPOGRAPHY BY J. S. GUSHING & Co., BOSTON, U.S.A. PRESSWORK BY BERWICK & SMiTnTBosTON, U.S.A. TO 2Br, Fere, THE FRIEND OF WORDSWORTH, WHO HAS NOBLY ILLUSTRATED IN PROSE AND VERSE THE PRINCIPLES OF LITERATURE AND LIFE CONTAINED IN THESE PREFACES. " High is our calling, Friend ! Creative Art (Whether the instrument of words she use, Or pencil pregnant with ethereal hues) , Demands the service of a mind and heart, Though sensitive yet, in their weakest part, Heroically fashioned to infuse Faith in the whispers of the lonely Muse, While the whole world seems adverse to desert. And, Oh ! When Nature sinks, as oft she may, Through long-lived pressure of obscure distress, Still to be strenuous for the bright reward, And in the soul admit of no decay, Brook no continuance of weak mindedness Great is the glory, for the strife is hard." INTRODUCTION. " He too upon a wintry clime Had fallen on this iron time Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears. He found us when the age had bound Our souls in its benumbing round; He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears; He laid us as we lay at birth On the cool flowery lap of earth, Smiles broke from us, and we had ease; The hills were round us, and the breeze Went o'er the sunlit fields again; Our foreheads felt the wind and rain. Our youth returned; for there was she On spirits that had long been dead, Spirits dried up and closely furl'd, The freshness of the early world." l A spirit of manly independence has characterized every era of reformation, but in our own century this spirit has had a wider range, and has manifested itself in a greater variety of movements, than ever before. Independence in literature and art, in church and state, in social and political life, has been the distinguishing feature of the nineteenth century. In the literature of Greece and Rome the state is the centre, and the individual is of little account. In the Middle Ages the church 1 Matthew Arnold. ^viii INTR OD UCTION. is the centre, and here too the individual is lost in the system. In modern literature the state and the church are represented, but not as central, the individual has become the centre of interest. The idea of the individual as a hero because he belongs to a certain class has given way to the idea of the hero as a private citizen, as Tennyson says " And the individual withers, and the world is more and more." The happy warrior is " A soul whose master-bias leans To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes." It is this elevation of the private man to the place of honor in literature and art, in church and state, in social and political life, that has won for the century the title "revolutionary." The revolutionary movement in literature consisted chiefly in the restoration of passion, " which is highest reason in a soul sublime." The eighteenth century was an age of reason, an age of prose ; in it spiritual east winds prevailed, and only a few of those who faithfully strove to be loyal to the higher ideal were successful and won a hearing. Thomson and Collins saw the faint glow of the coming dawn, while Allan \ Ramsay and Hamilton of Bangour, through the pathos of the ballad and Scotch song, exerted a marked effect upon the poetry of the generation. Beginning thus, the return to nature became more clearly marked when Gray turned to the Country Churchyard and Goldsmith to the Deserted Village, when Crabbe sang of the Borough, when Cowper mused by the banks of the languid Ouse, and Burns crooned his immortal lyrics on the Scottish INTRODUCTION. ix hiljside,_. Its first movement was completed on the publication of the first edition of Lyrical Ballads in 1 798. Passion in its relation to modern poetry shows itself in Byron, Shelley, and Keats as the passion of youth, with a ten- dency to a passionate wail of despair ; in Arnold, Clough, and Rossetti it appears in the form of Greek idealism ; in Keble and Newman we see it as a spiritual light, a deity within the soul ; while in Wordsworth, Tennyson, and Browning it be- comes the connecting link between the priestly and the scien- . Uific nature, and utters itself in the prayer " Let knowledge grow from more to more, But more of reverence in us dwell." The origin of the Lyrical Ballads has often been told. Its joint authorship is alluded to in the Prelude as follows : "That summer, under whose indulgent skies Upon smooth Quantock's airy ridge we roved Unchecked, or loitered mid her sylvan combs, Thou in bewitching words, with happy heart, Didst chaunt the vision of that Ancient Man, The bright-eyed Mariner ; And I, associate with such labor, steeped In soft forgetfulness the livelong hours, Murmuring of him who, joyous hap, was found, After the perils of his moonlight ride, Near the loud waterfall." Although this volume did not prove profitable to the Bristol publisher, it secured the poetic fame of its authors, and enriched the world of English poetry as no one volume has since done, in that it re-established forever the principle that . the soil of true poetry is a genuine human heartedness, a rev- X INTRODUCTION. erence for the beauty and the worth of nature as revealing the soul of God, the sanctity of the domestic affections, whether under cottage roofs or in the "perfumed chambers of the great." In 1800 a second edition was published, somewhat enlarged ; it contained the famous Preface which set forth Wordsworth's theory of poetry in general and of his own poetry in particular, and which called down upon him a storm of abuse second only to that caused by the poems themselves. The years from 1798 to 1815 the midsummer of Words- worth's genius, in which he raised that " monumentum cere perennius" were years of neglect, obloquy, ridicule, and disparagement. It is to these same years that we owe the sound criticism and wise reflection of the Prefaces. In the edition of 1802 the preface tofrthe second edition (1800) was enlarged, and there was added an appendix on " Poetic Diction." These were repeated in successive editions until 1815 when, in the edition published that year, the first volume contained a new preface and a supplementary essay on the poetry of the last two centuries ; at the close of the second volume was placed the preface to the edition of 1802 and the essay on Poetic Diction. These prefaces were changed by alterations, insertions, and omissions, in the various editions, until they received their last revision in 1845. While it is true that Wordsworth vanquished his opponents more by his poems than by, his Prefaces, the two are so inter- related that the history of one is the history of both. Of no artist can it be more truly said than of Wordsworth that he builded better than he knew. Artists cannot explain the mystery of their art, and yet they can at times reveal, to us much that is helpful to an appreciation of their work. ^Every artist brings into the world of art an entirely new thing his INTRODUCTION. xi own personality and consequently must create the taste by ) which he is to be judged. These Prefaces admit us, as far as it is possible for us to be admitted, into the secrets of the poet's workmanship ; they lay bare some fundamental processes and do much to show us the truth respecting the origin, the purpose, and the power of poetry. Mr. F. W. Myers says : " The essays effected, what is perhaps as much as the writer on art can fairly hope to accom- plish. They placed in striking light that side of the subject which had been too long ignored ; they aided in recalling an art which had become conventional and fantastic into the normal current of English thought and speech." " In his first^" efforts," says De Vere, "Wordsworth was doubtless somewhat too much of a radical reformer as regards the abuses which had long corrupted language. His remarks on that subject seemed to assume that the language of common life which he recommended for poetical purposes, differed little from that of good prose writings, a statement to which there are many exceptions. He did not succeed in thus substituting the lan- guage of common life for poetic diction ; but he did a much better thing. He dug deep into the ore of manly thoughts, and finding there a corresponding tongue, both new and true, he blew away the dry dust of conventionalities and affectations, and replaced a false poetic diction by a genuine one." As I have said, the revolutionary spirit in this century has been general ; and it is but natural that, if it altered the con- ception of poetry, it should at the same time affect the principles of criticism. Following the history of criticism from Aristotle to Matthew Arnold, in Italy, Spain, France, Germany, and England, one finds that there is substantial agreement upon the idea that the end of art is to give pleasure. Each nation, xii INTRODUCTION. however, has had its own interpretation of pleasure, and hence the history of criticism is exceedingly complex. The etymological meaning of the word critic is a judge, and to the present time it has retained with varying emphasis this idea. Aristotle, Longinus, Horace, Aristarchus, and Boileau judged by fixed principles established by the court of their predecessors. They rested their opinion upon a logical basis, they appealed to established canons and accepted definitions, and all that was necessary for such critics was a knowledge of these historical precedents. This classical criticism held un- limited power until the close of the last century. The divine right of such an order was then challenged both in Germany and England, where the right of individual judgment was being insisted upon. The prominence of the personal element, in which likes and dislikes took the place of established rules, char- acterized the romantic school ; this in turn gave way to the principle of induction. Under the influence of Goethe, Sainte- Beuve, and Matthew Arnold, this movement, by uniting the clas- sical and the romantic, has resulted in producing that spirit of disinterestedness by which alone the real in art can be recognized. " The form of this world passes ; and I would fain occupy myself with that only which constitutes abiding relations," said Goethe. M. Sainte-Beuve, speaking of the function of criticism, says : " The first consideration for us is, not whether we are amused and pleased by a work of art or mind, nor is it whether we are touched by it. What we should seek first of all is, ought we to be amused, are we right in being moved by it, in applauding it?" Again he says : "The critic is the man who knows how to read and who can teach others how to read." " Criticism," says Matthew Arnold, " is a disinterested endeavor to learn and propagate the best that is known and thought in the world." INTRODUCTION. xiii The classical school was judicial, dealt with a difference in degree, and required knowledge of precedents. The scientific school is inductive, deals with differences in kind, and requires both knowledge and sympathy. So long as the classical school ruled was it any wonder that the history of literature revealed the triumph of author over critic? The war which Wordsworth waged against the old judicial criticism was of the greatest moment both for the poet and the critic. In these Prefaces we have the principles which constitute the foundation of inductive criticism. " You must love him ere to you He will seem worthy of your love." It is doubtless natural that one should enjoy and praise Wordsworth's poetry first, but his criticism should by no means be neglected, for, believe me, whether one goes to him for poetry or criticism, one will not leave him without a blessing. " Wisdom sheathed In song love-humble; contemplations high, That built like larks their nests upon the ground; Insight and vision, sympathies profound That spanned the total of humanity; These were the gifts which God poured forth at large On man through him; and he was faithful to his charge." * As regards Wordsworth's prose style little need be said. When a poet chooses to adopt the prose form one expects to find the same characteristics as distinguished his verse. Sv_l, either in prose or verse, is the constant transpiration of char- acter. As it is the distinctly personal element that renders Wordsworth's poetry "non verba sed tonitrua," so in his prose one finds everywhere these elements of strength, dignity, purity, and truth united with a subtle thought and tender sensibility 1 Aubrey De Vere. xiv INTRODUCTION. which individualize and give character to his style. There is a ruggedness in the sentence which makes it often austere and heavy, but it never falls into the opposite fault of the florid and the ornate. It may be said that Wordsworth's sty-le is everywhere distinguished for its manliness, " suavitas austera et solida." The seminary method of teaching English literature makes necessary the publication of the best texts both of literature and criticism in a form and at a price accessible to every student. The day has gone by when pupils can be lectured into what they should think about literature. The successful teacher is the one who is best able to stimulate the student to research and discovery to select and painstaking reading. My thanks are due to Mrs. St. John of Ithaca, New York, for timely assistance in the matter of text, and for calling my attention to a possible inaccuracy in the date of the second essay, as recorded in the bibliography of Wordsworth. It is certain that the proper date is 1802 and not 1815, as given by Professor Knight. The order of the last two essays has been changed from that found in Professor Knight's edi- tion of the poet's works. I cannot see how an essay supple- mentary to the preface of 1815 can precede the preface. I am very grateful for permission to associate this edition of the Prefaces with the name of one who has seen with singular clearness and has expressed with singular force and beauty the " Wisdom and Truth/' the " Genius and Passion," of Words- worth. I have used the text of the edition of 1845 as given in Gro- sart's edition of the prose works of Wordsworth. Of the dates prefixed to each work the first refers to the year of composi- tion ; the second, to the year of the author's last revision. BROOKLINE, MASS., June, 1892. ^ j Q CONTENTS. PAGE PREFACE, 1800-1845 i APPENDIX, 1802-1845 33 PREFACE, 1815-1845 40 ESSAY SUPPLEMENTARY TO PREFACE, 1815-1845 59 LETTER TO LADY BEAUMONT 95 NOTES 101 REFERENCES 119 xv WORDSWORTH'S PREFACES. PREFACE, 1800-1845. THE first Volume of these Poems has already been sub- mitted to general perusal. It was published, as an experi- ment, which, I hoped, might be of some use to ascertain, how far, by fitting to metrical arrangement a selection of the real language of men in a state of vivid sensation, that 5 sort of pleasure and that quantity of pleasure may be imparted, which a Poet may rationally endeavour to impart. 1 I had formed no very inaccurate estimate of the proba- ble effect of those" Poems: I flattered myself that they who should be pleased with them would read them with more J0 than common pleasure : and, on the other hand, I was well aware, that by those who should dislike them, they would be read with more than common dislike. The result has differed from my expectation in this only, that a greater number have been pleased than I ventured to hope I should 15 ' please. 2 Several of my Friends are anxious for the success of these* Poems, from a belief, that, if the views with which the-)t*vere composed were indeed realised, a class of Poetry 20 would be produced, well adapted to interest mankind permanently, and not unimportant in the quality, and in * 2 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACES. the multiplicity of its moral relations : and on this account they have advised me to prefix a systematic defence of the theory upon which the Poems were written, 1 But I was unwilling to undertake the task, knowing that on this occa- 5 sion the Reader would look coldly upon my arguments, since I might be suspected of having been principally influenced by the selfish and foolish hope of reasoning him into an approbation of these particular Poems; and I was still more unwilling to undertake the task, because, ade- io quately to display the opinions, and fully to enforce the arguments, would require a space wholly disproportionate to a preface. For, to treat the subject with the clearness and coherence of which it is susceptible, it would be necessary to give a full account of the present state of the 15 public taste in this country, and to determine how far this taste is healthy or depraved; which, again, could not be determined, without pointing out in what manner language and the human mind act and re-act on each other, and without retracing the revolutions, not of literature alone, 20 but likewise of society itself. I have therefore altogether declined to enter regularly upon this defence; yet I am sensible, that there would be something like impropriety in abruptly obtruding upon the Public, without a few words of introduction, Poems so materially different from those 25 upon which general approbation is at present bestowed. It is supposed, that by the act otf writing in verse an Author makes a formal engagement that he will gratify certain known habits of association; that he not only thus apprises the Reader that certain classes of ideas and 30 expressions will be found in his book, but that others will be carefully excluded. This exponent or symbol held PREFACE, 1800-1845. 3 forth by metrical language must in different eras of litera- ture have excited very different expectations : for example, , in the age of Catullus, Terence, and Lucretius, and that of Statius or Claudian; and in our own country, in the age of Shakspeare and Beaumont and Fletcher, and that of 5 Donne and Cowley, or Dryden, or Pope. I will not take upon me to determine the exact import of the promise which, by the act of writing in verse, an Author in the present day makes to his reader : but i will undoubtedly appear to many persons that I have not fulfilled the terms 10 of an engagement thus voluntarily contracted. They who have been accustomed to the gaudiness and inane phrase- ology of many modern writers, if they persist in reading this book to its conclusion, will, no doubt, frequently have to struggle with feelings of strangeness and awkwardness : 15 they will look round for poetry, and will be induced to inquire by what species of courtesy these attempts can be permitted to assume that title. 1 I hope therefore the reader will not censure me for attempting to state what I have proposed to myself to perform; and also (as far as the 20 limitsjof a preface will permit) to explain some of the chief reasons which have determined me in the choice of my purpose: that at least he may be spared any unpleasant feeling of disappointment, and that I myself may be pro- tected from one of the most dishonourable accusations 25 which can be brought against an Author; namely, that of an indolence which prevents him from endeavouring to ascertain what is his duty, or, when his duty is ascertained, prevents him from performing it. The principal object, then, proposed in these Poems 30 was to choose incidents and situations from common life, _ 4 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACES. and to relate or describe them, throughout, as far as was possible in a selection of language really used by men, and, at the same time, to throw over them a certain col- ouring of imagination, /whereby ordinary things should be 5 presented to the mind in an unusual aspect; and, further, and above all, to make -these incidents and situations inter- esting by tracing in them, truly though not ostentatiously, primary laws of our nature : chiefly, as far as regards the manner in which sre associate ideas in a state of excite- 10 ment. 1 , Humble and rustic life was generally' chosen, because, in that condition, the .essential passions of the ( heaj find a better soil in which they can attain their maturity, are less under restraint, and speak a plainer and more emphatic language; because in that condition of life 15 our elementary feelings co-exist in a state of greater sim- plicity, and, consequently, may be more accurately con- templated, and more forcibly communicated/ because the manners of rural life germinate from those elementary feelings, and, from the necessary character of rural occu- 20 pations, are more easily comprehended, and are more durable; and, lastly, because in that condition the passions of men are incorporated with the beautiful and permanent j forms of Nature. 2 The language, too, of these men has been adopted (purified indeed from what appear to be its 25 real defects, from all lasting and rational causes of dislike or disgust) 1 because such men hourly communicate with the best objects from which the best part of language is origi- nally derived { and because, from their rank in society and the sameness and narrow circle of their intercourse, being- 30 less under the influence of social vanity, they convey their feelings and notions in simple and unelaborated expressions. PREFACE, 1800-1845. 5 'Accordingly, such a language, arising out of repeated experience and regular feelings, is a more permanent, and a far more philosophical language, than that which is fre- quently substituted for it by Poets, who think that they are conferring honour upon themselves and their art, in 5 proportion as they separate themselves from the sympathies of men, and indulge in arbitrary and capricious habits of expression, in order to furnish food for fickle tastes, and fickle appetites, of their own creation.* I cannot, however, be insensible to the present outcry 10 against the triviality and meanness, both of thought and language, which some of my contemporaries have occa- sionally introduced into their metrical compositions; and I acknowledge that this defect, where it exists, is more dishonourable 'to the Writer's own character than false 15 refinement or arbitrary innovation, though I should contend at the same time, that it is far less pernicious in the sum of its consequences. From such verses the Poems in these volumes will be found distinguished at least by one mark, of difference, that each of them has a worthy purpose. Not -20 that I always began to write with a distinct purpose for- mally conceived; but habits of meditation have, I trust, so prompted and regulated my feelings, that my descrip- tions of such objects as strongly excite those feelings, will be found to carry along with them a purpose? If this 25. opinion be erroneous, I can have little right to the name of a Poet. 2 For all good poetry is the spontaneous over- flow of powerful feelings : and though, this be true, Poems ___^___j__ y * It is worth while here to observe, that the affecting parts of Chaucer are almost always expressed in language pure and universally intelligible even to this day. 6 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACES. to which any value can be attached were never produced on any variety of subjects but by a man who, being possessed of more than usual organic sensibility, had also thought long an$ deeply. 1 'For our continued influxes of feeling 5 are modified and directed by our thoughts, which are indeed the representatives of all our past feelings; and, as by contemplating the relation of these general representa- tives to each other, we discover what is really important to men, so, by the repetition and continuance of this act, our i feelings will be connected with important subjects, till at length, if we be originally possessed of much sensibility, such habits of mind will be produced, that, by obeying blindly and mechanically the impulses of those habits, we shall describe objects, and utter sentiments, of such a 15 nature, and in such connection with each other, that the understanding of the Reader must necessarily be in some, degree enlightened, and his affections strengthened and purified. It has been said that each of these poems has a purpose. 20 Another circumstance must be mentioned which distin- guishes these Poems from the popular Poetry of the day; it is this, that the feeling therein developed gives impor- tance to the action and situation, and not the action and situation to the feeling. 2 25 A sense of false modesty shall not prevent me from asserting, that the Reader's attention is pointed to this mark of distinction, far less for the sake of these particular Poems than from the general importance of the subject. The subject is indeed important! For the human mind is 30 capable of being excited without the application of gross and violent stimulants; and he must have a very faint per- PREFACE, 1800-1845. 7 ception of its beauty and dignity who does not know this, and who does not further know, that one being is elevated above another, in proportion as he possesses this capabil- ity. 1 It has therefore appeared to me, that to endeavour to produce- or enlarge this capability is one of the best ser- 5 vices in which, at any period, a Writer can be engaged; but this service, excellent at all times, is especially so at \ the present day. For a multitude of causes, unknown to ' \ former times, are now acting with a combined force to blunt the discriminating powers of the mind, and, unfitting ,X it for all voluntary exertion, to reduce it to a state of almost savage torpor. The most effective of these causes are the great national events which are daily taking place, and the increasing accumulation of men in cities, where the uni- formity of their occupations produces a craving for ex- 15 traordinary incident, which the rapid communication of intelligence hourly gratifies. To this tendency of life and manners the literature and theatrical exhibitions of the country have conformed themselves. 2 The invaluable works of our elder writers, I had almost said the works of Shak- 20 speare and Milton, are driven into neglect by frantic novels, sickly and stupid German Tragedies, and deluges of idle and extravagant stories in verse. When I think upon this degrading thirst after outrageous stimulation, I am almost ashamed to have spoken of the feeble endeavour 25 made in these volumes to counteract it; and, reflecting upon the magnitude of the general evil, I should be oppressed with no dishonourable melancholy, had I not a deep impression of certain inherent and indestructible qualities of the human mind, and likewise of certain powers 3 in the great and permanent objects that act upon it, which WORDSWORTH'S PREFACES. are equally inherent and indestructible; and were there not added to this impression a belief, that the time is approaching when the evil will be systematically opposed, by men of greater powers, and with far more distinguished success. Having dwelt jthus long on the subjects and aim of these Poems, I shall request the Reader's permission to apprise hinvffr-a few circumstances relating to their style, in order, among other reasons, that he may not censure' me for not having performed what I never attempted. 1 /The Reader will find that personifications of abstract ideas rarely occur in these volumes; and are utterly rejected, as an ordinary device to elevate the style, and raise it above pros& 2 My purpose was to imitate, and, as far as possible, to adopt the very language of men ;1 and assuredly such personifica- tions do not make any natural or regular part of that lan- guage. They are, indeed, a figure of speech occasionally prompted by passion, and I have made use oT them as such; but have endeavoured utterly to reject them as a 20 mechanical device of style, or as a family language which Writers in metre seem to lay claim to by prescription. I have wished to keep the Reader in the company of flesh and blood, persuaded that by so doing I shall interest him. Others who pursue a different track will interest him like- 25 wise; I do not interfere with their claim, but wish to prefer a claim of my own. jJThere will also be found in these volumes little of what is usually called poetic diction; 3 as much pains has been taken to avoid it as is ordinarily taken to produce it; this has been done for the reason 30 already alleged, to bring my language near to the language of men; and further, because the pleasure which I have PREFACE, 1800-1845. 9 proposed to myself to impart, is of a kind very different from that which is supposed by many persons to be the proper object of poetry. 1 Without being culpably particu- lar, I do not know how to give my Reader a more exact notion of the style in which it was my wish and intention 5 to write, than by informing him that I have at all times endeavoured to look steadily at my subject; 2 consequently, there is I hope in these Poems little falsehood of descrip- tion, and my ideas are expressed in language fitted to their respective importance. Something must have been 10 gained by this practice, as it is friendly to one property of all good poetry, namely, good sense : 3 but it has necessarily cut me dfi from a large portion of phrases and figures of speech which from father to son have long been regarded as the common inheritance of Poets. I have also thought J 5 it expedient to restrict myself still further, having abstained from the use of many expressions, in themselves proper and beautiful, but which have been foolishly treated by bad Poets, till such feelings of disgust are connected with them as it is scarcely possible by any art of association to 20 overpower. If in a Poem there should be found a series of lines, or even a single line, in which the language, though naturally arranged, and according to the strict laws of metre, does not differ from that of prose, there is a numerous class of 25 critics, who, when they stumble upon these prosaisms, as they call them, imagine that they have made a notable discovery, and exult over the Poet as over a man ignorant \of his own profession. Now these men would establish a canon of criticism which the Reader will conclude he must 30 utterly reject, if he wishes to be pleased with these volumes. 4 10 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACES. And it would be a most easy task to prove to him, that not only the language of a large portion of every good poem, even of the most elevated character, must necessarily, except with reference to the metre, in no respect differ ,/5 from that of good prose, but likewise that some of the most interesting parts of the best poems will be found to be ^strictly the language of prose when v prose is well written. 1 i truth of this assertion might be demonstrated by innumerable passages from almost all the poetical writings, *o even of Milton himself. To illustrate the subject in a general manner, will here adduce a short composition of Gray, who was at the head of those who, by their reason- ings, have attempted to widen the space of separation betwixt Prose and Metrical composition, and was more T 5 than any other man curiously elaborate in the structure of his own poetic diction. In vain to me the smiling mornings shine, And reddening Phoebus lifts his golden fire : The birds in vain their amorous descant join, 20 Or cheerful fields resume their green attire. These ears, alas ! for other notes repine ; A different object do these eyes require ; My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine ; And in my breast the imperfect joys expire ; 25 Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer, And new-born pleasure brings to happier men; The fields to all their wonted tribute bear; To warm their little loves the birds complain. I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear, 30 And weep the more because I weep in vain. It will easily be perceived, that the only part of this Sonnet which is of any value is the lines printed in Italics ; PREFACE, 1800-1845. H it is equally obvious, that, except in the rhyme, and in the use of the single word ' fruitless ' for fruitlessly, which is so far a defect, the language of these lines does in no respect differ from that of prose. By the foregoing quotation it has been showfT that the 5 (language of Prose may yet be well adapted to Poetry ; and it was previously asserted, that a large portion of the language of every good poem can in no respect differ from that of good Prose. 1 We will go further. It may be safely affirmed, that there neither is, nor can be, any essential \s difference between the language of prose and metrical composition. 2 We are fond of tracing the resemblance between Poetry and Painting, and, accordingly, we call them Sisters : but where shall we find bonds of connection sufficiently strict to typify the affinity betwixt metrical J 5 and prose composition? They both speak by and to the same organs; the bodies in which both of them are clothed may be said to be of the same substance, their affections are kindred, and almost identical, not necessarily differing even in degree; Poetry* sheds no tears 'such as Angels 2 o 1 weep,' but natural and human tears; she can boast of no , celestial ichor that distinguishes her vital juices from those ' of prose; the same human blood circulates through the i veins of them both. * I here use the word ' Poetry ' (though against my own judgment) as opposed to the word Prose, and synonymous with metrical composition. But much confusion has been introduced into criticism by this contradistinc- tion of Poetry and Prose, instead of the more philosophical one of Poetry and Matter of Fact, or Science. The only strict antithesis to Prose is Metre ; nor is this, in truth, a strict antithesis, because lines and passages of metre so naturally occur in writing prose, that it would be scarcely possible to avoid them, even were it desirable. 12 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACES. If it be affirmed that rhyme and metrical arrangement of themselves constitute a distinction which overturns what has just been said on the strict affinity of metrical language with that of prose, and paves the way for other artificial 5 distinctions which the mind voluntarily admits, I answer that the language of such Poetry as is here recommended is, as far as is possible, a selection of the language really spoken by men; that this selection, wherever it is made with true taste and feeling, will of itself form a distinction 10 far greater than would at first be imagined, and will entirely separate the composition from the vulgarity and meanness of ordinary life; and, if metre be superadded thereto, I believe that a dissimilitude will be produced altogether sufficient for the gratification of a rational mind. 1 I S What other distinction would we have? Whence is it to come? And where is it to exist? Not, surely, where the Poet speaks through the mouths of his characters : it can- not be necessary here, either,* for elevation of style, or any of its supposed ornaments : /ior, if the Poet's subject be 20 judiciously chosen, it will naturally, and upon fit occasion, lead him to passions the language of which, if selected truly and judiciously, must necessarily be dignified and variegated, and alive with metaphors and figures, I for- beaT to speak of an incongruity which would shock the 25 intelligent Reader, should the Poet interweave any foreign splendour of his own with that which the passion naturally suggests: it is sufficient to say that such addition is unnecessary. And, surely, it is more probable that those passages, which with propriety abound with metaphors and 30 figures, will have their due effect, if, upon other occasions PREFACE, 1800-1845. 13 where the passions are of a milder character, the style also be subdued and temperate. But, as the pleasure which I hope to give by the Poems now presented to the Reader must depend entirely on just notions upon this subject, and, as it is in itself of high 5 importance to our taste and moral feelings, I cannot con- tent myself with these detached remarks. And if, in what I am about to say, it shall appear ta some that my labour is unnecessary, and that I am like a man fighting a battle without enemies, such persons may be reminded, that, 10 whatever be the language outwardly holden by men, a practical faith in the opinions which I am wishing to establish is almost unknown. If my conclusions are admitted, and carried as far as they must be carried if admitted at all, our judgments concerning the works of the J5 greatest poets both ancient and modern will be far differ- ent from what they are at present, both when we praise, and when we censure : and our moral feelings influencing and influenced by these judgments will, I believe, be cor- rected and purified. 1 20 Taking up the subject, then, upon general grounds, let me ask, what is meant by the word Poet? What is a Poet? To whom does he address himself ? And what language is to be expected from him ? 2 i He is a man speaking to men : a man, it is true, endowed with more lively sensibility, 25 more enthusiasm and tenderness, who has a greater knowl- edge of human nature, and a more comprehensive soul, than are supposed to be common among mankind; a man pleased with his own passions and volitions, and who rejoices more than other men in the spirit of life that is in 30 him; delighting to contemplate similar volitions and pas- 14 . WORDSWORTH'S PREFACES. sions as manifested in the goings-on of the Universe, and habitually impelled to create them where he does not find therri^ To these qualities he has added a disposition to be affected more than other men by absent 'things as if they 5 were present; an ability of conjuring up in himself pas- sions, which are indeed far from being the same as those produced by real events, yet (especially in those parts of the general sympathy which are pleasing and delightful) do more nearly resemble the passions produced by real *3 events, than anything which, from the motions of their own minds merely, other men are accustomed to feel in themselves : whence, and from practice, he has acquired a greater readiness and power in expressing what he thinks and feels, and especially those thoughts and feelings 15 which, by his own choice, or from the structure of his own mind, arise in him without immediate external excitement. <<* But whatever portion of this 'faculty we may suppose | even tke greatest Poet to possess, there cannot be a doubt that the language which it will suggest to him, must often, 20 in liveliness and truth, fall short of that which is uttered by men in real life, under the actual pressure of those passions, certain shadows of which the Poet thus produces, \ or feels to be produced, in himself. However exalted a notion we would wish to cherish of 25 the character of a Poet, it is obvious, that while he describes and imitates passions, his employment is in some degree mechanical, compared with the freedom and power of real and substantial action and suffering. So that it will be the wish of the Poet to bring his feelings near to 30 those of the persons whose feelings he describes, nay, for short spaces of time, perhaps, to let himself slip into an PREFACE, 1800-1845. 15 entire delusion, and even confound and identify his own feelings with theirs; 1 modifying only the language which is thus suggested to him by a consideration that he describes for a particular purpose, that of giving pleasure. Here, then, he will apply the principle of selection which has 5 I been already insisted upon. He will depend upon this for removing what would otherwise be painful or disgusting in the passion; he will feel that there is no necessity to trick out or to elevate nature: and, the more industriously he applies this principle, the deeper will be his? faith that no 10 words, which his fancy or imagination can suggest, will be * to be compared with those which are the emanations of reality and truth. 2 But it may be said by those who do not object to the general spirit of these remarks, that, as it is impossible for J 5 the Poet to produce upon all occasions language as exquis- itely fitted for the passion as that which the real passion itself suggests, it is proper that he should consider himself as in the situafion of a translator, who does not scruple to substitute excellencies of another kind for those which are 20 unattainable by him; and endeavours occasionally to sur- pass his original, in order to make some amends for the general inferiority to which he feels that he must submit. But this would be to encourage idleness and unmanly despair. Further, it is the language of men who speak of 25 what tney do not understand; who talk of Poetry as of a matter of amusement and idle pleasure; 3 who will converse .with us as gravely about a taste for Poetry, as they express it, as if it were a thing as indifferent as a taste for rope- dancing, or Frontiniac or Sherry. Aristotle, I have been 30 told, has said, that Poetry is the most philosophic of all 16 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACES. \ writing: 1 it is so: its object is truth, not individual and local, but general, and operative; not standing upon exter- 1 nal testimony, but carried alive into the heart by passion; truth which is its own testimony,- which gives competence 5 and confidence to the tribunal to whrch it appeals, and receives them from the same tribunal. Poetry is the image ojjgan _andjDature . 2 The obstacles which stand in the way of the fidelity of the Biographer and Historian, and of their consequent utility, are incalculably greater than those ioj which are to be encountered by the Poet who comprehends the dignity of his art. The Poet writes under one restric- tion only, namely, the necessity of giving immediate pleasure to a human Being possessed of that information I which may be expected from him, not as a lawyer, a !5 physician, a mariner, an astronomer, or a natural philoso- pher, but as a Man. 3 Except this one restriction, there is no object standing between the Poet and the image of things; between this, and the Biographer and Historian, there are a thousand. 20 Nor let this necessity of producing immediate pleasure be considered as a degradation of the Poet's art. 4 It is far otherwise. It is an acknowledgment of the beauty of the universe, an acknowledgment the more sincere, because not formal, but indirect; it is a task light and easy to him 25 who looks at the world in the spirit of love : further, it is a homage paid to the native and naked dignity of man, to the grand elementary principle of pleasure, by which he knows, and feels, and lives, and moves. We have no sympathy but what is propagated by pleasure : I would not 30 be misunderstood; but wherever we sympathise with pain, it will be found that the sympathy is produced and carried PREFACE, 1800-1843. 17 on by subtile combinations with pleasure. We have no knowledge, that is, no general principles drawn from the contemplation of particular facts, but what has been built up by pleasure, and exists in us by pleasure alone. The Man of science, the Chemist and Mathematician, whatever 5 difficulties and disgusts they may have had to struggle with, know and feel this. However painful may be the objects with which the Anatomist's knowledge is connected, he feels that his knowledge is pleasure; and where he has no pleasure he has no knowledge. What then does the Poet? 10 [He considers man and the objects that surround him as acting and re-acting upon each Bother, so as to produce an infinite complexity of pain and pleasure;; he considers man in his own nature and in his ordinary life as contemplat- ing this with a certain quantity of immediate knowledge, I5 with certain convictions, intuitions, and deductions, which from habit acquire the quality of intuitions; he considers him as looking upon this complex scene of ideas and sen- sations, and finding every where objects that immediately excite in him sympathies which, from the necessities of 20 his nature, are accompanied by an overbalance of enjoy- ment. To this knowledge which all men carry about with them, and to these sympathies in which, without any other disci- pline than that of our daily life, we are fitted to^take delight, 25 the Poet principally directs his attention. 1 He considers man and nature as essentially adapted to each other, and \ the mind of man as naturally the mirror of the fairest and most interesting properties of nature. And thus the Poet, prompted by this feeling of pleasure, which accompanies 30 him through the whole course of his studies, converses 18 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACES. with general nature, with affections akin to those, which, through labour and length of time, the Man of science has raised up in himself, by conversing with those particular parts of nature which are the objects of his studies. The 5 knowledge both of the Poet and the Man of science is pleasure; but the knowledge of the one cleaves to us as a necessary part of our existence, our natural and unalienable inheritance; the other is a personal and individual acqui- sition, slow to come to us, and by no habitual and direct 10 sympathy connecting us with our fellow-beings. The Man of science seeks truth as a remote and unknown benefactor; 1 he cherishes and loves it in his solitude: the Poet, singing a song in which all human beings join with him, rejoices in the presence of truth as our visible friend and hourly *5 companion. (Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge; it is the impassioned- expression which is in , rhe countenance of all Science^ Emphatically may it be said of the Poet, as Shakespeare hath said of man, 'that he looks before and after.' He is the rock of defence for 20 human nature; an upholder and preserver, carrying every where with him relationship and love. In spite of differ- ence of soil and climate, of language and manners, of laws and customs : in spite of things silently gone out of mind, and things violently destroyed; the Poet binds together by 25 passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society, *as it is spread over the whole earth, and over all time. The objects of the Poet's thoughts are every where; though the eyes and senses of man are, it is true, his favourite guides, yet he will follow wheresoever he can find 30 an atmosphere of sensation in which to move his wings. Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge it is as PREFACE, 1800-1843. 19 immortal as the heart of man. 1 If the labours of Men of science should ever create any material revolution, direct or indirect, in our condition, and in the impressions which we habitually receive, the Poet will sleep then no more than at present; he will be ready to follow the steps of the 5 Man of science, not only in those general indirect effects, but he will be at his side, carrying sensation into the midst of the objects of the science itself. The remotest dis- coveries of the Chemist, the Botanist, or Mineralogist, will be as proper objects of the Poet's art as any upon 10. which it can be employed, if the time should ever come when these things shall be familiar to us, and the relations under which they are contemplated by the followers of these respective sciences shall be manifestly and palpably material to us as enjoying and suffering beings. If the 15 time should ever come when what is now called science, thus familiarised to men, shall be ready to put on, as it were, a form of flesh and blood, the Poet will lend his I divine spirit to aid the transfiguration, and will welcome the Being thus produced, as a dear and genuine inmate of 20 the household of man. 2 It is not, then, -to be supposed that any one, who holds that sublime notion of Poetry which I have attempted to convey, will break in upon the sanctity and truth of his pictures by transitory and acci- dental ornaments^ and endeavour to excite admiration of 2$ himself by artsAthe necessity of which must manifestly depend upon the' assumed meanness of his subject. 3 - What has been thus far said applies to Poetry in general; but especially to those parts of composition where the Poet speaks through the mouths of his character; and upon this 30 point it appears to authorise the conclusion that there are 20 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACES. few persons of good sense, who would not allow that the dramatic parts of composition are defective, in proportion 1 as they deviate from the real language of ^nature, and are coloured by a diction of the Poet's own, either peculiar to ^ him as an individual Poet or belonging simply to Poets in general; to a body of men who, from the circumstance of their composition being in metre, it is expected will employ a particular language. It is not, then, in the dramatic parts of composition that 10 we look for this distinction of language; but still it may be proper and necessary where the Poet speaks to us in his , own person and character. To this I answer by referring the Reader to the description before given of a Poet. Among the qualities there enumerated as principally con- 15 ducing to form a Poet, is implied nothing differing in kind from other men, but only in degree. The sum of what was said is, that the Poet is chiefly distinguished from other men by a greater promptness to think and feel with- out immediate external excitement, and a greater power 20 in expressing such thoughts and feelings as are produced in him in that manner. 1 But these passions and thoughts and feelings are the general passions and thoughts and feelings of men. And with what are they connected ? Undoubtedly with our moral sentiments and animal sensations, and with 25 the causes which excite these; with the operations of the elements, and the appearances of the visible universe; with storm and sunshine, with the revolutions of the seasons, with cold and heat, with loss of friends and kin- dred, with injuries and resentments, gratitude and hope, 3 with fear and sorrow. These, and the like, are the sensa- tions and objects which the Poet describes, as they are the PREFACE, 1800-1843. 21 sensations of other men, and the objects which interest them. The Poet thinks and feels in the spirit of human \ passions. How, then, can his language differ in any material degree from that of all other men who feel vividly and see clearly? It might be /ra^ that it is impossible. 5 But supposing that this were not the case, the Poet might then be allowed to use a peculiar language when expressing his feelings for his own gratification, or that of men like himself. But Poets do not write for Poets alone, but for men. Unless therefore we are advocates for that admira- 10 tion which subsists upon ignorance, and that pleasure which arises from hearing what we do not understand, the Poet must descend from this supposed height; and, in order to excite rational sympathy, he must express himself as other men express themselves. To this it may be added, that] '5 while he is only selecting from the real language of men, or, which amounts to the same thing, composing accurately in the spirit of such selection, he is treading upon safe ground, and we know what we are to expect from him. Our feelings are the same with respect to metre; for, as it 20 may be proper to remind the Reader, the distinction of metre is regular and uniform, and not, like that which is produced by what is usually called POETIC DICTION, arbi- trary, and subject to infinite caprices, upon which no calculation whatever can be made. 1 In the one case, the 25 Reader is utterly at the mercy of the Poet, respecting what imagery or diction he may choose to connect with the passion; whereas, in the other, the metre obeys certain laws, to which the Poet and Reader fyoth willingly submit because they are certain, and because no interference is 3 made by them with the passion but such as the concurring 22 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACES. testimony of ages has shown to heighten and improve the pleasure which co-exists with it. It will now be proper to answer an obvious question, namely, Why, professing these opinions, have I written in 5 verse? To this, in addition to such answer as is included in what has been already said, I reply, in the first place, Because, however I may have restricted myself, there is still left open to me what confessedly constitutes the most valuable object of all writing, whether in prose or verse; 10 the great and universal passions of men, the most general and interesting of their occupations, and the entire world of nature before me to supply endless combinations of forms and imagery. Now, supposing for a moment that whatever is interesting in these objects may be as vividly 15 described in prose, why should I be condemned for attempting to superadd to such description, the charm which, by the consent of all nations, is acknowledged to 'exist in metrical language? To this, by such as are yet unconvinced, it may be answered that a very small part 20 of the pleasure given by Poetry depends upon the metre, and that it is injudicious to write in metre, unless it be accompanied with the other artificial distinctions of style with which metre is usually accompanied, and that, by such deviation, more will be lost from the shock which 25 will hereby be given to the Reader's associations than will be counterbalanced by any pleasure which he can derive from the general power of numbers. In answer to those who still contend for the necessity of accom- panying metre with, certain appropriate colours of style 3 in order to the accomplishment of its appropriate end, and who also, in my opinion, greatly underrate the PREFACE, 1800-1845. 23 power of metre in itself, it might, perhaps, as far as relates to these Volumes, have been almost sufficient to observe, that poems are extant, written upon more humble subjects, and in a still more naked and simple style, whidh have continued to give pleasure from generation to generation. 5 Now, if nakedness and simplicity be a defect, the fact here mentioned affords a strong presumption that poems somewhat less naked and simple are capable of affording pleasure at the present day; and, what I wished chiefly to attempt, at present, was to justify myself for having written 10 under the impression of this belief. But various causes might be pointed out why, when the style is manly, and the subject of some importance, words metrically arranged will long continue to impart such a pleasure to mankind as he who proves the extent of that 15 pleasure will be desirous to impart. The end of Poetry is - to produce. excitement in co-existence with an overbalance ^ of pleasure^ but, by the supposition, excitement is an unusual and' irregular state of the mind; ideas and feelings do not, in that state, succeed each other in accustomed 20 order. If the words, however, by which this excitement is produced be in themselves powerful, or the images and feelings have an undue proportion of pain connected with them, there is some danger that the excitement may be carried beyond its proper bounds. Now the co-presence 2 5 of something regular, something to which the mind has been accustomed in various moods and in a less excited state, cannot but have great efficacy in tempering and restraining the passion by an intertexture of ordinary feeling, and of feeling not strictly and necessarily con- 3 nected with the passion. This is unquestionably true; and 24 WORDSWORTH^S PREFACES. hence, though the opinion will at first appear paradoxical, from the tendency of metre to divest language,^ in a cer- tain degree, of its reality, and thus to throw a sort of half- consciousness of unsubstantial existence over the whole 5 composition, there can be little doubt but that more pathetic situations and sentiments, that is, those which jhave a greater proportion of pain connected with them, /may be endured in metrical composition, especially in ' rhyme, than in prose. The metre of the old ballads is very 10 artless; yet they contain many passages which would illus- trate this opinion; and I hope, if the following Poems be attentively perused, similar instances will be found in them. This opinion may be further illustrated by appeal- ing to the Reader's own experience of the reluctance with J 5 which he comes to the re-perusal of the distressful parts of Clarissa Harlow, or the Gamester ; while Shakspeare's writings, in the most pathetic scenes, never act upon us, as pathetic, beyond the bounds of pleasure an effect which, in a much greater degree than might at first be 20 imagined, is to be ascribed to small, but continual and regular impulses of pleasurable surprise from the metrical arrangement. On the other hand (what it must be allowed will much more frequently happen) if the Poet's words should be incommensurate with the passion, and inade- 25 quate to raise the Reader to a height of desirable excite- ment, then, (unless the Poet^s choice of his metre has been grossly injudicious) in the feelings of pleasure which the Reader has been accustomed to connect with metre in general, and in the feeling, whether cheerful or melan- 30 choly, which he has been accustomed to connect with that particular movement of metre, there will be found some- PREFACE, 1800-1843. 25 thing which will greatly contribute to impart passion to the words, and to effect the complex end which the Poet proposes to himself. If I had undertaken a SYSTEMATIC defence of the theory here maintained, it would have been my duty to develop 5 the various causes upon which the pleasure received from metrical language depends. Among the chief of these causes is to be reckoned a principle which must be well known to those who have made any of the arts the object of accurate reflection; namely, the pleasure which the IQ mind derives from the perception of similitude in dissimil- itude. 1 This principle is the great spring of the activity of our minds, and their chief feeder. From this principle the direction of the sexual appetite, and all the passions connected with it, take their origin: it is the life of our J 5 ordinary conversation; and upon the accuracy with which similitude in dissimilitude, and dissimilitude in similitude are perceived, depend our taste and our moral feelings. It would not be a useless employment to apply this prin- ciple to the consideration of metre, and to show that metre 20 is hence enabled to afford much pleasure, and to point out in what manner that pleasure is produced. But my limits will not permit me to enter upon this subject, and I must content myself with a general summary. I have said that poetry is the spontaneous overflow of 25 powerful feelings:, it take_s its origin from emotion lected JaJjanquillity : the emotion is contemplated till, by a species of re-action, the tranquillity gradually disappears, and an emotion, kindred to that which was before the sub- ject of contemplation, is gradually produced, and does itself actually exist in the mind. 2 In this mood successful 26 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACES. composition generally begins, and in a mood similar to this it is carried on; but the emotion, of whatever kind, iand in whatever degree, from various causes, is qualified by various pleasures, so that in describing any passions whatsoever, which are voluntarily described, the mind will, upon the whole, be in a state of enjoyment. If Nature be /thus cautious to preserve in a state of enjoyment a being /so employed, the Poet ought to profit by the lesson held / forth to him, and ought especially to take care, that, what- 10 ever passions he communicates to his Reader, those pas- sions, if his Reader's mind be sound and vigorous, should always be accompanied with an overbalance of pleasure. Now the music of harmonious metrical language, the sense of difficulty overcome, and the blind association of pleasure 15 which has been previously received from works of rhyme or metre of the same or similar construction, an indistinct perception perpetually renewed of language closely resem- bling that of real life, and yet, in the circumstance ofmetre, differing from it so widely all these imperceptibly make 20 up a complex feeling of delight, which is of the most important use in tempering the painful feeling always found intermingled with powerful descriptions of the deeper passions. 1 This effect is always produced in pathetic and impassioned poetry; while, in lighter compositions, 25 the ease and gracefulness with which the Poet manages his numbers are themselves confessedly a principal source of the gratification of the Reader. All that it is necessary to ) say, however, upon this subject, may be effected by affirm - / ing, what few persons will deny, that, of two descriptions, 3v.^r.sv<= same language. Metre is but adventitious to composition, 5 I and the phraseology for which that passport is necessary, even where it may be graceful at all, will be little valued' by the judicious: PREFACE, * 1815-1845. THE powers requisite for the production of poetry are : first, those of Observation and Description, i.e., the ability to observe with accuracy things as they are in themselves, and with fidelity to describe them, unmodified 5 by any passion or feeling existing in the mind of the describer : whether the things depicted be actually present to the senses, or have a place only in the memory. This power, though indispensable to a Poet, is one which he employs only in submission to necessity, and never for a 10 continuance of time i as its exercise supposes all the higher qualities of the mind to be passive, and in a state of sub- jection to external objects, much in the same way as a translator or engraver ought to be to his original. 2ndly, Sensibility, which, the more exquisite it is, the wider J 5 will be the range of a poet's perceptions; and the more will he be incited to observe objects, both as they exist in themselves, and as re-acted upon by his own mind. (The distinction between poetic and human sensibility has b^en , marked in the character of the Poet delineated- in the 20 original preface.) sdly, Reflection, which maizes the ; Poet acquainted with the value of actions, images, thoughts, and feelings; and assists the sensibility in perceiving their 40 PREFACE, 1815-1845. 41 connection with each other. 4thly, Imagination and Fancy, to modify, to create, and to associate, Sthly, Invention, by which characters are composed out of materials supplied by observation; whether of the Poet's own heart and mind, or of external life and nature; and 5 such incidents and situations produced as are most impres- sive to the imagination, and most fitted to do justice to the characters, sentiments, and passions, which the Poet undertakes to illustrate. And, lastly, Judgment, to decide how and where, and in what degree, each of the 10 faculties ought to be exerted; so that the less shall not be sacrificed to the greater; nor the greater, slighting the\/ less, arrogate, to its own injury, more than its due. By judgment, also, is determined what are the laws and appro- priate graces of every species of composition.* T 5 The materials of Poetry, by these powers collected and produced, are cast, by means of various moulds, into divers forms. The moulds may be enumerated, and the forms specified, in the following order. 1 ist, the Narrative, . including the Epopoeia, the Historic Poem, the Tale, the 20 Romance, the Mock-Heroic, and, if the spirit of Homer will tolerate such neighbourhood, that dear production of our days, the metrical Novel. Of this class, the distin- guishing mark is, that the Narrator, however liberally his speaking agents be introduced, is himself the source from 25 which every thing primarily flows. Epic Poets, in order that their mode of composition may accord with the ele- vation of their subject, represent themselves as singing * As sensibility to harmony of numbers, and the power of producing it, are invariably attendants upon the faculties above specified, nothing has 30 been said upon those requisites. 42 WORDSWORTH^ PREFACES. from the inspiration of the Muse, 'Anna virumque ca^o;' but this is a fiction, in modern times, of slight value; the ' Iliad' or the 'Paradise Lost' would gain little in our estimation by being chanted. The other poets who belong 5 to this class are commonly content to_/# their tale; so that of the whole it may be affirmed that they neither require nor reject the accompaniment of music. 2ndly, The Dramatic, consisting of Tragedy, Historic Drama, Comedy, and Masflpe, in which the poetjipes 10 not appear at all in his own person, and where the whole action is carried on by speech and dialogue of the agents; music being admitted only incidentally and rarely. The | Opera may be placed here, inasmuch as it proceeds by dialogue; though depending, to the degree that it does, 15 upon music, it has strong claim to be ranked with the lyrical. The characteristic and impassioned Epistle, of which Ovid and Pope have given examples, considered as a species of monodrama, may, without impropriety, be placed in this class. 20 3dly, The Lyrical, containing the Hymn, the Ode, the Elegy, the Song, and the Ballad; in all which, for the I production of their /////effect, an accompaniment of music is indispensable. 4thly, The I dy Ilium, descriptive chiefly either of the 25 processes and appearances of external nature, as the 'Sea- sons ' of Thomson; or of characters, manners, and senti- ments, as are Shenstone's 'Schoolmistress,' 'The Cotter's Saturday Night ' of Burns, 'The Twa Dogs ' of the same Author; or of these in conjunction with the appearances 30 of Nature, as most of the pieces of Theocritus, the 'Allegro ' and 'Penseroso' of Milton, Beattie's 'Minstrel,' Gold- PREFACE, 1815-1845. ^3 smith's ' Deserted Village.' 'The Epitaph, the Inscription, the Sonnet, most of the epistles of poets writing in their own persons, and all loco-descriptive poetry, belong to this class. 5 thly,/ Didactic, the principal object of which is direct 5 instruction; jas the Poem of Lucretius, the 'Georgics' of Virgil, 'The Fleece' of Dyer, Mason's 'English Gar- den,' &c. And, lastly, philosophical Satire, like that of Horace and Juvenal; personal an^ occasional Satire rarely com- 10 prehending sufficient of the general in the individual to be dignified with the name of poetry. Out of the three last has been constructed a composite order of which Young's 'Night Thoughts, ' and Cowper's 'Task,' are excellent examples. ! It is deducible from the J 5 above, that poems, apparently miscellaneous, may with propriety be arranged either with reference to the powers of miqd pr.edauunaiti-\T\ the production of them; or to the mould in which they are cast; or, lastly, to the subjects to which they relate. From each of these considerations, the 20 following Poems have been divided into classes; 1 which, that the work may more obviously correspond with the course of human life, and for the sake of exhibiting in it the three requisites of a legitimate whole, a beginning, a middle, and an end, have been also arranged, as far as it 25 was possible, according to an order of time, commencing with Childhood, and terminating with did Age, Death, and Immortality. My guiding wish was, that the small pieces of which these volumes consist, thus discriminated, might be regarded under a twofold view; as composing an 3 entire work within themselves, a-nd as adjuncts to the \ 44 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACES. philosophical Poem, 'The Recluse.' This arrangement has long presented itself habitually to my own mind. Nevertheless, I should have preferred to scatter the con- tents of these volumes at random, if I had been persuaded 5 that, by the" plan adopted, any thing material would be taken from the natural effect of the pieces, individually, on the mind of the unreflecting Reader. I trust there is v a sufficient variety in each class to prevent this; while, for him who reads with reflection, the arrangement will serve 10 as a commentary unostentatiously directing his attention to my purposes, both particular and general. But, as I wish to guard against the possibility of misleading by this classification, it is proper first to remind the Reader, that certain poems are placed according to the powers of mind, 15 in the Author's conception, predominant in the production of them; predominant, which implies the exertion of other faculties in less degree. Where there is more imagination than fancy in a poem, it is placed under the head of imagination, and vice versd\ Both the above classes might 20 without impropriety have been enlarged from that consist- ing of l Poems founded on the Affections;' as might this latter from those, and from the class 'proceeding from Sentiment and Reflection.' The most striking character- istics of each piece, mutual illustration, variety, and pro- 25 portion, have governed me throughout. None of the other Classes, except those of Fancy and Imagination, require any particular notice. But a remark of general application may be made. All Poets, except the dramatic, have been in the practice of feigning that 3 their works were composed to the music of the harp or lyre : with what degree of affectation this has been done in PREFACE, 1815-1845. 45 modern times, I leave to the judicious to determine. For my own part, I have not been disposed to violate proba- bility so far, or to make such a large demand upon the Reader's charity. Some of these pieces are essentially Jyjrical; and, therefore, cannot have their due force with- 5 out a supposed musical accompaniment; but, in much the greatest part, as a substitute for the classic lyre or romantic harp, I require nothing more than an animated or impas- j sioned recitation, adapted to the subject. Poems, however humble in their kind, if they be good in that kind, cannot I0 read themselves; the law of long syllable and short must not be so inflexible, the letter of metre must not be so impassive to the spirit of versification, as to deprive the Reader of all voluntary power to modulate, in subordina- tion to the sense, the music of the poem; in the same 15 manner as his mind is left at liberty, and even summoned, to act upon its thoughts and images. But, though the accompaniment of a musical instrument be frequently dispensed with, the true Poet does not therefore abandon his privilege distinct from that of the mere Proseman; 20 He murmurs near the running bruoks A music sweeter than their own. Let us come now to the consideration of the words Fancy and Imagination, as employed in the classification of the following Poems. 1 'A man,' says an intelligent 25 author, 'has imagination in proportion as he can distinctly \ copy injjjpa the impressions of sense : it is the faculty. - which /w^jwidm^_thejnjiid the_phenomena_of sensation.y A man has fancy in proportion as he can call up, connect, or associate, at pleasure, those internal images ( tions of absent objects. Imagination is jthe ^pwer of \ depicting, and fancy of evoking and combining. The imagination is formed by patient observation; the fancy 5 by a voluntary activity in shifting the scenery of the mind. The more accurate the imagination, the more safely may a painter, or a poet, undertake a delineation, or a descrip- tion, without the presence of the objects to be character- ised. The more versatile the fancy, the more original and 10 striking will be the decorations produced.' British Syno- nyms discriminated, by W. Taylor. Is not this as if a man should undertake to supply an account of a building, and be so intent upon what he had discovered of the foundation, as to conclude his task 15 without once looking up at the superstructure? Here, as in other instances throughout the volume, the judicious Author's mind is enthralled by Etymology; he takes up the original word as his guide and escort, and too often does not perceive how soon he becomes its prisoner, without 20 libertv to tread in any path but that to which it confines him. f It is not easy to find out how imagination, thus explained, differs from distinct remembrance of images; or fancy from quick and vivid recollection of them : each is nothing more than a mode of memory. If the two 25 words bear the above meaning and no other, what term is left to designate that faculty of which the Poet is 'all com- pact;' he whose eye glances from earth to heaven, whose spiritual attributes body forth what his pen is prompt in turning to shape; or what is left to characterise Fancy, as 30 insinuating herself into the heart of objects with creative activity? Imagination, in the sense of the word as giving PREFACE, 1815-1845. 47 title to a class of the following Poems, has no reference to images that are merely a faithful copy, existing in the mind, of absent external objects; but is a word of higher / import, denoting operations of the mind upon those I objects and processes of creation or of composition, gov- 5 erned by certain_fixed laws. I proceed to illustrate my meaning by instances. A parrot hangs from the wires of his cage by his beak or by his claws; or a monkey from the bough of a tree by his paws or his tail. Each creature does so literally and actually. In the first Eclogue of 10 Virgil, the shepherd, thinking of the time when he is to take leave of his farm, thus addresses his goats : Non ego vos posthac viridi projectus in antro Dumosa pendere procul de rupe videbo. half way down 15 Hangs one who gathers samphire, is the well-known expression of Shakspeare, delineating an ordinary image upon the cliffs of Dover. In these two instances is a slight exertion of the faculty which I denom- inate imagination, in the use of one word: neither the 20 goats nor the samphire-gatherer do literally hang, as does the parrot or the monkey; but, presenting to the senses something of such an appearance, the mind in its activity, for its own gratification, contemplates them as hanging, j As when far off at sea a fleet descried 25 Hangs in the clouds, by equinoctial wind; Close sailing from Bengala, or the isles Of Ternate or Tidore, whence merchants bring Their spicy drugs; they on the trading flood Through the wide Ethiopian to the Cape 3 Ply, stemming nightly toward the Pole; so seemed Far off the flying Fiend. 48 WORDSWORTH* S PREFACES. Here is the full strength of the imagination involved in the word hangs, and exerted upon the whole image : First, the fleet, an aggregate of many ships, is represented as one mighty person, whose track, we know and feel, is 5 upon the waters; but, taking advantage of its appearance to the senses, the Poet dares to represent it as hanging in the clouds, both for the gratification of the mind in con- templating the image itself, and in reference to the motion and appearance of the sublime objects to which it is 10 compared. From impressions of sight we will pass to those of sound; which, as they must necessarily be of a less definite char- acter, shall be selected from these volumes : Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods; 15 of the same bird, His voice was buried among trees, Yet to be come at by the breeze; O, Cuckoo ! shall I call thee Bird, Or but a wandering Voice ? 20 The stock-dove is said to coo, a sound well imitating the note of the bird; but, by the intervention of the metaphor broods, the affections are called in by the imagination to assist in marking the manner in which the bird reiterates and prolongs her soft note, as if herself delighting to 25 listen to it, ana participating of a still and quiet satisfac- tion, like that which may be supposed inseparable from the continuous process of incubation. 'His voice was buried among the trees,' a metaphor expressing the love of seclusion by which this Bird is marked; and character- 30 ising its note as not partaking of the shrill and the pierc- PREFACE, 1815-1845. 49 ing, and therefore more easily deadened by the intervening shade; yet a note so peculiar and withal so pleasing, that the breeze, gifted with that love of the sound which the Poet feels, penetrates the shades in which it is entombed, and conveys it to the ear of the listener. 5 Shall I call thee Bird, Or but a wandering Voice? This concise interrogation characterises the seeming ubiquity of the voice of the cuckoo, and dispossesses the creature almost of a corporeal existence; the Imagination 10 being tempted to this exertion of her power by a conscious- ness in the memory that the cuckoo is almost perpetually heard throughout the season of spring, but seldom becomes an object of sight. Thus far of images independent of each other and X 5 immediately endowed by the mind with properties that do not inhere in thern^ upon an incitement from properties and qualities the existence of which is inherent and obvious. These processes of imagination-are carried on either by conferring additional properties upon an object, 20 or abstracting from it some of those which it actually possesses, and thus enabling it to re-act upon the mind which hath performed the process, like a new existence. I pass from thejmagination acting upon an individual image to a consideration of the same faculty employed 25 upon images in a conjunction by which they modify each other. The Reader has already had a fine instance before him in the passage quoted from Virgil, where the appar- ently perilous situation of the goat, hanging upon the shaggy precipice, is contrasted with that of the shepherd 3 50 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACES. contemplating it from the seclusion of the cavern in which he lies stretched at ease and in security. Take these images separately, and how unaffecting the picture com- pared with that produced by their being thus connected 5 with, and opposed to, each other ! As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie Couched on the bald top of an eminence, Wonder to all who do the same espy By what means it could thither come, and whence, 10 So that it seems a thing endued with sense, Like a sea-beast crawled forth, which on a shelf Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun himself. Such seemed this Man; not all alive or dead Nor all asleep, in his extreme old age. j- Motionless as a cloud the old Man stood, That heareth not the loud winds when they call, And moveth altogether if it move at all. | In these images, the conferring, the abstracting, and the modifying powers of the Imagination, immediately and 20 mediately acting, are all brought into conjunction. The stone is endowed with something of the power of life to approximate it to the sea-beast; and the sea-beast stripped of some of its vital qualities to assimilate it to the stone; which intermediate image is thus treated for the purpose 25 of bringing the original image, that of the stone, to a nearer resemblance to the figure and condition of the aged Man; who is divested of so much of the indications of life and motion as to bring him to the point where the two | objects unite and coalesce in just comparison. After 3 what has been said, the image of the cloud need not be commented upon. PREFACE, 1813-1843. 51 Thus far of an endowing or modifying power : but the Imagination also shapes and creates; and how? By innumerable processes; and in none does it more delight than in that of consolidating-jiumbers into unity, and dissolving and separating unity into number, alterna- 5 tions proceeding from, and governed by, a sublime con- sciousness of the soul in her own mighty and almost divine powers. Recur to the passage already cited from Milton. When the compact Fleet, as one Person, has been intro- duced 'Sailing from Bengala. ' 'They, ' i.e. the 'merchants, ' 10 representing the fleet resolved into a multitude of ships, 'ply' their voyage towards the extremities of the earth: 'So' (referring to the word 'As' in the commencement) 'seemed the flying Fiend;' the image of his person acting to recombine the multitude of ships into one body, the 15 point from which the comparison set out. 'So seemed,' and to whom seemed? To the heavenly Muse who dictates the poem, to the eye of the Poet's mind, and to that of the Reader, present at one moment in the wide Ethiopian, and the next in the solitudes, then first broken in upon, of 20 the infernal regions ! Modo me Thebis, modo ponit Athenis. Here again this mighty Poet, speaking of the Messiah going forth to expel from heaven the rebellious angels, Attended by ten thousand thousand Saints 25 He onward came : far off his coming shone, the retinue of Saints, and the Person of the Messiah him- self, lost almost and merged in the splendour of that indefinite abstraction 'His coming! ' 52 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACES. As I do not mean here to treat this subject further than to throw some light upon the present Volumes, and espe- cially upon one division of them, I shall spare myself and the Reader the trouble of considering the Imagination as 5 it deals with thoughts and sentiments, as it regulates the composition of characters, and determines the course of actions : I will not consider it (more than I have already done by implication) as that power which, in the language of one of my most esteemed Friends, ' draws all things to 10 one; which makes things animate or inanimate, beings with their attributes, subjects with their accessaries, take one colour and serve to one effect.'* The grand store- houses of enthusiastic and meditative Imagination, of poetical, as contradistinguished from human and dramatic 15 Imagination, are the prophetic and lyrical parts of the Holy Scriptures, and the works of Milton; to which I cannot forbear to add those of Spenser. I select these writers in preference to those of ancient Greece and Rome, because the anthropomorphitism of the Pagan religion 20 subjected the minds of the greatest poets in those countries too much to the bondage of definite form; from which the Hebrews were preserved by their abhorrence of idolatry. Thi abhorrence was almost as strong in our great epic Poet, both from circumstances of his life, and from the constitu- 25 tion of his mind. However imbued the surface might be with classical literature, he was a Hebrew in soul; and all things tended in him towards the sublime. Spenser, of a gentler nature, maintained his freedom by aid of his allegorical spirit, at one time inciting him to create persons out of 30 abstractions; and, at another, by a superior effort of ge- * Charles Lamb upon the genius of Hogarth. PREFACE, 1815-1845. 53 nius, to give the universality and permanence of abstractions to his human beings, by means of attributes and emblems that belong to the highest moral truths and the purest sen- sations, of which his character of Una is a glorious example. Of the human and dramatic Imagination the 5 works of Shakspeare are an inexhaustible source. I tax not you, ye Elements, with unkindness, I never gave you kingdoms, calPd you Daughters ! And if, bearing in mind the many Poets distinguished by this prime quality, whose names I omit to mention; yet 10 justified by recollection of the insults which the ignorant, the incapable and the presumptuous, have heaped upon these and my other writings, I may be permitted to antici- pate the judgment of posterity upon myself, I shall declare (censurable, I grant, if the notoriety of the fact above 15 stated does not justify me)/ that I have given in these I unfavourable times, evidence of exertions of this faculty upon its worthiest objects, the external universe, the moral and religious sentiments of Man, his natural affections, and his acquired passions; which have the same ennobling ten- 20 dency as the productions of men, in this kind, worthy to be holden in undying remembrance. To the mode in which Fancy has already been character- 1 ised as the power of evoking and combining, or, as my ' friend Mr. Coleridge has styled it, 'the aggregative and 25 . associative power,' my objection is only that the definition ' is top general. To aggregate and to associate, to evoke and to combine, belong as well to the Imagination as to the Fancy; but either the materials evoked and combined are different; or they are brought together under a differ- 3 54 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACES. ent law, and for a different purpose. Fancy does not require that the materials which she makes use of should be susceptible of change in their constitution, from her touch; and, where they admit of modification, it is enough 5 for her purpose if it be slight, limited, and evanescent. Directly the reverse of these, are the desires and demands of the Imagination. She recoils from every thing but the plastic, the pliant, and the indefinite. She leaves it to Fancy to describe Queen Mab as coming, 10 In shape no bigger than an agate-stone On the fore-finger of an alderman. Having to speak of stature, she does not tell you that her gigantic Angel was as tall as Pompey's Pillar; much less that he was twelve cubits, or twelve hundred cubits high; 15 or that his dimensions equalled those of Teneriffe or Atlas; because these, and if they were a million times as high it would be the same, are bounded: The expression is, ' His stature reached the sky !' the illimitable firmament! When the Imagination frames a comparison, if it does 20 not strike on the first presentation, a sense of the truth of the likeness, from the moment that it is perceived, grows and continues to grow upon the mind; the resem- blance depending less upon outline of form and feature, than upon expression and effect; less upon casual and 25 outstanding, than upon inherent and internal, properties : moreover, the images invariably modify each other. The law under which the processes of Fancy are carried on is as capricious as the accidents of things, and the effects are | surprising, playful, ludicrous, amusing, tender, or pathetic, 3 are liable. But, as the mind grows serious from the weight of life, the range of its passions is contracted accordingly; and its sympathies become so exclusive, that many species of high excellence wholly escape, or but languidly excite its notice. Besides, men who read from religious or moral inclinations, even when the subject is of that kind which they approve, are beset with misconceptions and mistakes 10 peculiar to themselves. Attaching, so much importance to the truths which interest them, they are prone to over-rate the Authors by whom those truths are expressed and enforced. They come prepared to impart so much pas- sion to the Poet's language, that they remain unconscious 15 how little, in fact, they receive from it. And, on the other hand, religious faith is to him who holds it so momentous a thing, and error appears to be attended with such tre- mendous consequences, that, H opinions touching upon religion occur which the Reader condemns, he not only 20 cannot sympathise with them, however animated the expres- sion, but there is, for the most part, an end put to all satisfaction and enjoyment. Love, if it before existed, is converted into dislike; and the heart of the Reader is set against the Author and his book. To these excesses, 25 they, who from their professions ought to be the most guarded against them, are perhaps the most liable; I mean those sects whose religion, being from the calculating understanding, is cold and formal. For when Christianity, the religion of humility, is founded upon the proudest 30 faculty of our nature, what can be expected but contradic- 64 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACES. tions? Accordingly, believers of this cast are at one time contemptuous; at another, being troubled, as they are and must be, with inward misgivings, they are jealous and suspicious; and at all seasons, they are 'under tempta- 5 tion to supply, by the heat with which they defend their tenets, the animation which is wanting to the constitution of the religion itself. Faith was given to man that his affections, detached from the treasures of time, might be inclined to settle upon 10 those of eternity : the elevation of his nature, which this habit produces on earth, being to him a resumptive evi- dence of a future state of existence; and giving him a title to partake of its holiness. The religious man values what he sees chiefly as an l imperfect shadowing forth ' of what !- he is incapable of seeing. The concerns of religion refer to indefinite objects, and are too weighty for the mind to support them without relieving itself by resting a great part of the burthen upon words and symbols. The com- merce between Man and his Maker cannot be carried on 20 but by a process where much is represented in little, and the Infinite Being accommodates himself to a finite capac- ity. In all this may be perceived the affinity between religion and poetry; between religion making up the deficiencies of reason by faith; and poetry passionate 25 for the instruction of reason; between religion whose element is infinitude, and whose ultimate trust is the supreme of things, submitting herself to circumscription, and reconciled to substitutions; and poetry ethereal and transcendent, yet incapable to sustain her existence without 30 sensuous incarnation. In this community of nature may ***be perceived also the lurking incitements of kindred error; SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE PREFACE, 1815-1845. 65 so. th^t we shall find that no poetry has been more subject to distortion, than that species, the argument and scope of which is religious; and no lovers of the art have gone farther astray than the pious and the devout. Whither then shall we turn for that union of qualifica- 5 tions which must necessarily exist before the decisions of a critic can be of absolute value ? For a mind at once poetical and philosophical; for a critic whose affections are as free and kindly as the spirit of society, and whose understanding is severe as that of dispassionate govern- 10 ment? Where are we to look for that initiatory composure of mind which no selfishness can disturb? For a natural sensibility that has been tutored into correctness without losing anything of its quickness; and for active faculties, capable of answering the demands which an Author of 15 original imagination shall make upon them, associated with a judgment that cannot be duped into admiration by aught that is unworthy of it ? f among those and those only, who, never having suffered their youthful love of poetry to remit much of its force, have applied to the ? consideration of the laws of this art the best power of their understandings. At the same time it must be observed that, as this Class comprehends the only judgments which are trustworthy, so does it include the most errone- ous and perverse. For to be mistaught is worse than to 25 be untaught; and no perverseness equals that which is supported by system, no errors are so difficult to root out as j those which the understanding has pledged its credit to uphold. In this Class are contained censors, who, if they be pleased with what is good, are pleased with it only by^ imperfect glimpses, and upon false principles; who, should 66 WORDSWORTITS^ PREFACES. they generalise rightly, to a certain point, are sure to suffer for it in the end; who, if they stumble upon a sound rule, are fettered by misapplying it, or by straining it too far; being incapable of perceiving when it ought to yield 5 to one of higher order. In it are found critics too petulant to be passive to a genuine poet, and too feeble to grapple with him; men, who take upon them to report of the course which he holds whom they are utterly unable to accompany, confounded if he turn quick upon the wing, 10 dismayed if he soar steadily 'into the region;' men of palsied imaginations and indurated hearts; in whose minds all healthy action is languid, who therefore feed as the many direct them, or, with the many, are greedy after vicious provocatives; judges, whose censure is auspi- J 5 cious, and whose praise ominous! 1 In this class meet together the two extremes of best and worst. The observations presented in the foregoing series are of too ungracious a nature to have been made without reluctance; and, were it only on this account, I would 20 invite the reader to try them by the test of comprehensive experience. If the number of judges who can be confi- dently relied upon be in reality so small, it ought to fol- low that partial notice only, or neglect, perhaps long continued, or attention wholly inadequate to their merits 25 must have been the fate of most works in the higher departments of poetry ; and that, on the other hand, numer- ous productions have blazed into popularity, and have passed away, leaving scarcely a trace behind them; it will be further found, that when Authors shall have at length 3 raised themselves into general admiration and maintained their ground, errors and prejudices have prevailed con- y SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE PREFACE, 1815-1845. 67 earning their genius and their works, which the few who are conscious of those errors and prejudices would deplore; if they were not recompensed by perceiving that there are select Spirits for whom it is ordained that their fame shall be in the world an existence like that of Virtue, which 5 owes its being to the struggles it makes, and its vigour to the enemies whom it provokes; a vivacious quality, ever doomed to meet with opposition, and still triumphing over it; and, from the nature of its dominion, incapable of being brought to the sad conclusion of Alexander, when 10 he wept that there were no more worlds for him to conquer. Let us take a hasty retrospect of the poetical literature of this Country for the greater part of the last two centuries, and see if the facts support these inferences. 1 Who is there that now reads the ' Creation ' of Dubartas? 15 Yet all Europe once resounded with his praise; he was caressed by kings; and, when his Poem was translated into our language, the 'Faery Queen' faded before it. The name of Spenser, whose genius is of a higher order than even that of Ariosto, is at this day scarcely known 20 beyond the limits of the British Isles. And if the value of his works is to be estimated from the attention now paid to them by his countrymen, compared with that which they bestow on those of some other writers, it must be pro- nounced small indeed. 25 The laurel, meed of mighty conquerors And poets sage are his own words; but his wisdom has, in this particular, been his worst enemy : while its opposite, whether in the shape of folly or madness, has been their best friend. But 3 V 68 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACES. he was a great power, and bears a high name : the laurel has been awarded to him. 1 A dramatic Author, if he write for the stage, must adapt himself to the taste of the audience, or they will not endure 5 him; accordingly the mighty genius of Shakspeare was listened to. The people were delighted: but I am not sufficiently versed in stage antiquities to determine whether they did not flock as eagerly to the representation of many pieces of contemporary Authors, wholly undeserving to 10 appear upon the same boards. Had there been a formal contest for superiority among dramatic writers, that Shak- speare, like his predecessors Sophocles and Euripides, would have often been subject to the mortification of seeing the prize adjudged to sorry competitors, becomes 15 too probable, when we reflect that the admirers of Settle and Shadwell were, in a later age, as numerous, and reckoned as respectable in point of talent, as those of Dryden. At all events, that Shakspeare stooped to accommodate himself to the People, is sufficiently appar- 20 ent; and one of the most striking proofs of his almost omnipotent genius, is, that he could turn to such glorious purpose those materials which the prepossessions of the age compelled him to make use of. Yet even this marvel- lous skill appears not to have been enough to prevent his 25 rivals from having some advantage over him in public estimation; else how can we account for passages and scenes that exist in his works, unless upon a supposition that some of the grossest of them, a fact which in my own mind I have no doubt of, were foisted in by the Players, 3 for the gratification of the many? But that his Works, whatever might be their reception SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE PREFACE, 1813-1845. 69 upon the stage, made but little impression upon the ruling Intellects of the time, may be inferred from the fact that Lord Bacon, in his multifarious writings, nowhere either quotes or alludes to him.* His dramatic excellence enabled him to resume possession of the stage after the 5 restoration; but Dry den tells us that in his time two of the plays of Beaumont and Fletcher were acted for one of Shakspeare 's. And so faint and limited was the percep- tion of the poetic beauties of his dramas in the time of Pope, that, in his Edition of the Plays, with a view of i rendering to the general reader a necessary service, he printed between inverted commas those passages which he thought most worthy of notice. At this day, the French Critics have abated nothing of their aversion to this darling of our Nation: 'the English, J 5 with their bouffon de Shakspeare/ is as familiar an expression among them as in the time of Voltaire. Baron Grimm is^ the only French writer who seems to have per- ceived his infinite superiority to the first names of the French theatre; an advantage which the Parisian critic 20 owed to his German blood and German education. The most enlightened Italians, though well acquainted with our language, are wholly incompetent to measure the propor- tions of Shakspeare. The Germans only, of foreign nations, are approaching towards a knowledge and feeling 25 of what he is. In some respects they have acquired a * The learned Hakewill (a third edition of whose book bears date 1635), writing to refute the error ' touching Nature's perpetual and universal decay,' cites triumphantly the names of Ariosto, Tasso, Bartas, and Spenser, as instances that poetic genius had not degenerated ; but he makes no mention of Shakspeare. 70 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACES. superiority over the fellow-countrymen of the Poet: for among us it is a current, I might say, an established opin- ion, that Shakspeare is justly praised when he is pro- nounced to be 'a wild irregular genius, in whom great 5 faults are compensated by great beauties. ' How long may it be before this misconception passes away, and it becomes universally acknowledged that (the judgment of Shakspeare in the selection of his materials, and in the manner in which he has made them, heterogeneous as they often are, 10 constitute a unity of their own, and contribute all to one great end, is not less admirable than his imagination, his invention, and his intuitive knowledge of human Nature ! There is extant a small Volume of miscellaneous poems, in which Shakspeare expresses his own feelings in his own 15 person. It is not difficult to conceive that the Editor, George Steevens, should have been insensible to the beauties of one portion of that Volume, the Sonnets; though in no part of the writings of this Poet is found, in an equal compass, a greater number of exquisite feelings felicitously 20 expressed. But, from regard to the Critic's own credit, he would not have ventured to talk of an * act of parliament not being strong enough to compel the perusal of those little pieces, if he had not known that the people of England were ignorant of the treasures contained in them : 25 and if he had not, moreover, shared the too common propensity of human nature to exult over a supposed fall .,1 * This flippant insensibility was publicly reprehended by Mr. Coleridge in a course of Lectures upon Poetry given by him at the Royal Institution. For the various merits of thought and language in Shakspeare's Sonnets, see Numbers, 27, 29, 30, 32, 33, 54, 64, 66, 68, 73, 76, 86, 91, 92, 93, 97, 98, 105, 107, 108, 109, in, 113, 114, 116, 117, 129, and many others. SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE PREFACE, 1815-1845. 71 into the mire of a genius whom he had been compelled to regard with admiration, as an inmate of the celestial regions ' there sitting where he durst not soar.' Nine years before the death of Shakspeare, Milton was born : and early in life he published several small poems, 5 which, though on their first appearance were praised by a few of the judicious, were afterwards neglected to that degree, that Pope in his youth could borrow from them without risk of its being known. Whether these poems are at this day justly appreciated, I will not undertake to i decide : nor would it imply a severe reflection upon the mass of readers to suppose the contrary; seeing that a man of the acknowledged genius of Voss, the German poet, could suffer their spirit to evaporate; and could change their char- acter, as is done in the translation made by him of the 15 most popular of those pieces. At all events, it is certain that these Poems of Milton are now much read, and loudly praised; yet were they little heard of till more than 150 years after their publication; and of the Sonnets, Dr. Johnson, as appears from Boswell's Life of him, was in 20 the habit of thinking and speaking as contemptuously as Steevens wrote upon those of Shakspeare. About the time when the Pindaric odes of Cowley and his imitators, and the productions of that class of curious thinkers whom Dr. Johnson has strangely styled metaphysi- 25 cal Poets, were beginning to lose something of that extrav- agant admiration which they had excited, the ' Paradise Lost' made its appearance. 'Fit audience find though few,' was the petition addressed by the Poet to his inspir- ing Muse. I have said elsewhere that he gained more 3 than he asked; this I believe to be true; but Dr. Johnson 72 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACES. has fallen into a gross mistake when he attempts to prove, by the sale of the work, that Milton's Countrymen were 'just to it ' upon its first appearance. Thirteen hundred Copies were sold in two years; an uncommon example, he 5 asserts, of the prevalence of genius in opposition to so much recent enmity as Milton's public conduct had excited. But, be it remembered that, if Milton's political and religious opinions, and the manner in which he announced them had raised him many enemies, they had procured him 10 numerous friends; who, as all personal danger was passed away at the time of publication, would be eager to procure the master-work of a man whom they revered, and whom they would be proud of praising. Take, from the number of pur- chasers, persons of this class, and also those who wished to 15 possess the Poem as a religious work, and but few I fear would be left who sought for it on account of its poetical merits. The demand did not immediately increase; 'for,' says Dr. Johnson, 'many more readers ' (he means persons in the habit of reading poetry) 'than were supplied at first the 20 Nation did not afford. ' How careless must a writer be who can make this assertion in the face of so many existing title- pages to belie it ! Turning to my own shelves, I find the folio of Cowley, seventh edition, 1681. A book near it is Flat- man's Poems, fourth edition, 1686; Waller, fifth edition, 25 same date. The Poems of Norris of Bemerton not long after went, I believe, through nine editions. What further demand there might be for these works I do not know; but I well remember, that, twenty-five years ago, the book- sellers' stalls in London swarmed with the folios of Cowley. 30 This is not mentioned in disparagement of that able writer and amiable man; but merely to show that, if Milton's SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE PREFACE, 1815-1845. 73 work were not more read, it was not because readers did not exist at the time. The early editions of ' Paradise Lost ' were printed in a shape which allowed them to be sold at a low price, yet only three thousand copies of the Work were sold in eleven years; and the Nation, says Dr. 5 Johnson, had been satisfied from 1623 to 1664, that is, forty-one years, with only two editions of the Works of Shakspeare; which probably did not together make one thousand Copies; facts adduced by the critic to prove the 'paucity of Readers.' There were readers in multitudes; 10 but their money went for other purposes, as their admira- tion was fixed elsewhere. We are authorized, then, to affirm, that the reception of the 'Paradise Lost,' and the slow progress of its fame, are proofs as striking as can be desired that the positions which I am attempting to estab- 15 lish are not erroneous.* How amusing to shape to one's self such a critique as a Wit of Charles's days, or a Lord of the Miscellanies or trading Journalist of King William's time, would have brought forth, if he had set his faculties industriously to work upon this Poem, every where impreg- 20 nated with original excellence. So strange indeed are the obliquities of admiration, that they whose opinions are much influenced by authority will often be tempted to think that there are no fixed princi- plesf in human nature for this art to rest upon. I have 25 * Hughes is express upon this subject : in his dedication of Spenser's Works to Lord Somers, he writes thus. ' It was your Lordship's encour- aging a beautiful Edition of " Paradise Lost " that first brought that incom- parable Poem to be generally known and esteemed.' fThis opinion seems actually to have been entertained by Adam Smith,, the worst critic, David Hume not excepted, that Scotland, a soil to which this sort of weed seems natural, has produced. 74 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACES. been honoured by being permitted to peruse in MS. a tract composed between the period of the Revolution and the close of that century. It is the Work of an English Peer of high accomplishments, its object to form the character 5 and direct the studies of his son. Perhaps nowhere does a more beautiful treatise of the kind exist. The good sense and wisdom of the thoughts, the delicacy of the feelings, and the charm of the style, are, throughout, equally conspicuous. Yet the Author, selecting among jo the Poets of his own country those whom he deems most worthy of his son's perusal, particularises only Lord Rochester, Sir John Denham, and Cowley. Writing about the same time, Shaftsbury, an author at present unjustly depreciated, describes the English Muses as only yet lisp- 15 ing in their cradles. The arts by which Pope, soon afterwards, contrived to procure to himself a more general and a higher reputation than perhaps any English Poet ever attained during his life-time, are known to the judicious. And as well known 20 is it to them, that the undue exertion of those arts is the cause why Pope has for some time held a rank in literature, to which, if he had not been seduced by an over-love of immediate popularity, and had confided more in his native genius, he never could have descended. He bewitched 25 the nation by his melody, and dazzled it by his polished style, and was himself blinded by his own success. Hav- ing wandered from humanity in his Eclogues with boyish inexperience, the praise, which these compositions ob- tained, tempted him into a belief that Nature was not to 3 be trusted, at least in pastoral Poetry. To prove this by example, he put his friend Gay upon writing those SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE PREFACE, 1815-1845. 75 Eclogues which their author intended to be burlesque. The instigator of the work, and his admirers, could per- ceive in them nothing but what was ridiculous. Never- theless, though these Poems contain some detestable passages, the effect, as Dr. Johnson well observes, 'of 5 reality and truth became conspicuous even when the inten- tion was to show them grovelling and degraded.' The Pastorals, ludicrous to such as prided themselves upon their refinement, in spite of those disgusting passages, 'became popular, and were read with delight, as just i representations of rural manners and occupations.' Something less than sixty years after the publication of the 'Paradise Lost' appeared Thomson's 'Winter;' which was speedily followed by his other 'Seasons.' It is a work of inspiration; much of it is written from himself, and 15 no^ly from himself. How was it received? 'It was no sooner read,' says one of his contemporary biographers, 'than universally admired; those only excepted who had not been used to feel, or to look for anything in poetry, beyond a point of satirical or epigrammatic wit, a smart 20 antithesis richly trimmed with rhyme, or the softness of an elegiac complaint. To such his manly classical spirit could not readily commend itself; till, after a more attentive perusal, they had got the better of their prejudices, and either acquired or affected \ truer taste. A few others 25 stood aloof, merely because they had long before fixed the articles of their poetical creed, and resigned themselves to an absolute despair of ever seeing any thing new and orig- inal. These were somewhat mortified to find their notions disturbed by the appearance of a poet, who seemed to owe 3 nothing but to Nature and his own genius. But, in a short 76 WORDSWORTH^S PREFACES. time, the applause became unanimous; every one wonder- ing how so many pictures, and pictures so familiar, should have moved them but faintly to what they felt in his descriptions. His digressions too, the overflowings of a 5 tender benevolent heart, charmed the reader no less; leav- ing him in doubt, whether he should more admire the Poet or love the Man. 7 This case appears to bear strongly against us : but we must distinguish between wonder and legitimate admira- 10 tion. The subject of the work is the changes produced in the appearances of Nature by the revolution of the year : and, by undertaking to write in verse, Thomson pledged himself to treat his subject as became a Poet. Now it is remarkable that, excepting the nocturnal ' Reverie ' of 15 Lady Winchilsea, and a passage or two in the ' Windsor Forest,' of Pope, the poetry of the period intervening between the publication of the ' Paradise Lost' and the 1 Seasons' does not contain a single new image of external Nature; and scarcely presents a familiar one from which it 20 can be inferred that the eye of the Poet had been steadily fixed upon his object, much less that his feelings had urged him to work upon it in the spirit of genuine imagination. To what a low state knowledge of the most obvious and important phenomena had sunk, is evident from the style 25 in which Dryden has executed a description of Night in one of his Tragedies, and Pope his translation of the celebrated moonlight scene in the ' Iliad.' A blind man, in the habit of attending accurately to descriptions casually dropped from the lips of those around him, might easily 30 depict these appearances with more truth. Dryden' s lines SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE PREFACE, 1813-1845. 77 are vague, bombastic, and senseless; * those of Pope, though he had Homer to guide him, are throughout false and contradictory. The verses of Dryden, once highly cele- brated, are forgotten; those of Pope still retain their hold upon public estimation, nay, there is not a passage of 5 descriptive poetry, which at this day finds so many and such ardent admirers. Strange to think of an enthusiast, as may have been the case with thousands, reciting those verses under the cope of a moonlight sky, without having his raptures in the least disturbed by a suspicion of their 10 absurdity! If these two distinguished writers could habitually think that the visible universe was of so little consequence to a poet, that it was scarcely necessary for him to cast his eyes upon it, we may be assured that those passages of the elder poets which faithfully and poetically 15 describe the phenomena of Nature, were not at that time holden in much estimation, and that there was little accurate attention paid to those appearances. / Wonder is the natural product of Ignorance ; and as the soil was in such good condition at the time of the publica- 20 tion of the 'Seasons,' the crop was doubtless abundant. Neither individuals nor nations become corrupt all at once, nor are they enlightened in a moment. Thomson was an inspired poet, but he could not work miracles; in cases * CORTES alone in a night-gown. All things are hush'd as Nature's self lay dead ; The mountains seem to nod their drowsy head. The little Birds in dreams their songs repeat, And sleeping Flowers beneath the Night-dew sweat : Even Lust and Envy sleep ; yet Love denies Rest to my soul, and slumber to my eyes. DRYDEN'S Indian Emperor. 78 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACES. where the art of seeing had in some degree been learned, the teacher would further the proficiency of his pupils, but he could do little more ; though so far does vanity assist men in acts of self-deception, that many would often fancy 5 they recognised a likeness when they knew nothing of the original. Having shown that much of what his biographer deemed genuine admiration must in fact have been blind wonderment how is the rest to be accounted for? Thomson was fortunate in the very title of his poem, which 10 seemed to bring it home to the prepared sympathies of every one : in the next place, notwithstanding his high powers, he writes a vicious style; and his false ornaments are exactly of that kind which would be most likely to strike the undiscerning. He likewise abounds with senti- J 5 mental common-places, that, from the manner in which they were brought forward, bore an imposing air of novelty. In any well-used copy of the ' Seasons ' the book generally opens of itself with the rhapsody on love, or with one of the stories (perhaps ' Damon and Musidora'); these also 20 are prominent in our collections of Extracts, and are the parts of his Work, which, after all, were probably most efficient in first recommending the author to general notice. Pope, repaying praises which he had received, and wishing to extol him to the highest, only styles him 25 'an elegant and philosophical poet;' nor are we able to collect any unquestionable proofs that the true character- istics of Thomson's genius as an imaginative poet* were * Since these observations upon Thomson were written, I have perused the second edition of his ' Seasons,' and find that even that does not contain the most striking passages which Warton points out for admiration; these with other improvements, throughout the whole work, must have been added at a later period. SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE PREFACE, 1813-1845. 79 perceived, till the elder Warton, almost forty years after the publication of the ' Seasons,' pointed them out by a note in his Essay on the Life and Writings of Pope. In the ' Castle of Indolence ' (of which Gray speaks so coldly) these characteristics were almost as conspicuously dis- 5 played, and in verse more harmonious, and diction more pure. Yet that fine poem was neglected on its appearance, and is at this day the delight only of a few ! When Thomson died, CjDiHijs-breathed forth his regrets in an Elegiac Poem, in which he pronounces a poetical 10 curse upon him who should regard with insensibility the place where the Poet's remains were de-posited. The Poems of the mourner himself have now passed through innumerable editions, and are universally known; but if, when Collins died, the same kind of imprecation had been 15 pronounced by a surviving admirer, small is the number whom it would not have comprehended. The notice which . his poems attained during his life-time was so small, and of course the sale so insignificant, that not long before his death he deemed it right to repay to the bookseller the 20 sum which he had advanced for them, and threw the edi- tion into the fire. Next in importance to the 'Seasons ' of Thomson, though at considerable distance from that work in order of time, come the Reliques of Ancient English Poetry ; collected, 25 new-modelled, and in many instances (if such a contradic- tion in terms may be used) composed by the Editor, Dr. Percy. This work did not steal silently into the world, as is evident from the number of legendary tales, that appeared not long after its publication; and had been modelled, as 3 the authors persuaded themselves, after the old Ballad. 80 WORDS WOR TITS PREFA CES. The Compilation was however ill suited to the then exist- ing taste of city society; and Dr. Johnson, 'mid the little senate to which he gave laws, was not sparing in his exer- tions to make it an object of contempt. The critic 5 triumphed, the legendary imitators were deservedly disre- garded, and, as undeservedly, their ill-imitated models sank, in this country, into temporary neglect; while Burger, and other able writers of Germany, were translat- ing, or imitating these Reliques, and composing, with the 10 aid of inspiration thence derived, poems which are the delight of the German nation. Dr. Percy was so abashed by the ridicule flung upon his labours from the ignorance and insensibility of the persons with whom he lived, that, though while he was writing under a mask he had not 15 wanted resolution to follow his genius into the regions of j-meL simplicity and genuine pathos (as is evinced by the exquisite ballad of 'Sir Cauline ' and by many other pieces), yet when he appeared in his own person and character as a poetical writer, he adopted, as in, the tale of 20 the ' Hermit of Warkworth, ' a diction scarcely in any one of its features distinguishable from the vague, the glossy, and unfeeling language of his day. I mention this remark- able fact * with regret, esteeming the genius of Dr. Percy in this kind of writing superior to that of any other man * Shenstone, in his ' Schoolmistress,' gives a still more remarkable in- stance of this timidity. On its first appearance, (See D'Israeli's 26. Series of the Curiosities of Literature) the Poem was accompanied with an absurd prose commentary, showing, as indeed some incongruous expressions in the text imply, that the whole was intended for burlesque. In subse- quent editions, the commentary was dropped, and the People have since continued to read in seriousness, doing for the Author what he had not courage openly to venture upon for himself. SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE PREFACE, 1815-1845. SI by whom in modern times it has been cultivated. That even Burger (to whom Klopstock gave, in my hearing, a commendation which he denied to Goethe and Schiller, pronouncing him to be a genuine poet, and one of the few among the Germans whose works would last) had not the 5 fine sensibility of Percy, might be shown from many pas- sages, in which he has deserted his original only to go astray. For example, Now daye was gone, and night was come, And all were fast asleepe, 10 All save the Lady Emeline, Who sate in her bowre to weepe : And soone she heard her true Love's voice Low whispering at the walle, Awake, awake, my dear Ladye, 15 'Tis I thy true-love call. Which is thus tricked out and dilated : Als nun die Nacht Gebirg' und Thai Vermummt in Rabenschatten, Und Hochburgs Lampen liberall 20 Schon ausgeflimmert batten, Und alles tief entschlafen war; Doch nur das Fraulein immerdar Voll Fieberangst, noch wachte, Und seinen Ritter dachte : 25 Da horch ! Ein slisser Liebeston Kam leis'' empor geflogen. ' Ho, Triidchen, ho ! Da bin ich schon ! Frisch auf ! Dich angezogen ! ' But from humble ballads we must ascend to heroics. 3 All hail, Macpherson ! hail to thee, Sire of Ossian ! The 82 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACES, Phantom was begotten by the smug embrace of an impu- dent Highlander upon a cloud of tradition it travelled southward, where it was greeted with acclamation, and the \ thin Consistence took its course through Europe, upon the 5 j breath of popular applause. The Editor of the Reliqucs \ had indirectly preferred a claim to the praise of invention, by not concealing that his supplementary labours were considerable! how selfish his conduct, contrasted with that of the disinterested Gael, who, like Lear, gives his king- 10 dom away, and is content to become a pensioner upon his own issue for a beggarly pittance ! Open this far-famed Book ! I have done so at random, and the beginning of the 'Epic Poem Temora,' in eight Books, presents itself. 'The blue waves of Ullin roll in light. The green hills 15 are covered with day. Trees shake their dusky heads in the breeze. Grey torrents pour their noisy streams. Two green hills with aged oaks surround a narrow plain. The blue course of a stream is there. On its banks stood Cairbar of Atha. His spear supports the king; the red 20 eyes of his fear are sad. Cormac rises on his soul with all his ghastly wounds. ' Precious memorandums from the pocket-book of the blind Ossian ! If it be unbecoming, as I acknowledge that for the most part it is, to speak disrespectfully of Works that have 25 enjoyed for a length of time a widely-spread reputation, without at the same time producing irrefragable proofs of their unworthiness, let me be forgiven upon this occasion. Having had the good fortune to be born and reared in a mountainous country, from my very childhood I have 30 felt the falsehood that pervades the volumes imposed upon the world under the name of Ossian. From what I saw SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE PREFACE, 1815-1845. 83 with my own eyes, I knew that the imagery was spurious. I In Nature everything is distinct, yet nothing defined into "absolute independent singleness.) In Macpherson's work, it is exactly the reverse; every thing (that is not stolen) is in this manner defined, insulated, dislocated, deadened, 5 yet nothing distinct. It will always be so when words are substituted for things. To say that the characters never could exist, that the manners are impossible, and that a dream has more substance than the whole state of society, as there depicted, is doing nothing more than 10 pronouncing a censure which Macpherson defied; when, with the steeps of Morven before his eyes, he could talk so familiarly of his Car-borne heroes; of Morven, which, if one may judge from its appearance at the distance of a few miles, contains scarcely an acre of ground sufficiently 15 accommodating for a sledge to be trailed along its surface. Mr. Malcolm Laing has ably shown that the diction of this pretended translation is a motley assemblage from all quarters; but he is so fond of making out parallel passages as to call poor Macpherson to account for his l ands ' and 20 l buts! ' and he has weakened his argument by conducting it as if he thought that every striking resemblance was a conscious plagiarism. It is enough that the coincidences are too remarkable for its being probable or possible that they could arise in different minds without communication 2 5 between them. Now as the Translators of the Bible, and Shakspeare, Milton, and Pope, could not be indebted to Macpherson, it follows that he must have owed his fine feathers to them; unless we are prepared gravely to assert, with Madame de Stae'l, that many of the characteristic 3 beauties of our most celebrated English Poets are derived 84 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACES. from the ancient Fingallian; in which case the modern translator would have been but giving back to Ossian his own. It is consistent that Lucien Buonaparte, who could censure Milton for having surrounded Satan in the infernal 5 regions with courtly and regal splendour, should pronounce the modern Ossian to be the glory of Scotland; a country that has produced a Dunbar, a Buchanan, a Thomson, and a Burns! These opinions are of ill-omen for the Epic ambition of him who has given them to the world. 10 Yet, much as those pretended treasures of antiquity have been admired, they have been wholly uninfluential upon the literature of the Country. No succeeding writer appears to have caught from them a ray of inspiration; no author, in the least distinguished, has ventured formally *5 to imitate them ^-except the boy, Chatterton, on their first appearance. He had perceived, from the success- ful trials which he himself had made in literary forgery, how few critics were able to distinguish between a real ancient medal and a counterfeit of modern manufacture ; 20 and he set himself to the work of filling a magazine with Saxon Poems, counterparts of those of Ossian, as like his as one of his misty stars is to another. This incapa- bility to amalgamate with the literature of the Island, is, in my estimation, a decisive proof that the book is essen- 25 tially unnatural; nor should I require any other to demon- strate it to be a forgery, audacious as worthless. Contrast, in this respect, the effect of Macpherson's publication with the Reliques of Percy, so unassuming, so modest in their pretensions ! I have already stated how much Ger- 30 many is indebted to this latter work; and for our own country, its poetry has been absolutely redeemed by it. I SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE PREFACE, 1815-1845. 85 do not think that there is an able writer in verse of the present day who would not be proud to acknowledge his obligations to the Reliques; I know that it is so with my friends; and, for myself, I am happy in this occasion to make a public avowel of my own. Dr. Johnson, more fortunate in his contempt of the labours of Macpherson than those of his modest friend, was solicited not long after to furnish Prefaces biographi- cal and critical for the works of some of the most eminent English Poets. The booksellers took upon themselves to ic make the collection; they referred probably to the most popular miscellanies, and, unquestionably, to their books of accounts; and decided upon the claim of authors to be admitted into a body of the most eminent, from the famil- iarity of their names with the readers of that day, and by r 5 the profits, which, from the sale of his works, each had brought and was bringing to the Trade. The Editor was allowed a limited exercise of discretion, and the Authors whom he recommended are scarcely to be mentioned with- out a smile. We open the volume of Prefatory Lives, and 20 to our astonishment the first name we find is that of Cow- jJj7-What is become of the morning-star pF~English Poetry? Where is the bright Elizabethan constellation? Or, if names be more acceptable than images, where is the ever-to-be-honoured Chaucer? Where is Spenser? 25 where Sidney? and, lastly, where he, whose rights as a poet, contradistinguished from those which he is univer- sally allowed to possess as a dramatist, we have vindicated, where Shakspeare? These, and a multitude of others not unworthy to be placed near them, their contempo- 3 raries and successors, we have not. But in their stead, we S6 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACES. have (could better be expected when precedence was to be 'settled by an abstract of reputation at any given period inade, as in this case before us?) Roscommon, and Step- -ney, and Phillips, and Walsh, and Smith, and Duke, and 5 King, andSpratt Halifax, Granville, Sheffield, Congreve, Broome, and other reputed Magnates metrical writers utterly worthless and useless, except for occasions like the present, when their productions are referred to as evidence what a small quantity of brain is necessary to procure a 10 considerable stock of admiration, provided the aspirant will accommodate himself to the likings and fashions of his day. As I do not mean to bring down this retrospect to our own times, it may with propriety be closed at the era of J 5 this distinguished event. From the literature of other ages and countries, proofs equally cogent might have been adduced, that the opinions announced in the former part of this Essay are founded upon truth. It was not an agreeable office, nor a prudent undertaking, to declare 20 them; but their importance seemed to render it a duty. It may still be asked, where lies the particular relation of what has been said to these Volumes? The question will be easily answered by the discerning Reader who is old enough to remember the taste that prevailed when some of 25 these poems were first published, seventeen years ago; who has also observed to what degree the poetry of this Island has since that period been coloured by them; and who is further aware of the unremitting hostility with which, upon some principle or other, they have each and 3 all been opposed. A sketch of my own notion of the constitution of Fame has been given; and, as far as con- SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE PREFACE, 1815-1845. 87 cerns myself, I have cause to be satisfied. The love, the admiration, the indifference, the slight, the aversion, and even the contempt, with which these Poems have been received, knowing, as I do, the source within my own mind, from which they have proceeded, and the labour 5 and pains, which, when labour and pains appeared need- ful, have been bestowed upon them, must all, if I think consistently, be received as pledges and tokens, bearing the same general impression, though widely different in value; they are all proofs that for the present time I 10 have not laboured in vain; and afford assurances, more or less authentic, that the products of my industry will endure. If there be one conclusion more forcibly pressed upon us than another by the review which has been given of the fortunes and fate of poetical Works, it is this, / that everyJ r 5 author, as far as he is great and at the same time original,} has had the task of creating the taste by which he is to ba enjoyed; so has it been, so will it continue to be.) This remark was long since made to me by the philosophical Friend for the separation of whose poems from my own I 20 have previously expressed my regret. The predecessors of an original Genius of a high order will have smoothed the way for all that he has in common with them; and much he will have in common; but, for what is peculiarly his own, he will be called upon to clear and often to shape his 25 own road : he will be in the condition of Hannibal among the Alps. And where lies the real difficulty of creating that taste by which a truly original poet is to be relished? Is it in breaking the bonds of custom, in overcoming the preju- 3 dices of false refinement, and displacing the aversions of 88 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACES. inexperience? Or, if he labour for an object which here and elsewhere I have proposed to myself, does it consist in divesting the reader of the pride that induces him to dwell upon those points wherein men differ from each 5 other, to the exclusion of those in which all men are alike, or the same; and in making him ashamed of the vanity that renders him insensible of the appropriate excellence which civil arrangements, less unjust than might appear, and Nature illimitable in her bounty, have conferred on i men who may stand below him in the scale of society? Finally, does it lie in establishing that dominion over the spirits of readers by which they are to be humbled and humanised, in order that they may be purified and exalted? If these ends are to be attained by the mere communica- J 5 tion of knowledge, it does not lie here. TASTE, I would remind the reader, like IMAGINATION, is a word which has been forced to extend its services far beyond the point to which philosophy would have confined them. 1 It is a metaphor, taken from a passive sense of the human body, 20 and transferred to things which are in their essence not passive, to intellectual acts and operations. The word, Imagination, has been overstrained, from impulses hon- ourable to mankind, to meet the demands of the faculty which is perhaps the noblest of our nature. In the instance 25 of Taste, the process has been reversed; and from the prevalence of dispositions at once injurious and discredit- able, being no other than that selfishness which is the child of apathy, which, as Nations decline in productive and creative power, makes them value themselves upon a pre- 30 sumed refinement of judging. Poverty of language is the primary cause of the use which we make of the word, SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE PREFACE, 1815-1845. 89 Imagination; but the word, Taste, has been stretched to the sense which it bears in modern Europe by habits of self-conceit, inducing that inversion in the order of things whereby a passive faculty is made paramount among the faculties conversant with the fine arts. Proportion and congruity, the requisite knowledge being supposed, are subjects upon which taste may be trusted; it is competent to this office; for in its intercourse with these the mind is passive, and is affected painfully or pleasurably as by an instinct. But the profound and the exquisite in feeling, 10 the lofty and universal in thought and imagination; or, in ordinary language, the pathetic and the sublime; are neither of them, accurately speaking, objects of a faculty which could ever without a sinking in the spirit of Nations have been designated by the metaphor Taste. And 15 why? Because without the exertion of a co-operating power in the mind of the Reader, there can be no ade- quate sympathy with either of these emotions : without this auxiliary impulse, elevated or profound passion cannot exist. Passion, it must be observed, is derived from a word 20 which signifies suffering; but the connection which suffer- ing has with effort, with exertion, and action, is immediate and inseparable. How strikingly is this property of human nature exhibited by the fact, that, in popular language, to be in a passion, is to be angry ! But, 2 5 Anger in hasty words or blows Itself discharges on its foes. ( ^ l To be moved, then, by a passion, is to be excited, often to external, and always to internal, effort ? whether for the continuance and strengthening of the passion, or for its 3 90 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACES. suppression, accordingly as the course which it takes may be painful or pleasurable. If the latter, the soul must contribute to its support, or it never becomes vivid, and soon languishes, and dies. And this brings us to the 5 point. If every great poet with whose writings men are familiar, in the highest exercise of his genius, before he can be thoroughly enjoyed, has to call forth and to com- municate power, this service, in a still greater degree, falls upon an original writer, at his first appearance in the world. r f Of genius the only proof is, the act of doing well what is worthy to be done, and what was never done before: Of genius, in the fine arts, the only infallible sign is the widening the sphere of human sensibility, for the delight, honour, and benefit of human nature. 1 Genius is the J 5 introduction of a new element into the intellectual uni- verse : or, if that be not allowed, it is the application of powers to objects on which they had not before been exer- cised, or the employment of them in such a manner as to produce e^ffects hitherto unknown. What is all this but an 20 advance, or a conquest, made by the soul of the poet? Is it to be supposed that the reader can make progress of this kind, like an Indian prince or general stretched on his palanquin, and borne by his slaves? No; he is invigorated and inspirited by his leader, in order that he may exert 5 himself; for he cannot proceed in quiescence, he cannot be carried like a dead weight. Therefore^ to create taste is to call forth and bestow power, 2 of which knowledge.. is the effect; and there lies the true difficulty. , As the pathetic participates of an animal sensation, it 3 might seem that, if the springs of this emotion were genuine, all men, possessed of competent knowledge of the SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE PREFACE, 1815-1845. 91 "^ facts and circumstances, would be instantaneously affected. And, doubtless, in the works of every true poet will be found passages of that species of excellence, which is proved by effects immediate and universal. \ But there are emotions of the pathetic that are simple and direct, and 5 others that are complex and revolutionary; some to which the heart yields with gentleness; others against which it struggles with pride; these varieties are infinite as the combinations of circumstance and the constitutions of character. / Remember, also, that the medium through 10 which, in poetry, the heart is to be affected is language; ^ a thing subject to endless fluctuations and arbitrary associ- \ ations. The genius of the poet melts these down for his purpose; but they retain their shape and quality to him who is not capable of exerting, within his own mind, a J 5 corresponding energy. There is also a meditative, as well as a human, pathos; an enthusiastic, as well as an ordinary, sorrow; a sadness that has its seat in the depths of reason, to which the mind cannot sink gently of itself but to which it must descend by treading the steps of thought. And 20 for the sublime, if we consider what are the cares that occupy the passing day, and how remote is the practice and the course of life from the sources of sublimity in the soul of Man, can it be wondered that there is little exist- ing preparation for a poet charged with a new mission to 25 extend its kingdom, and to augment and spread its enjoy- ments ? Away, then, with the senseless iteration of the word popular, applied to new works in poetry, as if there were no test of excellence in this first of the fine arts but that 3 all men should run after its productions, as if urged by an 92 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACES. appetite, or constrained by a spell! The qualities of writing best fitted for eager reception are either such as startle the world into attention by their audacity and extravagance; or they are chiefly of a superficial kind 5 lying upon the surfaces of manners; or arising out of a selection and arrangement of incidents, by which the mind is kept upon the stretch of curiosity and the fancy amused without the trouble of thought. ( But in every thing which is to send the soul into herself, to be admonished of her 10 weakness, or to be made conscious of her power: wher- ever life and Nature are described as operated upon by the creative or abstracting virtue of the imagination; wherever the instinctive wisdom of antiquity and her heroic passions uniting, in the heart of the poet, with the medi- 1 S tative wisdom of later ages, have produced that accord of sublimated humanity, which is at once a history of the remote past and a prophetic enunciation of the remotest future, there, the poet must reconcile himself for a season to few and scattered hearers. Grand thoughts (and 20 Shakspeare must often have sighed over this truth), as they are most naturally and most fitly conceived in soli- tude, so can they not be brought forth in the ^midst of plaudits, without some violation of their sanctity.) Ipo to ( a silent exhibition of the productions of the Sister l\rt, and h be convinced that the qualities which dazzle at first sight, and kindle the admiration of the multitude, are essentially / different from those by which permanent influence is secured?^ Let us not shrink from following up these prin- ciples as far as they will carry us, and conclude with 3 observing that there never has been a period, and per- haps never will be, in which vicious poetry, of some kind SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE PREFACE, 1815-1845. 93 or other, has not excited more zealous admiration, and been far more generally read, than good ; but this advan- | tage attends the good, that the individual, as well as the / species, survives from age to age; whereas, of the depraved, though the species be immortal, the individual quickly 5 perishes ; the object of present admiration vanishes, being supplanted by some other as easily produced; which, though no better, brings with it at least the irritation of novelty, with adaptation, more or less skilful, to the changing humours of the majority of those who are most 10 at leisure to regard poetical works when they first solicit their attention. Is it the result of the whole, that, in the opinion of the Writer, the judgment of the People is not to be respected? The thought is most injurious; and, could the charge be J 5 brought against him, he would repel it with indignation. The People have already been justified, and their eulogium pronounced by implication, when it was said, above that, of good poetry, the individual, as well as the species, survives. 1 And how does it survive but through the People? 20 What preserves it but their intellect and their wisdom? Past and future, are the wings On whose support, harmoniously conjoined, Moves the great Spirit of human knowledge MS. The voice that issues from this Spirit, is that Vox Populi 2 5 which the Deity inspires. Foolish must he be who can mistake for this a local acclamation, or a transitory outcry transitory though it be for years, local though from a Nation. Still more lamentable is his error who can believe that there is anything of divine infallibility in the 3 94 WORDSWORTH'S PREFACES. clamour of that small though loud portion of the commu- nity, ever governed by factitious influence, which, under the name of the PUBLIC, passes itself, upon the unthinking,, for the PEOPLE. Towards the Public, the Writer hopes 5 that he feels as much deference as it is entitled to : but to- the People, philosophically characterised, and tc the embodied spirit of their knowledge, so far as it exists and moves, at 'the present, faithfully supported by its two wings, the past and the future, his devout respect, his reverence,, 10 is due. He offers it willingly and readily; and, this done, takes leave of his Readers, by assuring them that, if he were not persuaded that the contents of these Volumes, and the Work to which they are subsidiary, evince some- thing of the 'Vision /^B LD 21A-60m-3,'65 J>^ (F2336slO)476B | General Library University of California Berkeley ^2 JA -' iJD ' J Qrr ' nfi LD 21A-50m-ll '62 TTnJvprsitv of California UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY