English Critical Essays Part 24

We couple these two books together, not because of their likeness, for they are as dissimilar as books can be, nor on account of the eminence of their authors, for in general two great authors are too much for one essay, but because they are the best possible ill.u.s.tration of something we have to say upon poetical art--because they may give to it life and freshness. The accident of contemporaneous publication has here brought together two books, very characteristic of modern art, and we want to show how they are characteristic.

Neither English poetry nor English criticism have ever recovered the _eruption_ which they both made at the beginning of this century into the fashionable world. The poems of Lord Byron were received with an avidity that resembles our present avidity for sensation novels, and were read by a cla.s.s which at present reads little but such novels.

Old men who remember those days may be heard to say, 'We hear nothing of poetry nowadays; it seems quite down.' And 'down' it certainly is, if for poetry it be a descent to be no longer the favourite excitement of the more frivolous part of the 'upper' world. That stimulating poetry is now little read. A stray schoolboy may still be detected in a wild admiration for the _Giaour_ or the _Corsair_ (and it is suitable to his age, and he should not be reproached for it), but the _real_ posterity--the quiet students of a past literature--never read them or think of them. A line or two linger in the memory; a few telling strokes of occasional and felicitous energy are quoted, but this is all. As wholes, these exaggerated stories were worthless; they taught nothing, and, therefore, they are forgotten. If nowadays a dismal poet were, like Byron, to lament the fact of his birth, and to hint that he was too good for the world, the _Sat.u.r.day Review_ would say that 'they doubted if he _was_ too good; that a sulky poet was a questionable addition to a tolerable world; that he need not have been born, as far as they were concerned.' Doubtless, there is much in Byron besides his dismal exaggeration, but it was that exaggeration which made 'the sensation', which gave him a wild moment of dangerous fame. As so often happens, the cause of his momentary fashion is the cause also of his lasting oblivion. Moore's former reputation was less excessive, yet it has not been more permanent. The prettiness of a few songs preserves the memory of his name, but as a poet to _read_ he is forgotten. There is nothing to read in him; no exquisite thought, no sublime feeling, no consummate description of true character. Almost the sole result of the poetry of that time is the harm which it has done. It degraded for a time the whole character of the art. It said by practice, by a most efficient and successful practice, that it was the aim, the _duty_ of poets, to catch the attention of the pa.s.sing, the fashionable, the busy world. If a poem 'fell dead', it was nothing; it was composed to please the 'London' of the year, and if that London did not like it, why, it had failed. It fixed upon the minds of a whole generation, it engraved in popular memory and tradition, a vague conviction that poetry is but one of the many _amus.e.m.e.nts_ for the light cla.s.ses, for the lighter hours of all cla.s.ses. The mere notion, the bare idea, that poetry is a deep thing, a teaching thing, the most surely and wisely elevating of human things, is even now to the coa.r.s.e public mind nearly unknown.

As was the fate of poetry, so inevitably was that of criticism. The science that expounds which poetry is good and which is bad is dependent for its popular reputation on the popular estimate of poetry itself. The critics of that day had _a_ day, which is more than can be said for some since; they professed to tell the fashionable world in what books it would find new pleasure, and therefore they were read by the fashionable world. Byron counted the critic and poet equal. The _Edinburgh Review_ penetrated among the young, and into places of female resort where it does not go now. As people ask, 'Have you read _Henry Dunbar_? and what do you think of it?' so they then asked, 'Have you read the _Giaour_? and what do you think of it?' Lord Jeffrey, a shrewd judge of the world, employed himself in telling it what to think; not so much what it ought to think, as what at bottom it did think, and so by dexterous sympathy with current society he gained contemporary fame and power. Such fame no critic must hope for now. His articles will not penetrate where the poems themselves do not penetrate. When poetry was noisy, criticism was loud; now poetry is a still small voice, and criticism must be smaller and stiller. As the function of such criticism was limited so was its subject. For the great and (as time now proves) the _permanent_ part of the poetry of his time--for Sh.e.l.ley and for Wordsworth--Lord Jeffrey had but one word. He said[36] 'It won't do'. And it will not do to amuse a drawing-room.

[36] The first words in Lord Jeffrey's celebrated review of the _Excursion_ were, 'This will never do.'

The doctrine that poetry is a light amus.e.m.e.nt for idle hours, a metrical species of sensational novel, has not indeed been without gainsayers wildly popular. Thirty years ago, Mr. Carlyle most rudely contradicted it. But perhaps this is about all that he has done. He has denied, but he has not disproved. He has contradicted the floating paganism, but he has not founded the deep religion. All about and around us a _faith_ in poetry struggles to be extricated, but it is not extricated. Some day, at the touch of the true word, the whole confusion will by magic cease; the broken and shapeless notions cohere and crystallize into a bright and true theory. But this cannot be yet.

But though no complete theory of the poetic art as yet be possible for us, though perhaps only our children's children will be able to speak on this subject with the a.s.sured confidence which belongs to accepted truth, yet something of some certainty may be stated on the easier elements, and something that will throw light on these two new books.

But it will be necessary to a.s.sign reasons, and the a.s.signing of reasons is a dry task. Years ago, when criticism only tried to show how poetry could be made a good amus.e.m.e.nt, it was not impossible that criticism itself should be amusing. But now it must at least be serious, for we believe that poetry is a serious and a deep thing.

There should be a word in the language of literary art to express what the word 'picturesque' expresses for the fine arts. _Picturesque_ means fit to be put into a picture; we want a word _literatesque_, 'fit to be put into a book.' An artist goes through a hundred different country scenes, rich with beauties, charms, and merits, but he does not paint any of them. He leaves them alone; he idles on till he finds the hundred-and-first--a scene which many observers would not think much of, but which _he_ knows by virtue of his art will look well on canvas, and this he paints and preserves. Susceptible observers, though not artists, feel this quality too; they say of a scene, 'How picturesque!' meaning by this a quality distinct from that of beauty, or sublimity, or grandeur--meaning to speak not only of the scene as it is in itself, but also of its fitness for imitation by art; meaning not only that it is good, but that its goodness is such as ought to be transferred to paper; meaning not simply that it fascinates, but also that its fascination is such as ought to be copied by man. A fine and insensible instinct has put language to this subtle use; it expresses an idea without which fine art criticism could not go on, and it is very natural that the language of pictorial should be better supplied with words than that of literary criticism, for the eye was used before the mind, and language embodies primitive sensuous ideas, long ere it expresses, or need express, abstract and literary ones.

The reason why a landscape is 'picturesque' is often said to be that such landscape represents an 'idea'. But this explanation, though in the minds of some who use it it is near akin to the truth, fails to explain that truth to those who did not know it before; the Word 'idea,' is so often used in these subjects when people do not know anything else to say; it represents so often a kind of intellectual insolvency, when philosophers are at their wits' end, that shrewd people will never readily on any occasion give it credit for meaning anything. A wise explainer must, therefore, look out for other words to convey what he has to say. _Landscapes_, like everything else in nature, divide themselves as we look at them into a sort of rude cla.s.sification. We go down a river, for example, and we see a hundred landscapes on both sides of it, resembling one another in much, yet differing in something; with trees here, and a farmhouse there, and shadows on one side, and a deep pool far on; a collection of circ.u.mstances most familiar in themselves, but making a perpetual novelty by the magic of their various combinations. We travel so for miles and hours, and then we come to a scene which also has these various circ.u.mstances and adjuncts, but which combines them best, which makes the best whole of them, which shows them in their best proportion at a single glance before the eye. Then we say, 'This is the place to paint the river; this is the picturesque point!' Or, if not artists or critics of art, we feel without a.n.a.lysis or examination that somehow this bend or sweep of the river, shall, in future, _be the river to us_: that it is the image of it which we will retain in our mind's eye, by which we will remember it, which we will call up when we want to describe or think of it. Some fine countries, some beautiful rivers, have not this picturesque quality: they give us elements of beauty, but they do not combine them together; we go on for a time delighted, but _after_ a time somehow we get wearied; we feel that we are taking in nothing and learning nothing; we get no collected image before our mind; we see the accidents and circ.u.mstances of that sort of scenery, but the summary scene we do not see; we find _disjecta membra_, but no form; various and many and faulty approximations are displayed in succession; but the absolute perfection in that country or river's scenery--its _type_--is withheld: We go away from such places in part delighted, but in part baffled; we have been puzzled by pretty things; we have beheld a hundred different inconsistent specimens of the same sort of beauty; but the rememberable idea, the full development, the characteristic individuality of it, we have not seen.

We find the same sort of quality in all parts of painting. We see a portrait of a person we know, and we say, 'It is like--yes, like, of course, but it is not _the man_;' we feel it could not be any one else, but still, somehow it fails to bring home to us the individual as we know him to be. _He_ is not there. An acc.u.mulation of features like his are painted, but his essence is not painted; an approximation more or less excellent is given, but the characteristic expression, the _typical_ form, of the man is withheld.

Literature--the painting of words--has the same quality but wants the a.n.a.logous word. The word '_literatesque_,' would mean, if we possessed it, that perfect combination in the _subject-matter_ of literature, which suits the _art_ of literature. We often meet people, and say of them, sometimes meaning well and sometimes ill, 'How well so-and-so would do in a book!' Such people are by no means the best people; but they are the most effective people--the most rememberable people.

Frequently when we first know them, we like them because they explain to us so much of our experience; we have known many people 'like that,' in one way or another, but we did not seem to understand them; they were nothing to us, for their traits were indistinct; we forgot them, for they _hitched_ on to nothing, and we could not cla.s.sify them; but when we see the _type_ of the genus, at once we seem to comprehend its character; the inferior specimens are explained by the perfect embodiment; the approximations are definable when we know the ideal to which they draw near. There are an infinite number of cla.s.ses of human beings, but in each of these cla.s.ses there is a distinctive type which, if we could expand it out in words, would define the cla.s.s. We cannot expand it in formal terms any more than a landscape or a species of landscapes; but we have an art, an art of words, which can draw it. Travellers and others often bring home, in addition to their long journals--which though so living to them, are so dead, so inanimate, so undescriptive to all else--a pen-and-ink sketch, rudely done very likely, but which, perhaps, even the more for the blots and strokes, gives a distinct notion, an emphatic image, to all who see it. They say at once, '_Now_ we know the sort of thing'. The sketch has _hit_ the mind. True literature does the same. It describes sorts, varieties, and permutations, by delineating the type of each sort, the ideal of each variety, the central, the marking trait of each permutation.

On this account, the greatest artists of the world have ever shown an enthusiasm for reality. To care for notions and abstractions; to philosophize; to reason out conclusions; to care for schemes of thought, are signs in the artistic mind of secondary excellence. A Schiller, a Euripides, a Ben Jonson, cares for _ideas_--for the parings of the intellect, and the distillation of the mind; a Shakespeare, a Homer, a Goethe, finds his mental occupation, the true home of his natural thoughts, in the real world--'which is the world of all of us'--where the face of nature, the moving ma.s.ses of men and women, are ever changing, ever multiplying, ever mixing one with the other. The reason is plain--the business of the poet, of the artist, is with _types_; and those types are mirrored in reality. As a painter must not only have a hand to execute, but an eye to distinguish--as he must go here and then there through the real world to catch the picturesque man, the picturesque scene, which is to live on his canvas--so the poet must find in that reality, the _literatesque_ man, the _literatesque_ scene which nature intends for him, and which will live in his page. Even in reality he will not find this type complete, or the characteristics perfect; but there, at least, he will find _something_, some hint, some intimation, some suggestion; whereas, in the stagnant home of his own thoughts he will find nothing pure, nothing _as it is_, nothing which does not bear his own mark, which is not somehow altered by a mixture with himself.

The first conversation of Goethe and Schiller ill.u.s.trates this conception of the poet's art. Goethe was at that time prejudiced against Schiller, we must remember, partly from what he considered the _outrages_ of the _Robbers_, partly because of the philosophy of Kant.

Schiller's 'Essay on _Grace and Dignity_', he tells us, 'was yet less of a kind to reconcile me. The philosophy of Kant, which exalts the dignity of mind so highly, while appearing to restrict it, Schiller had joyfully embraced: it unfolded the extraordinary qualities which Nature had implanted in him; and in the lively feeling of freedom and self-direction, he showed himself unthankful to the Great Mother, who surely had not acted like a step-dame towards him. Instead of viewing her as self-subsisting, as producing with a living force, and according to appointed laws, alike the highest and the lowest of her works, he took her up under the aspect of some empirical native qualities of the human mind. Certain harsh pa.s.sages I could even directly apply to myself: they exhibited my confession of faith in a false light; and I felt that if written without particular attention to me they were still worse; for in that case, the vast chasm which lay between us, gaped but so much the more distinctly.' After a casual meeting at a Society for Natural History, they walked home and Goethe proceeds:

'We reached his house; the talk induced me to go in. I then expounded to him, with as much vivacity as possible, the _Metamorphosis of Plants_, drawing out on paper, with many characteristic strokes, a symbolic Plant for him, as I proceeded. He heard and saw all this, with much interest and distinct comprehension; but when I had done, he shook his head and said: 'This is no experiment, this is an idea.' I stopped with some degree of irritation; for the point which separated us was most luminously marked by this expression. The opinions in _Dignity and Grace_, again occurred to me; the old grudge was just awakening; but I smothered it, and merely said: "I was happy to find that I had got ideas without knowing it, nay that I saw them before my eyes."

'Schiller had much more prudence and dexterity of management than I; he was also thinking of his periodical the _h.o.r.en_, about this time, and of course rather wished to attract than repel me. Accordingly he answered me like an accomplished Kant.i.te; and as my stiff-necked Realism gave occasion to many contradictions, much battling took place between us, and at last a truce, in which neither party would consent to yield the victory, but each held himself invincible. Positions like the following grieved me to the very soul: _How can there ever be an experiment, that shall correspond with an idea? The specific quality of an idea is, that no experiment can reach it or agree with it._ Yet if he held as an idea, the same thing which I looked upon as an experiment; there must certainly, I thought, be some community between us, some ground whereon both of us might meet!'

With Goethe's natural history, or with Kant's philosophy, we have here no concern, but we can combine the expressions of the two great poets into a nearly complete description of poetry. The 'symbolic plant' is the _type_ of which we speak, the ideal at which inferior specimens aim, the cla.s.s-characteristic in which they all share, but which none shows forth fully: Goethe was right in searching for this in reality and nature; Schiller was right in saying that it was an 'idea', a transcending notion to which approximations could be found in experience, but only approximations--which could not be found there itself. Goethe, as a poet, rightly felt the primary necessity of outward suggestion and experience; Schiller as a philosopher, rightly felt its imperfection.

But in these delicate matters, it is easy to misapprehend. There is, undoubtedly, a sort of poetry which is produced as it were out of the author's mind. The description of the poet's own moods and feelings is a common sort of poetry--perhaps the commonest sort. But the peculiarity of such cases is, that the poet does not describe himself _as_ himself: autobiography is not his object; he takes himself as a specimen of human nature; he describes, not himself, but a distillation of himself: he takes such of his moods as are most characteristic, as most typify certain moods of certain men, or certain moods of all men; he chooses preponderant feelings of special sorts of men, or occasional feelings of men of all sorts; but with whatever other difference and diversity, the essence is that such self-describing poets describe what is _in_ them, but not _peculiar_ to them,--what is generic, not what is special and individual. Gray's _Elegy_ describes a mood which Gray felt more than other men, but which most others, perhaps all others, feel too. It is more popular, perhaps, than any English poem, because that sort of feeling is the most diffused of high feelings, and because Gray added to a singular nicety of fancy an habitual p.r.o.neness to a _contemplative_--a discerning but unbia.s.sed--meditation on death and on life. Other poets cannot hope for such success: a subject, so popular, so grave, so wise, and yet so suitable to the writer's nature is hardly to be found. But the same ideal, the same unautobiographical character is to be found in the writings of meaner men. Take sonnets of Hartley Coleridge, for example:

I

TO A FRIEND

When we were idlers with the loitering rills, The need of human love we little noted: Our love was nature; and the peace that floated On the white mist, and dwelt upon the hills, To sweet accord subdued our wayward wills: One soul was ours, one mind, one heart devoted, That, wisely doating, ask'd not why it doated, And ours the unknown joy, which knowing kills.

But now I find, how dear thou wert to me; That man is more than half of nature's treasure, Of that fair Beauty which no eye can see, Of that sweet music which no ear can measure; And now the streams may sing for others' pleasure, The hills sleep on in their eternity.

II

TO THE SAME

In the great city we are met again, Where many souls there are, that breathe and die, Scarce knowing more of nature's potency, Than what they learn from heat, or cold, or rain; The sad vicissitude of weary pain;-- For busy man is lord of ear and eye, And what hath nature, but the vast, void sky, And the thronged river toiling to the main?

Oh! say not so, for she shall have her part In every smile, in every tear that falls, And she shall hide her in the secret heart, Where love persuades, and sterner duty calls: But worse it were than death, or sorrow's smart, To live without a friend within these walls.

III

TO THE SAME

We parted on the mountains, as two streams From one clear spring pursue their several ways; And thy fleet course hath been through many a maze, In foreign lands, where silvery Padus gleams To that delicious sky, whose glowing beams Brightened the tresses that old Poets praise; Where Petrarch's patient love, and artful lays, And Ariosto's song of many themes, Moved the soft air. But I, a lazy brook, As close pent up within my native dell, Have crept along from nook to shady nook, Where flowrets blow, and whispering Naiads dwell.

Yet now we meet, that parted were so wide, O'er rough and smooth to travel side by side.

The contrast of instructive and enviable locomotion with refining but instructive meditation is not special and peculiar to these two, but general and universal. It was set down by Hartley Coleridge because he was the most meditative and refining of men.

What sort of literatesque types are fit to be described in the sort of literature called poetry, is a matter on which much might be written.

Mr. Arnold, some years since, put forth a theory that the art of poetry could only delineate _great actions_. But though, rightly interpreted and understood--using the word action so as to include high and sound activity in contemplation--this definition may suit the highest poetry, it certainly cannot be stretched to include many inferior sorts and even many good sorts. n.o.body in their senses would describe Gray's _Elegy_ as the delineation of a 'great action'; some kinds of mental contemplation may be energetic enough to deserve this name, but Gray would have been frightened at the very word. He loved scholar-like calm and quiet inaction; his very greatness depended on his _not_ acting, on his 'wise pa.s.siveness,' on his indulging the grave idleness which so well appreciates so much of human life. But the best answer--the _reductio ad absurdum_--of Mr. Arnold's doctrine, is the mutilation which it has caused him to make of his own writings.

It has forbidden him, he tells us, to reprint _Empedocles_--a poem undoubtedly containing defects and even excesses, but containing also these lines:

And yet what days were those, Parmenides!

When we were young, when we could number friends In all the Italian cities like ourselves, When with elated hearts we join'd your train, Ye Sun-born virgins! on the road of Truth.

Then we could still enjoy, then neither thought Nor outward things were clos'd and dead to us, But we receiv'd the shock of mighty thoughts On simple minds with a pure natural joy; And if the sacred load oppress'd our brain, We had the power to feel the pressure eas'd.

The brow unbound, the thoughts flow free again, In the delightful commerce of the world.

We had not lost our balance then, nor grown Thought's slaves and dead to every natural joy.

The smallest thing could give us pleasure then-- The sports of the country people; A flute note from the woods; Sunset over the sea: Seed-time and harvest; The reapers in the corn; The vinedresser in his vineyard; The village-girl at her wheel.

Fullness of life and power of feeling, ye Are for the happy, for the souls at ease, Who dwell on a firm basis of content.

But he who has outliv'd his prosperous days, But he, whose youth fell on a different world From that on which his exil'd age is thrown; Whose mind was fed on other food, was train'd By other rules than are in vogue to-day; Whose habit of thought is fix'd, who will not change, But in a world he loves not must subsist In ceaseless opposition, be the guard Of his own breast, fetter'd to what he guards, That the world win no mastery over him; Who has no friend, no fellow left, not one; Who has no minute's breathing s.p.a.ce allow'd To nurse his dwindling faculty of joy:-- Joy and the outward world must die to him As they are dead to me.

What freak of criticism can induce a man who has written such poetry as this, to discard it, and say it is not poetry? Mr. Arnold is privileged to speak of his own poems, but no other critic could speak so and not be laughed at.

We are disposed to believe that no very sharp definition can be given--at least in the present state of the critical art--of the boundary line between poetry and other sorts of imaginative delineation. Between the undoubted dominions of the two kinds there is a debateable land; everybody is agreed that the _Oedipus at Colonus_ _is_ poetry: every one is agreed that the wonderful appearance of Mrs.

Veal is _not_ poetry. But the exact line which separates grave novels in verse like _Aylmer's Field_ or _Enoch Arden_, from grave novels not in verse like _Silas Marner_ or _Adam Bede_, we own we cannot draw with any confidence. Nor, perhaps, is it very important; whether a narrative is thrown into verse or not certainly depends in part on the taste of the age, and in part on its mechanical helps. Verse is the only mechanical help to the memory in rude times, and there is little writing till a cheap something is found to write upon, and a cheap something to write with. Poetry--verse at least--is the literature of _all work_ in early ages; it is only later ages which write in what _they_ think a natural and simple prose. There are other casual influences in the matter too; but they are not material now. We need only say here that poetry, because it has a more marked rhythm than prose, must be more intense in meaning and more concise in style than prose. People expect a 'marked rhythm' to imply something worth marking; if it fails to do so they are disappointed. They are displeased at the visible waste of a powerful instrument; they call it 'doggerel,' and rightly call it, for the metrical expression of full thought and eager feeling--the burst of metre--incident to high imagination, should not be wasted on petty matters which prose does as well,--which it does better--which it suits by its very limpness and weakness, whose small changes it follows more easily, and to whose lowest details it can fully and without effort degrade itself. Verse, too, should be _more concise_, for long-continued rhythm tends to jade the mind, just as brief rhythm tends to attract the attention. Poetry should be memorable and emphatic, intense, and _soon over_.

The great divisions of poetry, and of all other literary art, arise from the different modes in which these _types_--these characteristic men, these characteristic feelings--may be variously described. There are three princ.i.p.al modes which we shall attempt to describe--the _pure_, which is sometimes, but not very wisely, called the cla.s.sical; the _ornate_, which is also unwisely called romantic; and the _grotesque_, which might be called the mediaeval. We will describe the nature of these a little. Criticism we know must be brief--not, like poetry, because its charm is too intense to be sustained--but on the contrary, because its interest is too weak to be prolonged; but elementary criticism, if an evil, is a necessary evil; a little while spent among the simple principles of art is the first condition, the absolute pre-requisite, for surely apprehending and wisely judging the complete embodiments and miscellaneous forms of actual literature.

The definition of _pure_ literature is that it describes the type in its simplicity, we mean, with the exact amount of accessory circ.u.mstance which is necessary to bring it before the mind in finished perfection, and _no more_ than that amount. The _type_ needs some accessories from its nature--a picturesque landscape does not consist wholly of picturesque features. There is a setting of surroundings--as the Americans would say, of _fixings_--without which the reality is not itself. By a traditional mode of speech, as soon as we see a picture in which a complete effect is produced by detail so rare and so harmonized as to escape us, we say 'how cla.s.sical'. The whole which is to be seen appears at once and through the detail, but the detail itself is not seen: we do not think of that which gives us the idea; we are absorbed in the idea itself. Just so in literature the pure art is that which works with the fewest strokes; the fewest, that is, for its purpose, for its aim is to call up and bring home to men an idea, a form, a character, and if that idea be twisted, that form be involved, that character perplexed, many strokes of literary art will be needful. Pure art does not mutilate its object: it represents it as fully as is possible with the slightest effort which is possible: it shrinks from no needful circ.u.mstances, as little as it inserts any which are needless. The precise peculiarity is not merely that no incidental circ.u.mstance is inserted which does not tell on the main design: no art is fit to be called _art_ which permits a stroke to be put in without an object; but that only the minimum of such circ.u.mstance is inserted at all. The form is sometimes said to be bare, the accessories are sometimes said to be invisible, because the appendages are so choice that the shape only is perceived.

The English literature undoubtedly contains much impure literature; impure in its style if not in its meaning: but it also contains one great, one nearly perfect, model of the pure style in the literary expression of typical _sentiment_; and one not perfect, but gigantic and close approximation to perfection in the pure delineation of objective character. Wordsworth, perhaps, comes as near to choice purity of style in sentiment as is possible; Milton, with exceptions and conditions to be explained, approaches perfection by the strenuous purity with which he depicts character.

A wit once said, that '_pretty_ women had more features than _beautiful_ women', and though the expression may be criticized, the meaning is correct. Pretty women seem to have a great number of attractive points, each of which attracts your attention, and each one of which you remember afterwards; yet these points have not _grown together_, their features have not linked themselves into a single inseparable whole. But a beautiful woman is a whole as she is; you no more take her to pieces than a Greek statue; she is not an aggregate of divisible charms, she is a charm in herself. Such ever is the dividing test of pure art; if you catch yourself admiring its details, it is defective; you ought to think of it as a single whole which you must remember, which you must admire, which somehow subdues you while you admire it, which is a 'possession' to you 'for ever'.

Of course no individual poem embodies this ideal perfectly; of course every human word and phrase has its imperfections, and if we choose an instance to ill.u.s.trate that ideal, the instance has scarcely a fair chance. By contrasting it with the ideal we suggest its imperfections; by protruding it as an example, we turn on its defectiveness the microscope of criticism. Yet these two sonnets of Wordsworth may be fitly read in this place, not because they are quite without faults, or because they are the very best examples of their kind of style; but because they are _luminous_ examples; the compactness of the sonnet and the gravity of the sentiment, hedging in the thoughts, restraining the fancy, and helping to maintain a singleness of expression:

THE TROSACHS.

There's not a nook within this solemn Pa.s.s, But were an apt Confessional for one Taught by his summer spent; his autumn gone, That Life is but a tale of morning gra.s.s Withered at eve. From scenes of art which chase That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities, Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than gla.s.s Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy guest, If from a golden perch of aspen spray (October's workmanship to rival May) The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast That moral teaches by a heaven-taught lay, Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!

COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, 1802

Earth has not anything to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pa.s.s by A sight so touching in its majesty: This city now doth, like a garment, wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare.