It may be said, that all this is to be found, in the same or a greater degree, in theSpectator. For myself, I do not think so; or, at least, there is in the last work a much greater proportion of commonplace matter. I have, on this account, always preferred theTatlerto theSpectator. Whether it is owing to my having been earlier or better acquainted with the one than the other, my pleasure in reading these two admirable works is not at all in proportion to their comparative reputation. TheTatlercontains only half the number of volumes, and, I will venture to say, at least an equal quantity of sterling wit and sense. “The first sprightly runnings” are there—it has more of the original spirit, more of the freshness and stamp of nature. The indications of character and strokes of humour are more true and frequent; the reflections that suggest themselves arise more from the occasion, and are less spun out into regular dissertations. They are more like the remarks which occur in sensible conversation, and less like a lecture. Something is left to the understanding of the reader. Steele seems to have gone into his closet chiefly to set down what he observed out of doors. Addison seems to have spent most of his time in his study, and to have spun out and wire-drawn the hints, which he borrowed from Steele, or took from nature, to the utmost. I am far from wishing to depreciate Addison’s talents, but I am anxious to do justice to Steele, who was, I think, upon the whole, a less artificial and more original writer. The humorous descriptions of Steele resemble loose sketches, or fragments of a comedy; those of Addison are rather comments, or ingenious paraphrases, on the genuine text.The English Comic Writers
It may be said, that all this is to be found, in the same or a greater degree, in theSpectator. For myself, I do not think so; or, at least, there is in the last work a much greater proportion of commonplace matter. I have, on this account, always preferred theTatlerto theSpectator. Whether it is owing to my having been earlier or better acquainted with the one than the other, my pleasure in reading these two admirable works is not at all in proportion to their comparative reputation. TheTatlercontains only half the number of volumes, and, I will venture to say, at least an equal quantity of sterling wit and sense. “The first sprightly runnings” are there—it has more of the original spirit, more of the freshness and stamp of nature. The indications of character and strokes of humour are more true and frequent; the reflections that suggest themselves arise more from the occasion, and are less spun out into regular dissertations. They are more like the remarks which occur in sensible conversation, and less like a lecture. Something is left to the understanding of the reader. Steele seems to have gone into his closet chiefly to set down what he observed out of doors. Addison seems to have spent most of his time in his study, and to have spun out and wire-drawn the hints, which he borrowed from Steele, or took from nature, to the utmost. I am far from wishing to depreciate Addison’s talents, but I am anxious to do justice to Steele, who was, I think, upon the whole, a less artificial and more original writer. The humorous descriptions of Steele resemble loose sketches, or fragments of a comedy; those of Addison are rather comments, or ingenious paraphrases, on the genuine text.
The English Comic Writers
1. Francis Jeffrey (1773–1850), one of the founders ofThe Edinburgh Review, was born at Edinburgh, educated at the high school and university of his native city, and was called to the Scottish Bar. Though for many years an industrious writer for his journal, he maintained a considerable legal practice, and distinguished himself in politics as an ardent Whig and a supporter of the Reform Bill of 1832. When, after the passage of the Bill, his party came into office he was rewarded by being appointed Lord Advocate. This meant the abandonment of his position on theReview, though he always kept a paternal eye on its progress. He was finally appointed to the Bench, with the title of Lord Jeffrey.
The Edinburgh Reviewwas at first a joint production of a group of young and zealous Whigs, including Sydney Smith and Dr. John Brown. After the first number Jeffrey was in sole control, and he drew around him a band of distinguished contributors, including at one time Sir Walter Scott and Lockhart. The journal led the way among the larger reviews, and was noted for its briskness. It was not above prejudice, as was shown in its opposition to the Lake School, but it did much to raise the standard of criticism, and it succeeded in bringing much talent to light, including the early efforts of Macaulay.
2. Sydney Smith (1771–1845)was for a time a colleague of Jeffrey. He was born in Essex, and was the son of a clergyman. He was educated at Winchester and Oxford, and became a clergyman in his turn. After traveling on the Continent as a tutor, he settled for a time at Edinburgh, and assisted in the launching ofThe Edinburgh Review(1802). He took a large share in the political squabbles of the time, and wrote much on behalf of the Whig party.
His works consist of many miscellaneous pieces, most of them of a political character. The most noteworthy of them is a collection calledThe Letters of Peter Plymley(1807), which deals with Catholic Emancipation. A more general selection from his writings was published in 1855, and hisWit and Wisdomin 1861. Nowadays it is somewhat difficult to account for his great influence, for he has left so little of real merit; but to his own contemporaries he was a very important person. He was admired and feared as a wit, and some of his best witticisms have been preserved. He was always a gentlemanly opponent, always easy but deadly in the shafts leveled against his political foes. He wrote the prose of an educated man, and is clear and forcible.
3. John Wilson (1785–1854), who appears in literature asChristopher North, was born at Paisley, the son of a wealthy manufacturer. He was educated at Glasgow and Oxford, wrote poetry, and for a time settled in the LakeDistrict. He lost most of his money, tried practice as a barrister, and then joined the staff ofBlackwood’s Magazine. He was appointed in 1820 Professor of Moral Philosophy at Edinburgh University.
His early poems,The Isle of Palms(1812) andThe City of the Plague(1816), are passable verse of the romantic type. His novels—for example,The Trials of Margaret Lyndsay(1823)—are sentimental pictures of Scottish life. His longest work, and the one that perpetuates his name, is hisNoctes Ambrosianæ(beginning in 1822), which had a long and popular run inBlackwood’s. This is an immensely long series of dialogues on many kinds of subjects. The characters are the members of a small club who meet regularly, consume great quantities of meat and drink, and frequently indulge in immoderate clowning. The talk is endless, and is often tedious in the extreme. At times Wilson rises into striking descriptive passages, more florid and less impressive than De Quincey’s, but beautiful in a sentimental fashion. His taste, however, cannot be trusted, and his humor is too often crude and boisterous.
4. John G. Lockhart (1794–1854)was born at Cambusnethan, educated at Glasgow and Oxford, and became a member of the Scottish Bar. He soon (1817) became a regular contributor toBlackwood’s Magazine, sharing in its strong Tory views and its still stronger expression of them. He rather gloried in these literary and political fisticuffs, which in one case led to actual bloodshed, though he did not participate in it. In 1820 he married Scott’s favorite daughter Sophia, and lived to be the biographer of his famous father-in-law. He was editor ofThe Quarterly Reviewfrom 1826 till 1852.
Lockhart wrote four novels, the best of which areValerius(1821) andAdam Blair(1822). They are painstaking endeavors, but they lack the fire of genius, and are now almost forgotten. His poetry is quite lively and attractive, especially hisSpanish Ballads(1821).Peter’s Letters to his Kinsfolk(1819) is a collection of brilliantsketches of Edinburgh society. Lockhart’s fame, however, rests onThe Life of Scott(1837–38), which was first published in seven volumes. This book ranks as one of the great biographies in the language. Though it is full of intimate and loving detail, it possesses a fine sense of perspective and coherence; and while it is influenced by a natural partiality for its subject, the story is judiciously told. In this book Lockhart casts aside his aggressiveness of manner. His descriptions, as, for example, that of the death of Scott, have a masterly touch.
5. William Cobbett (1762–1835)was born at Farnham, Surrey, and was the son of a farm-laborer. He enlisted in the Army, rose to be sergeant-major, emigrated to America, where he took to journalism, and returned to England, to become actively engaged in politics. In 1835 he was elected to Parliament, but was not a success as a public man. He was a man of violent opinions, boxed the political compass, and died an extreme Radical.
He was an assiduous journalist, beginning withPeter Porcupine’s Journal(1801). His other paper was hisPolitical Register, which he began in 1802 and carried on till 1835. His further literary work is contained in hisRural Rides in England. He writes with an unaffected simplicity that reminds the reader of Bunyan, and his descriptions of contemporary England are clear and forcible.
6.Thehistoriansbelonging to this period are both numerous and important, but we can mention only a few.
(a)Henry Hart Milman (1791–1868)was educated at Eton and Oxford, and afterward wrote some plays, including the tragedyFazio(1817). His chief historical works areThe History of the Jews(1829) andThe History of Latin Christianity(1856). Milman is a solid and reliable historian, with a readable style.
(b)George Grote (1794–1871)was a London banker, and entered politics. HisHistory of Greece(1846–56) is based on German research, and is well informed andscholarly. The work, however, is sometimes considered to be too long and tedious in its detail.
(c)Henry Hallam (1777–1859)was a member of the Middle Temple, but he practiced very little. He wrote on both literary and historical subjects, and contributed toThe Edinburgh Review. His historical works includeA Constitutional History of England(1827) andAn Introduction to the Literature of Europe(1838–39). Hallam acquired a great and deserved reputation for solid scholarship. Like Gibbon, he tried to attune his style to his subject, and wrote in a grave and impressive manner, but, lacking the genius of Gibbon, he succeeded only in making his style lifeless and frigid.
The amount of actual development during this period was not so great as the immense output. Authors were content with the standard literary forms, and it was upon these as models that the development took place.
1. Poetry.(a) This was indeed the golden age of thelyric, which reflected the Romantic spirit of the time in liberal and varied measure. It comprised the exalted passion of Shelley, the meditative simplicity of Wordsworth, the sumptuous descriptions of Keats, and the golden notes of Coleridge. It is to be noted that in form the lyric employed the ancient externals of the stereotyped meters and rhymes. There was some attempt at rhymeless poems in the work of Southey and the early poems of Shelley, but this practice was never general.
(b) Withdescriptive and narrative poemsthe age was richly endowed. One has only to recall Byron’s early work, Keats’s tales, Coleridge’s supernatural stories, and Scott’s martial and historical romances to perceive how rich was the harvest. Once more the poets work upon older methods. The Spenserian stanza is the favorite model, but the ballad is nearly as popular. These older types suffered some change, as was almost inevitable withsuch inspired minds at work upon them. The Spenserian manner was loosened and strengthened; it was given richer and more varied beauties inThe Eve of St. Agnes, and a sharper and more personal note in theChilde Haroldof Byron. In the case of Wordsworth we observe the frequent use of blank verse for meditative purposes, as inThe Prelude.
(c)Satirical poemswere numerous; and their tone was fierce, for the success of the French Revolution led to the expression of new hopes and desires. Outstanding examples were Byron’sDon JuanandThe Vision of Judgmentand Shelley’sMasque of Anarchy.
2. Drama.Drama was written as freely as ever, but rather as a form of literary exercise than as a serious attempt at creating a new dramatic standard. Tragedy almost monopolized the activities of the major poets. Of all the tragedies Shelley’sCencicame first in power and simplicity. Byron’s tragedies had little merit as dramas; and Wordsworth’sBorderersand Coleridge’sRemorseadded little to the fame of their authors.
The comic spirit in drama was in abeyance. Shelley’sŒdipus Tyrannus, or Swellfoot the Tyrant, is almost the only instance of it worth mention, and this was a poor specimen of that writer’s creative power.
3. Prose.(a)The Novel.Of the different kinds of prose composition, the novel showed in this period the most marked development. This was largely due to the work of Scott and Jane Austen, who respectively established the historical and domestic types of novel.
With regard to the work of Scott, we can here only briefly summarize what has already been said. He raised the historical novel to the rank of one of the major kinds of literature; he brought to it knowledge, and through the divine gift of knowledge made it true to life; he fired historical characters with living energy; he set on foot the device of the unhistorical hero—that is, he made the chief character purely fictitious, and caused the historical persons to rotate about it; he established a style thatsuited many periods of history; and pervading all these advances was a great and genial personality that transformed what might have been mere lumber into an artistic product of truth and beauty.
Miss Austen’s achievement was of a different kind. She revealed the beauty and interest that underlie ordinary affairs; she displayed the infinite variety of common life, and so she opened an inexhaustible vein that her successors were assiduously to develop.
Most of the other novelists of the time were either imitators of Scott, like James and Ainsworth, or a combination of Scott and Miss Austen, like Bulwer-Lytton. Disraeli developed a rather different species in his brilliant society novels, which depended for their chief effects on satiric insight and caustic epigram.Tancredis probably the best of this species.
(b)Periodical Literature.At the beginning of this chapter we noted the chief members of a great new community of literary journals. These periodicals were of a new type. Previous literary journals, likeThe Gentleman’s Magazine(1731), had been feeble productions, the work of elegant amateurs or underpaid hack-writers. Such papers had little weight. The new journals were supreme in the literary world; they attracted the best talent; they inspired fear and respect; and in spite of many defects their literary product was worthy of their reputation.
(c)The Essay.Finding a fresh outlet in the new type of periodical, the essay acquired additional importance. The purely literary essay, exemplified in the works of Southey, Hazlitt, and Lockhart, increased in length and solidity. It now became a review—that is, a commentary on a book or books under immediate inspection, but in addition expounding the wider theories and opinions of the reviewer. This new species of essay was to be developed still further in the works of Carlyle and Macaulay.
The miscellaneous essay, represented in the works ofLamb, likewise, acquired an increased dignity. It was growing beyond the limits set by Addison and Johnson. It was more labored and aspiring, and contained many more mannerisms of the author. This kind also was to develop in the hands of the succeeding generation.
(d) Other prose works must receive scanty notice. The art of letter-writing still flourished, as can be seen in the works of Byron, Shelley, and Lamb. Lamb in particular has a charm that reminds the reader of that of Cowper. Byron’s letters, though egotistical enough, are breezy and humorous.
Biographical work is adequately represented inThe Life of Byron, by Moore, andThe Life of Scott, by Lockhart. These books in their general outlines follow the model of Boswell, though they do not possess the artless self-revelation of their great predecessor. There is an advance shown by their division into chapters and other convenient stages, a useful arrangement that Boswell did not adopt.
The amount of historical research was very great, and the historians ranged abroad and tilled many fields; but in their general methods there was little advance on the work of their predecessors.
1. Poetry.This period being instinct with the spirit of revolt, it may be taken for granted that in poetic style there is a great range of effort and experiment. The general tendency is toward simplicity of diction and away from the mannerisms of the eighteenth century. In the case of the major poets, the one who comes nearest in style to the eighteenth century is Byron; next to him, in spite of his theories of simplicity, comes Wordsworth, who has a curious inflation of style that is kept within bounds only by his intense imaginative power. The best work of Coleridge and Shelley is marked by the greatest simplicity; but, on the other hand, Keats is too fond of golden diction to resist the temptation to be ornate.
2. Prose.In this period we behold the dissolution of the more formal prose style of the previous century. With this process the journalists and miscellaneous prose-writers have much to do. In the place of the older type we see a general tendency toward a useful middle style, as in the books of Southey and Hazlitt. Outside this mass of middle prose we have a range from the greatest simplicity to the highest efforts of poetic prose. At one end of the scale we have the perfectly plain style of Cobbett. The passage we give (from theRural Rides) could not be simpler, but it is energetic and expressive:
When I returned to England in 1800, after an absence from the country parts of it for sixteen years, the trees, the hedges, even the parks and woods, seemed so small! It made me laugh to hear little gutters, that I could jump over, called rivers. The Thames was but a ‘creek!’ But when in about a month after my arrival in London, I went to Farnham, the place of my birth, what was my surprise! Every thing was become so pitifully small! I had to cross in my postchaise the long and dreary heath of Bagshot. Then at the end of it, to mount a hill called Hungry Hill: and from that hill I knew that I should look down into the beautiful and fertile vale of Farnham. My heart fluttered with impatience, mixed with a sort of fear, to see all the scenes of my childhood; for I had learned before the death of my father and mother.
When I returned to England in 1800, after an absence from the country parts of it for sixteen years, the trees, the hedges, even the parks and woods, seemed so small! It made me laugh to hear little gutters, that I could jump over, called rivers. The Thames was but a ‘creek!’ But when in about a month after my arrival in London, I went to Farnham, the place of my birth, what was my surprise! Every thing was become so pitifully small! I had to cross in my postchaise the long and dreary heath of Bagshot. Then at the end of it, to mount a hill called Hungry Hill: and from that hill I knew that I should look down into the beautiful and fertile vale of Farnham. My heart fluttered with impatience, mixed with a sort of fear, to see all the scenes of my childhood; for I had learned before the death of my father and mother.
From Cobbett we range through a large number of writers, like Lockhart and Miss Austen, who write in the usual middle style to the more labored manner of Scott, who in his descriptive passages adopts a kind of Johnsonese. When he writes in the Scots dialect he writes simply and clearly, but in his heavier moods we have a style like that which follows. Note the long and complicated sentences, and the labored diction.
The brow of the hill, on which the Royal Life-Guards were now drawn up, sloped downwards (on the side opposite to that which they had ascended) with a gentle declivity for more than a quarter of a mile, and presented ground which, though unequal in some places, was not altogether unfavourable for the manœuvres of cavalry, until near the bottom, when the slope terminated in amarshy level, traversed through its whole length by what seemed either a natural gully or a deep artificial drain, the sides of which were broken by springs, trenches filled with water, out of which peats and turf had been dug, and here and there by some straggling thickets of alders, which loved the moistness so well that they continued to live as bushes, although too much dwarfed by the sour soil and the stagnant bog-water to ascend into trees. Beyond this ditch or gully the ground arose into a second heathy swell, or rather hill, near to the foot of which, and as if with the object of defending the broken ground and ditch that covered their front, the body of insurgents appeared to be drawn up with the purpose of abiding battle.Old Mortality
The brow of the hill, on which the Royal Life-Guards were now drawn up, sloped downwards (on the side opposite to that which they had ascended) with a gentle declivity for more than a quarter of a mile, and presented ground which, though unequal in some places, was not altogether unfavourable for the manœuvres of cavalry, until near the bottom, when the slope terminated in amarshy level, traversed through its whole length by what seemed either a natural gully or a deep artificial drain, the sides of which were broken by springs, trenches filled with water, out of which peats and turf had been dug, and here and there by some straggling thickets of alders, which loved the moistness so well that they continued to live as bushes, although too much dwarfed by the sour soil and the stagnant bog-water to ascend into trees. Beyond this ditch or gully the ground arose into a second heathy swell, or rather hill, near to the foot of which, and as if with the object of defending the broken ground and ditch that covered their front, the body of insurgents appeared to be drawn up with the purpose of abiding battle.
Old Mortality
From Scott the evolution of style can be traced through the mannered, half-humorous ornateness of Lamb to the florid poetic prose of Wilson and the dithyrambic periods of De Quincey. As a final specimen we give an extract from theNoctes Ambrosianæ. The style is fervidly exclamatory, but it lacks the depth of De Quincey’s at its best.
Shepherd.Oh that I had been a sailor! To hae circumnavigated the world! To hae pitched our tents, or built our bowers, on the shores o’ bays sae glittering wi’ league-long wreaths o’ shells, that the billows blushed crimson as they murmured! To hae seen our flags burning meteor-like, high up among the primeval woods, while birds, bright as bunting, sat trimming their plumage amang the cordage, sae tame in that island where ship had haply never touched before, nor ever might touch again, lying in a latitude by itself, and far out of the breath o’ the tradewinds! Or to hae landed with a’ the crew, marines and a’—except a guard on shipboard to keep aff the crowd o’ canoes—on some warlike isle, tossing wi’ the plumes on chieftain’s heads, and sound—sound—sounding wi’ gongs! What’s a man-o’-war’s barge, Mr Tickler, beautiful sight tho’ it be, to the hundred-oared canoe o’ some savage Island-king!
Shepherd.Oh that I had been a sailor! To hae circumnavigated the world! To hae pitched our tents, or built our bowers, on the shores o’ bays sae glittering wi’ league-long wreaths o’ shells, that the billows blushed crimson as they murmured! To hae seen our flags burning meteor-like, high up among the primeval woods, while birds, bright as bunting, sat trimming their plumage amang the cordage, sae tame in that island where ship had haply never touched before, nor ever might touch again, lying in a latitude by itself, and far out of the breath o’ the tradewinds! Or to hae landed with a’ the crew, marines and a’—except a guard on shipboard to keep aff the crowd o’ canoes—on some warlike isle, tossing wi’ the plumes on chieftain’s heads, and sound—sound—sounding wi’ gongs! What’s a man-o’-war’s barge, Mr Tickler, beautiful sight tho’ it be, to the hundred-oared canoe o’ some savage Island-king!
TABLE TO ILLUSTRATE THE DEVELOPMENT OF LITERARY FORMS
1. Below are given two extracts on autumn, one written by Keats and one by Shelley. Compare them carefully with regard to selection of details, style, and meter. How far does each reflect the nature of its author?
(1) Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;Conspiring with him how to load and blessWith fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shellsWith a sweet kernel; to set budding more,And still more, later flowers for the bees,Until they think warm days will never cease;For Summer has o’er-brimmed their clammy cells.Keats,Ode to Autumn
(1) Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;Conspiring with him how to load and blessWith fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shellsWith a sweet kernel; to set budding more,And still more, later flowers for the bees,Until they think warm days will never cease;For Summer has o’er-brimmed their clammy cells.Keats,Ode to Autumn
(1) Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;Conspiring with him how to load and blessWith fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shellsWith a sweet kernel; to set budding more,And still more, later flowers for the bees,Until they think warm days will never cease;For Summer has o’er-brimmed their clammy cells.Keats,Ode to Autumn
(1) Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease;
For Summer has o’er-brimmed their clammy cells.
Keats,Ode to Autumn
(2) The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing,The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying,And the YearOn the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead,Is lying.Come, Months, come away,From November to May,In your saddest array;Follow the bierOf the dead cold Year,And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre.Shelley,Autumn: A Dirge
(2) The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing,The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying,And the YearOn the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead,Is lying.Come, Months, come away,From November to May,In your saddest array;Follow the bierOf the dead cold Year,And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre.Shelley,Autumn: A Dirge
(2) The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing,The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying,And the YearOn the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead,Is lying.Come, Months, come away,From November to May,In your saddest array;Follow the bierOf the dead cold Year,And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre.Shelley,Autumn: A Dirge
(2) The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing,
The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying,
And the Year
On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead,
Is lying.
Come, Months, come away,
From November to May,
In your saddest array;
Follow the bier
Of the dead cold Year,
And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre.
Shelley,Autumn: A Dirge
2. From an examination of the following extracts, and from what has already been said regarding their respective authors, write a brief account of the style of the authors. How do the extracts compare as regards clearness, lucidity, and melody?
(1) During the first year that Mr Wordsworth and I were neighbours, our conversations turned frequently on the two cardinal points of poetry, the power of exciting the sympathy of the reader by a faithful adherence to the truth of nature, and thepower of giving the interest of novelty by the modifying colours of imagination. The sudden charm, which accidents of light and shade, which moonlight or sunset diffused over a known and familiar landscape, appeared to represent the practicability of combining both. These are the poetry of nature. The thought suggested itself (to which of us I do not recollect) that a series of poems might be composed of two sorts. In the one, the incidents and agents were to be, in part at least, supernatural; and the excellence aimed at was to consist in the interesting of the affections by the dramatic truth of such emotions, as would naturally accompany such situations, supposing them real. And real in this sense they have been to every human being who, from whatever source of delusion, has at any time believed himself under supernatural agency. For the second class, subjects were to be chosen from ordinary life; the characters and incidents were to be such, as will be found in every village and its vicinity, where there is a meditative and feeling mind to seek after them, or to notice them, when they present themselves.Coleridge,Biographia Literaria
(1) During the first year that Mr Wordsworth and I were neighbours, our conversations turned frequently on the two cardinal points of poetry, the power of exciting the sympathy of the reader by a faithful adherence to the truth of nature, and thepower of giving the interest of novelty by the modifying colours of imagination. The sudden charm, which accidents of light and shade, which moonlight or sunset diffused over a known and familiar landscape, appeared to represent the practicability of combining both. These are the poetry of nature. The thought suggested itself (to which of us I do not recollect) that a series of poems might be composed of two sorts. In the one, the incidents and agents were to be, in part at least, supernatural; and the excellence aimed at was to consist in the interesting of the affections by the dramatic truth of such emotions, as would naturally accompany such situations, supposing them real. And real in this sense they have been to every human being who, from whatever source of delusion, has at any time believed himself under supernatural agency. For the second class, subjects were to be chosen from ordinary life; the characters and incidents were to be such, as will be found in every village and its vicinity, where there is a meditative and feeling mind to seek after them, or to notice them, when they present themselves.
Coleridge,Biographia Literaria
(2) I thought that it was a Sunday morning in May, that it was Easter Sunday, and as yet very early in the morning. I was standing, as it seemed to me, at the door of my own cottage. Right before me lay the very scene which could really be commanded from that situation, but exalted, as was usual, and solemnised by the power of dreams. There were the same mountains, and the same lovely valley at their feet; but the mountains were raised to more than alpine height, and there was interspace far larger between them of meadows and forest lawns; the hedges were rich with white roses; and no living creature was to be seen, excepting that in the green churchyard there were cattle tranquilly reposing upon the verdant graves, and particularly round about the grave of a child whom I had tenderly loved, just as I had really beheld them, a little before sunrise in the same summer, when that child died.De Quincey,The Confessions of an English Opium-Eater
(2) I thought that it was a Sunday morning in May, that it was Easter Sunday, and as yet very early in the morning. I was standing, as it seemed to me, at the door of my own cottage. Right before me lay the very scene which could really be commanded from that situation, but exalted, as was usual, and solemnised by the power of dreams. There were the same mountains, and the same lovely valley at their feet; but the mountains were raised to more than alpine height, and there was interspace far larger between them of meadows and forest lawns; the hedges were rich with white roses; and no living creature was to be seen, excepting that in the green churchyard there were cattle tranquilly reposing upon the verdant graves, and particularly round about the grave of a child whom I had tenderly loved, just as I had really beheld them, a little before sunrise in the same summer, when that child died.
De Quincey,The Confessions of an English Opium-Eater
(3) When a child, what a mysterious pleasure it was to witness their operation!—to see a chit no bigger than one’s-self enter, one knew not by what process, into what seemed thefauces Averni—to pursue him in imagination, as he went sounding on through so many dark stifling caverns, horrid shades!—to shudder with the idea that “now, surely, he must be lost for ever!”—to revive at hearing his feeble shout of discovered daylight—and then (O fulness of delight!) running out of doors, to come just in time to see the sable phenomenon emerge in safety, the brandishedweapon of his art victorious like some flag waved over a conquered citadel! I seem to remember having been told that a bad sweep was once left in a stack with his brush, to indicate which way the wind blew. It was an awful spectacle certainly; not much unlike the old stage direction inMacbeth, where the “Apparition of a child crowned, with a tree in his hand, rises.”Lamb,The Praise of Chimney-Sweepers
(3) When a child, what a mysterious pleasure it was to witness their operation!—to see a chit no bigger than one’s-self enter, one knew not by what process, into what seemed thefauces Averni—to pursue him in imagination, as he went sounding on through so many dark stifling caverns, horrid shades!—to shudder with the idea that “now, surely, he must be lost for ever!”—to revive at hearing his feeble shout of discovered daylight—and then (O fulness of delight!) running out of doors, to come just in time to see the sable phenomenon emerge in safety, the brandishedweapon of his art victorious like some flag waved over a conquered citadel! I seem to remember having been told that a bad sweep was once left in a stack with his brush, to indicate which way the wind blew. It was an awful spectacle certainly; not much unlike the old stage direction inMacbeth, where the “Apparition of a child crowned, with a tree in his hand, rises.”
Lamb,The Praise of Chimney-Sweepers
(4) If a young reader should ask, after all, What is the best way of knowing bad poets from good, the best poets from the next best, and so on? the answer is, the only and two-fold way; first, the perusal of the best poets with the greatest attention; and second, the cultivation of that love of truth and beauty which made them what they are. Every true reader of poetry partakes of a more than ordinary portion of the poetic nature; and no one can be completely such, who does not love, or take an interest in everything that interests the poet, from the firmament to the daisy—from the highest heart of man, to the most pitiable of the low. It is a good practice to read with pen in hand, marking what is liked or doubted. It rivets the attention, realises the greatest amount of enjoyment, and facilitates reference. It enables the reader also, from time to time, to see what progress he makes with his own mind, and how it grows up to the stature of its exalter.Leigh Hunt,Letters
(4) If a young reader should ask, after all, What is the best way of knowing bad poets from good, the best poets from the next best, and so on? the answer is, the only and two-fold way; first, the perusal of the best poets with the greatest attention; and second, the cultivation of that love of truth and beauty which made them what they are. Every true reader of poetry partakes of a more than ordinary portion of the poetic nature; and no one can be completely such, who does not love, or take an interest in everything that interests the poet, from the firmament to the daisy—from the highest heart of man, to the most pitiable of the low. It is a good practice to read with pen in hand, marking what is liked or doubted. It rivets the attention, realises the greatest amount of enjoyment, and facilitates reference. It enables the reader also, from time to time, to see what progress he makes with his own mind, and how it grows up to the stature of its exalter.
Leigh Hunt,Letters
3. Each of the following extracts from narrative poetry is an example of the Romantic style. How is the Romantic spirit revealed in each, and how far is each different from the others?
(1) The moving Moon went up the sky,And nowhere did abide:Softly she was going up,And a star or two beside—Her beams bemock’d the sultry main,Like April hoar-frost spread;But where the ship’s huge shadow lay,The charmed water burnt alwayA still and awful red.Beyond the shadow of the ship,I watch’d the water-snakes:They mov’d in tracks of shining white,And when they rear’d, the elfish lightFell off in hoary flakes.Within the shadow of the shipI watch’d their rich attire:Blue, glossy green, and velvet black,They coil’d and swam; and every trackWas a flash of golden fire.Coleridge,The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
(1) The moving Moon went up the sky,And nowhere did abide:Softly she was going up,And a star or two beside—Her beams bemock’d the sultry main,Like April hoar-frost spread;But where the ship’s huge shadow lay,The charmed water burnt alwayA still and awful red.Beyond the shadow of the ship,I watch’d the water-snakes:They mov’d in tracks of shining white,And when they rear’d, the elfish lightFell off in hoary flakes.Within the shadow of the shipI watch’d their rich attire:Blue, glossy green, and velvet black,They coil’d and swam; and every trackWas a flash of golden fire.Coleridge,The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
(1) The moving Moon went up the sky,And nowhere did abide:Softly she was going up,And a star or two beside—
(1) The moving Moon went up the sky,
And nowhere did abide:
Softly she was going up,
And a star or two beside—
Her beams bemock’d the sultry main,Like April hoar-frost spread;But where the ship’s huge shadow lay,The charmed water burnt alwayA still and awful red.
Her beams bemock’d the sultry main,
Like April hoar-frost spread;
But where the ship’s huge shadow lay,
The charmed water burnt alway
A still and awful red.
Beyond the shadow of the ship,I watch’d the water-snakes:They mov’d in tracks of shining white,And when they rear’d, the elfish lightFell off in hoary flakes.
Beyond the shadow of the ship,
I watch’d the water-snakes:
They mov’d in tracks of shining white,
And when they rear’d, the elfish light
Fell off in hoary flakes.
Within the shadow of the shipI watch’d their rich attire:Blue, glossy green, and velvet black,They coil’d and swam; and every trackWas a flash of golden fire.Coleridge,The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
Within the shadow of the ship
I watch’d their rich attire:
Blue, glossy green, and velvet black,
They coil’d and swam; and every track
Was a flash of golden fire.
Coleridge,The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
(2) And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,In blanched linen, smooth, and lavendered,While he forth from the closet brought a heapOf candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd,With jellies soother than the creamy curd,And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon,Manna and dates, in argosy transferredFrom Fez; and spiced dainties, every one,From silken Samarcand to cedared Lebanon.Keats,The Eve of St. Agnes
(2) And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,In blanched linen, smooth, and lavendered,While he forth from the closet brought a heapOf candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd,With jellies soother than the creamy curd,And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon,Manna and dates, in argosy transferredFrom Fez; and spiced dainties, every one,From silken Samarcand to cedared Lebanon.Keats,The Eve of St. Agnes
(2) And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,In blanched linen, smooth, and lavendered,While he forth from the closet brought a heapOf candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd,With jellies soother than the creamy curd,And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon,Manna and dates, in argosy transferredFrom Fez; and spiced dainties, every one,From silken Samarcand to cedared Lebanon.Keats,The Eve of St. Agnes
(2) And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,
In blanched linen, smooth, and lavendered,
While he forth from the closet brought a heap
Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd,
With jellies soother than the creamy curd,
And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon,
Manna and dates, in argosy transferred
From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one,
From silken Samarcand to cedared Lebanon.
Keats,The Eve of St. Agnes
(3) Like adder darting from his coil,Like wolf that dashes through the toil,Like mountain-cat who guards her young,Full at Fitz-James’s throat he sprung;Received, but recked not of a wound,And locked his arms his foeman round.Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own!No maiden’s hand is round thee thrown!That desperate grasp thy frame might feel,Through bars of brass and triple steel!They tug, they strain; down, down they go,The Gael above, Fitz-James below!The Chieftain’s gripe his throat compressed,His knee was planted on his breast;His clotted locks he backward threw,Across his brow his hand he drew,From blood and mist to clear his sight,Then gleamed aloft his dagger bright!Scott,The Lady of the Lake
(3) Like adder darting from his coil,Like wolf that dashes through the toil,Like mountain-cat who guards her young,Full at Fitz-James’s throat he sprung;Received, but recked not of a wound,And locked his arms his foeman round.Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own!No maiden’s hand is round thee thrown!That desperate grasp thy frame might feel,Through bars of brass and triple steel!They tug, they strain; down, down they go,The Gael above, Fitz-James below!The Chieftain’s gripe his throat compressed,His knee was planted on his breast;His clotted locks he backward threw,Across his brow his hand he drew,From blood and mist to clear his sight,Then gleamed aloft his dagger bright!Scott,The Lady of the Lake
(3) Like adder darting from his coil,Like wolf that dashes through the toil,Like mountain-cat who guards her young,Full at Fitz-James’s throat he sprung;Received, but recked not of a wound,And locked his arms his foeman round.Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own!No maiden’s hand is round thee thrown!That desperate grasp thy frame might feel,Through bars of brass and triple steel!They tug, they strain; down, down they go,The Gael above, Fitz-James below!The Chieftain’s gripe his throat compressed,His knee was planted on his breast;His clotted locks he backward threw,Across his brow his hand he drew,From blood and mist to clear his sight,Then gleamed aloft his dagger bright!Scott,The Lady of the Lake
(3) Like adder darting from his coil,
Like wolf that dashes through the toil,
Like mountain-cat who guards her young,
Full at Fitz-James’s throat he sprung;
Received, but recked not of a wound,
And locked his arms his foeman round.
Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own!
No maiden’s hand is round thee thrown!
That desperate grasp thy frame might feel,
Through bars of brass and triple steel!
They tug, they strain; down, down they go,
The Gael above, Fitz-James below!
The Chieftain’s gripe his throat compressed,
His knee was planted on his breast;
His clotted locks he backward threw,
Across his brow his hand he drew,
From blood and mist to clear his sight,
Then gleamed aloft his dagger bright!
Scott,The Lady of the Lake
(4) While thus they spake, the angelic caravan,Arriving like a rush of mighty wind,Cleaving the fields of space, as doth the swanSome silver stream (say Ganges, Nile, or Inde,Or Thames, or Tweed), and ’midst them an old manWith an old soul, and both extremely blind,Halted before the gate, and in his shroudSeated their fellow traveller on a cloud.But bringing up the rear of this bright hostA Spirit of a different aspect wavedHis wings, like thunder-clouds above some coastWhose barren beach with frequent wrecks is paved;His brow was like the deep when tempest-toss’d;Fierce and unfathomable thoughts engravedEternal wrath on his immortal face,Andwherehe gazed a gloom pervaded space.Byron,The Vision of Judgment
(4) While thus they spake, the angelic caravan,Arriving like a rush of mighty wind,Cleaving the fields of space, as doth the swanSome silver stream (say Ganges, Nile, or Inde,Or Thames, or Tweed), and ’midst them an old manWith an old soul, and both extremely blind,Halted before the gate, and in his shroudSeated their fellow traveller on a cloud.But bringing up the rear of this bright hostA Spirit of a different aspect wavedHis wings, like thunder-clouds above some coastWhose barren beach with frequent wrecks is paved;His brow was like the deep when tempest-toss’d;Fierce and unfathomable thoughts engravedEternal wrath on his immortal face,Andwherehe gazed a gloom pervaded space.Byron,The Vision of Judgment
(4) While thus they spake, the angelic caravan,Arriving like a rush of mighty wind,Cleaving the fields of space, as doth the swanSome silver stream (say Ganges, Nile, or Inde,Or Thames, or Tweed), and ’midst them an old manWith an old soul, and both extremely blind,Halted before the gate, and in his shroudSeated their fellow traveller on a cloud.
(4) While thus they spake, the angelic caravan,
Arriving like a rush of mighty wind,
Cleaving the fields of space, as doth the swan
Some silver stream (say Ganges, Nile, or Inde,
Or Thames, or Tweed), and ’midst them an old man
With an old soul, and both extremely blind,
Halted before the gate, and in his shroud
Seated their fellow traveller on a cloud.
But bringing up the rear of this bright hostA Spirit of a different aspect wavedHis wings, like thunder-clouds above some coastWhose barren beach with frequent wrecks is paved;His brow was like the deep when tempest-toss’d;Fierce and unfathomable thoughts engravedEternal wrath on his immortal face,Andwherehe gazed a gloom pervaded space.Byron,The Vision of Judgment
But bringing up the rear of this bright host
A Spirit of a different aspect waved
His wings, like thunder-clouds above some coast
Whose barren beach with frequent wrecks is paved;
His brow was like the deep when tempest-toss’d;
Fierce and unfathomable thoughts engraved
Eternal wrath on his immortal face,
Andwherehe gazed a gloom pervaded space.
Byron,The Vision of Judgment
4. The two following extracts represent two styles used by Scott. How far is each appropriate to the characters, the period, and the occasion of each novel? Which seems the more natural? How does this compare with Shakespeare’s use of prose and blank verse in his plays?
(1) “Od, here’s another,” quoth Mrs Mailsetter. “A ship-letter—post-mark, Sunderland.” All rushed to seize it.—“Na, na, leddies,” said Mrs Mailsetter, interfering; “I hae had eneugh o’ that wark—ken ye that Mr Mailsetter got an unco rebuke frae the secretary at Edinburgh, for a complaint that was made about the letter of Aily Bisset’s that ye opened, Mrs Shortcake?”“Me opened!” answered the spouse of the chief baker of Fairport; “ye ken yoursel’, madam, it just cam open o’ free will in my hand—what could I help it?—folk suld seal wi’ better wax.”“Weel I wot that’s true, too,” said Mrs Mailsetter, who kept a shop of small wares, “and we have got some that I can honestly recommend, if ye ken onybody wanting it. But the short and the lang o’t is, that we’ll lose the place gin there’s ony mair complaints o’ the kind.”“Hout, lass—the provost will take care o’ that.”“Na, na—I’ll neither trust to provost nor bailie,” said the postmistress,—“but I wad ay be obliging and neighbourly, and I’m no again your looking at the outside of a letter neither.—See, the seal has an anchor on’t—he’s done’t wi’ ane o’ his buttons, I’m thinking.”The Antiquary
(1) “Od, here’s another,” quoth Mrs Mailsetter. “A ship-letter—post-mark, Sunderland.” All rushed to seize it.—“Na, na, leddies,” said Mrs Mailsetter, interfering; “I hae had eneugh o’ that wark—ken ye that Mr Mailsetter got an unco rebuke frae the secretary at Edinburgh, for a complaint that was made about the letter of Aily Bisset’s that ye opened, Mrs Shortcake?”
“Me opened!” answered the spouse of the chief baker of Fairport; “ye ken yoursel’, madam, it just cam open o’ free will in my hand—what could I help it?—folk suld seal wi’ better wax.”
“Weel I wot that’s true, too,” said Mrs Mailsetter, who kept a shop of small wares, “and we have got some that I can honestly recommend, if ye ken onybody wanting it. But the short and the lang o’t is, that we’ll lose the place gin there’s ony mair complaints o’ the kind.”
“Hout, lass—the provost will take care o’ that.”
“Na, na—I’ll neither trust to provost nor bailie,” said the postmistress,—“but I wad ay be obliging and neighbourly, and I’m no again your looking at the outside of a letter neither.—See, the seal has an anchor on’t—he’s done’t wi’ ane o’ his buttons, I’m thinking.”
The Antiquary
(2) “And these are all nobles of Araby?” said Richard, looking around on wild forms with their persons covered with haiks, their countenances swart with the sunbeams, their teeth as white as ivory, their black eyes glancing with fierce and preternatural lustre from under the shade of their turbans, and their dress being in general simple, even to meanness.“They claim such rank,” said Saladin; “but, though numerous, they are within the conditions of the treaty, and bear no arms but the sabre—even the iron of their lances is left behind.”“I fear,” muttered De Vaux in English, “they have left them where they can be soon found.—A most flourishing House of Peers, I confess, and would find Westminster Hall something too narrow for them.”“Hush, De Vaux,” said Richard, “I command thee.—Noble Saladin,” he said, “suspicion and thou cannot exist on the same ground.—Seest thou,” pointing to the litters—“I too have brought some champions with me, though armed, perhaps, in breach of agreement, for bright eyes and fair features are weapons which cannot be left behind.”The Talisman
(2) “And these are all nobles of Araby?” said Richard, looking around on wild forms with their persons covered with haiks, their countenances swart with the sunbeams, their teeth as white as ivory, their black eyes glancing with fierce and preternatural lustre from under the shade of their turbans, and their dress being in general simple, even to meanness.
“They claim such rank,” said Saladin; “but, though numerous, they are within the conditions of the treaty, and bear no arms but the sabre—even the iron of their lances is left behind.”
“I fear,” muttered De Vaux in English, “they have left them where they can be soon found.—A most flourishing House of Peers, I confess, and would find Westminster Hall something too narrow for them.”
“Hush, De Vaux,” said Richard, “I command thee.—Noble Saladin,” he said, “suspicion and thou cannot exist on the same ground.—Seest thou,” pointing to the litters—“I too have brought some champions with me, though armed, perhaps, in breach of agreement, for bright eyes and fair features are weapons which cannot be left behind.”
The Talisman
5. Compare Wordsworth’s view of nature with that of Byron, as revealed in the two following extracts. Which view seems to be the deeper and clearer? How far does each reflect the life and habits of the author?
(1)The sounding cataractHaunted me like a passion; the tall rock,The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,Their colours and their forms, were then to meAn appetite; a feeling and a loveThat had no need of a remoter charm,By thought supplied, or any interestUnborrowed from the eye. That time is past,And all its aching joys are now no more,And all its dizzy raptures. Not for thisFaint I, nor mourn, nor murmur; other giftsHave followed,—for such loss, I would believe,Abundant recompense. For I have learnedTo look on nature, not as in the hourOf thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimesThe still, sad music of humanity,Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample powerTo chasten and subdue.Wordsworth,Tintern Abbey
(1)The sounding cataractHaunted me like a passion; the tall rock,The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,Their colours and their forms, were then to meAn appetite; a feeling and a loveThat had no need of a remoter charm,By thought supplied, or any interestUnborrowed from the eye. That time is past,And all its aching joys are now no more,And all its dizzy raptures. Not for thisFaint I, nor mourn, nor murmur; other giftsHave followed,—for such loss, I would believe,Abundant recompense. For I have learnedTo look on nature, not as in the hourOf thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimesThe still, sad music of humanity,Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample powerTo chasten and subdue.Wordsworth,Tintern Abbey
(1)The sounding cataractHaunted me like a passion; the tall rock,The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,Their colours and their forms, were then to meAn appetite; a feeling and a loveThat had no need of a remoter charm,By thought supplied, or any interestUnborrowed from the eye. That time is past,And all its aching joys are now no more,And all its dizzy raptures. Not for thisFaint I, nor mourn, nor murmur; other giftsHave followed,—for such loss, I would believe,Abundant recompense. For I have learnedTo look on nature, not as in the hourOf thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimesThe still, sad music of humanity,Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample powerTo chasten and subdue.Wordsworth,Tintern Abbey
(1)The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms, were then to me
An appetite; a feeling and a love
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, or any interest
Unborrowed from the eye. That time is past,
And all its aching joys are now no more,
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this
Faint I, nor mourn, nor murmur; other gifts
Have followed,—for such loss, I would believe,
Abundant recompense. For I have learned
To look on nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes
The still, sad music of humanity,
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power
To chasten and subdue.
Wordsworth,Tintern Abbey
(2) And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joyOf youthful sports was on thy breast to beBorne like thy bubbles, onward: from a boyI wantoned with thy breakers, they to meWere a delight; and if the freshening seaMade them a terror,’twas a pleasing fear,For I was as it were a child of thee,And trusted to thy billows far and near,And laid my hand upon thy mane—as I do here.Byron,Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage
(2) And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joyOf youthful sports was on thy breast to beBorne like thy bubbles, onward: from a boyI wantoned with thy breakers, they to meWere a delight; and if the freshening seaMade them a terror,’twas a pleasing fear,For I was as it were a child of thee,And trusted to thy billows far and near,And laid my hand upon thy mane—as I do here.Byron,Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage
(2) And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joyOf youthful sports was on thy breast to beBorne like thy bubbles, onward: from a boyI wantoned with thy breakers, they to meWere a delight; and if the freshening seaMade them a terror,’twas a pleasing fear,For I was as it were a child of thee,And trusted to thy billows far and near,And laid my hand upon thy mane—as I do here.Byron,Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage
(2) And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy
I wantoned with thy breakers, they to me
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea
Made them a terror,’twas a pleasing fear,
For I was as it were a child of thee,
And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane—as I do here.
Byron,Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage
6. The first extract below gives Shelley’s idea of the cause of Keats’s death. Compare it with the more cynical utterance of Byron, quoted next. How far does each extract reveal the author’s attitude toward life in general? How far is each statement true?
(1) Our Adonais has drunk poison—oh!What deaf and viperous murderer could crownLife’s early cup with such a draught of woe?The nameless worm would now itself disown:It felt, yet could escape, the magic toneWhose prelude held all envy, hate, and wrong,But what was howling in one breast alone,Silent with expectation of the song,Whose master’s hand is cold, whose silver lyre unstrung.Adonais
(1) Our Adonais has drunk poison—oh!What deaf and viperous murderer could crownLife’s early cup with such a draught of woe?The nameless worm would now itself disown:It felt, yet could escape, the magic toneWhose prelude held all envy, hate, and wrong,But what was howling in one breast alone,Silent with expectation of the song,Whose master’s hand is cold, whose silver lyre unstrung.Adonais
(1) Our Adonais has drunk poison—oh!What deaf and viperous murderer could crownLife’s early cup with such a draught of woe?The nameless worm would now itself disown:It felt, yet could escape, the magic toneWhose prelude held all envy, hate, and wrong,But what was howling in one breast alone,Silent with expectation of the song,Whose master’s hand is cold, whose silver lyre unstrung.Adonais
(1) Our Adonais has drunk poison—oh!
What deaf and viperous murderer could crown
Life’s early cup with such a draught of woe?
The nameless worm would now itself disown:
It felt, yet could escape, the magic tone
Whose prelude held all envy, hate, and wrong,
But what was howling in one breast alone,
Silent with expectation of the song,
Whose master’s hand is cold, whose silver lyre unstrung.
Adonais
(2) John Keats, who was killed off with one critique,Just as he really promised something great,If not intelligible, without GreekContrived to talk about the gods of late,Much as they might have been supposed to speak.Poor fellow! His was an untoward fate;’Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle,Should of itself be snuffed out by an article.Don Juan
(2) John Keats, who was killed off with one critique,Just as he really promised something great,If not intelligible, without GreekContrived to talk about the gods of late,Much as they might have been supposed to speak.Poor fellow! His was an untoward fate;’Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle,Should of itself be snuffed out by an article.Don Juan
(2) John Keats, who was killed off with one critique,Just as he really promised something great,If not intelligible, without GreekContrived to talk about the gods of late,Much as they might have been supposed to speak.Poor fellow! His was an untoward fate;’Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle,Should of itself be snuffed out by an article.Don Juan
(2) John Keats, who was killed off with one critique,
Just as he really promised something great,
If not intelligible, without Greek
Contrived to talk about the gods of late,
Much as they might have been supposed to speak.
Poor fellow! His was an untoward fate;
’Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle,
Should of itself be snuffed out by an article.
Don Juan
7. Compare Scott and Coleridge as narrative poets.
8. How far does the supernatural enter into the work of Scott, Shelley, and Coleridge? Give a brief account of each.
9. Mention some of the chief literary critics of the period. What are the main features of their criticism?
10. Give an account of the contemporary drama, naming some of the chief plays and giving a criticism of their principal features.
11. What use do Shelley, Keats, and Coleridge make of natural features? How do their attitudes compare with that of Wordsworth?
12. Write a note on the chief satirists of the period both in prose and poetry.
13. Estimate the importance of Scott’s contribution to the novel.
14. Who are the chief lyrical poets of the period? Point out their respective excellences and defects.
15. “In the earliest years of the nineteenth century, all the influences which were most harmful to prose style were most rife. The best elements of the eighteenth-century prose were gone, and a new host were rushing into literature.” (Craik.) What were the influences that were at work? How far did they affect prose style? How far did the influence of journalism affect prose style?
16. “In point of genius the period is a period of poetry; in point of mere form the remarkable change in it concerns not poetry but prose.” (Saintsbury.) Discuss this statement. How far do the poets excel the prose-writers in merit? Did the prose-writers revolt more strongly against the earlier fashions?
17. “The ExcursionandThe Prelude, his poems of greatest bulk, are by no means Wordsworth’s best work. His best work is in his shorter pieces.” (Matthew Arnold.) Discuss this statement.