IV

“The smell of violets hidden in the green.”

Nor was he especially sensitive to colour. Most of his descriptions in this region are vague and luminous, rather than precise and brilliant. Colour-words are comparatively rare in his poems. Yellow, I think, was his favourite, if we may judge by the flowers that he mentioned most frequently. Yet more than any colour he loved clearness, transparency, the diaphanous current of a pure stream, the light of sunset

“that imbuesWhate’er it strikes with gem-like hues.”

“that imbues

Whate’er it strikes with gem-like hues.”

But in two things his power of observation was unsurpassed, I think we may almost say, unrivalled:in sound, and in movement. For these he had what he describes in his sailor-brother,

“a watchful heartStill couchant, an inevitable ear,And an eye practiced like a blind man’s touch.”

“a watchful heart

Still couchant, an inevitable ear,

And an eye practiced like a blind man’s touch.”

In one of his juvenile poems, a sonnet describing the stillness of the world at twilight, he says:

“Calm is all nature as a resting wheel;The kine are couched upon the dewy grass,The horse alone seen dimly as I pass,Is cropping audibly his evening meal.”

“Calm is all nature as a resting wheel;

The kine are couched upon the dewy grass,

The horse alone seen dimly as I pass,

Is cropping audibly his evening meal.”

At nightfall, while he is listening to the hooting of the owls and mocking them, there comes an interval of silence, and then

“a gentle shock of mild surpriseHas carried far into his heart the voiceOf mountain torrents.”

“a gentle shock of mild surprise

Has carried far into his heart the voice

Of mountain torrents.”

At midnight, on the summit of Snowdon, from a rift in the cloud-ocean at his feet, he hears

“the roar of waters, torrents, streamsInnumerable, roaring with one voice.”

“the roar of waters, torrents, streams

Innumerable, roaring with one voice.”

Under the shadows of the great yew-trees of Borrowdalek he loves

“To lie and listen to the mountain floodMurmuring from Glaramara’s inmost caves.”

“To lie and listen to the mountain flood

Murmuring from Glaramara’s inmost caves.”

What could be more perfect than the little lyric which begins

“Yes, it was the mountain echoSolitary, clear, profound,Answering to the shouting cuckooGiving to her sound for sound.”

“Yes, it was the mountain echo

Solitary, clear, profound,

Answering to the shouting cuckoo

Giving to her sound for sound.”

How poignant is the touch with which he describes the notes of the fiery-hearted Nightingale, singing in the dusk:

“they pierce and pierce;Tumultuous harmony and fierce!”

“they pierce and pierce;

Tumultuous harmony and fierce!”

But at sunrise other choristers make different melodies:

“The birds are singing in the distant woods;Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods;The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters;And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters.”

“The birds are singing in the distant woods;

Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods;

The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters;

And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters.”

Wandering into a lovely glen among the hills, he hears all the voices of nature blending together:

“The Stream, so ardent in its course before,Sent forth such sallies of glad sound that allWhich I till then had heard, appeared the voiceOf common pleasure: beast and bird, the lamb,The shepherd’s dog, the linnet and the thrushVied with this waterfall, and made a song,Which while I listened, seemed like the wild growthOr like some natural produce of the airThat could not cease to be.”

“The Stream, so ardent in its course before,

Sent forth such sallies of glad sound that all

Which I till then had heard, appeared the voice

Of common pleasure: beast and bird, the lamb,

The shepherd’s dog, the linnet and the thrush

Vied with this waterfall, and made a song,

Which while I listened, seemed like the wild growth

Or like some natural produce of the air

That could not cease to be.”

Wordsworth, more than any other English poet, interprets and glorifies the mystery of sound. He is the poet who sits oftenest by the Ear-Gate listening to the whispers and murmurs of the invisible guests who throng that portal into “the city of Man-Soul.” Indeed the whole spiritual meaning of nature seems to come to him in the form of sound.

“Wonder notIf high the transport, great the joy I felt,Communing in this sort through earth and heavenWith every form of creature, as it lookedTowards the Uncreated with a countenanceOf adoration, with an eye of love.One song they sang, and it was audible,Most audible, then, when the fleshly ear,O’ercome by humblest prelude of that strain,Forgot her functions and slept undisturbed.”

“Wonder not

If high the transport, great the joy I felt,

Communing in this sort through earth and heaven

With every form of creature, as it looked

Towards the Uncreated with a countenance

Of adoration, with an eye of love.

One song they sang, and it was audible,

Most audible, then, when the fleshly ear,

O’ercome by humblest prelude of that strain,

Forgot her functions and slept undisturbed.”

No less wonderful is his sense of the delicate motions of nature, the visible transition of form and outline. How exquisite is the description of a high-poising summer-cloud,

“That heareth not the loud winds when they call;And moveth all together, if it move at all.”

“That heareth not the loud winds when they call;

And moveth all together, if it move at all.”

He sees the hazy ridges of the mountains like a golden ladder,

“Climbing suffused with sunny airTo stop—no record hath told where!”

“Climbing suffused with sunny air

To stop—no record hath told where!”

He sees the gentle mists

“Curling with unconfirmed intentOn that green mountain’s side.”

“Curling with unconfirmed intent

On that green mountain’s side.”

He watches the swan swimming on Lake Lucarno,—

“Behold!—as with a gushing impulse heavesThat downy prow, and softly cleavesThe mirror of the crystal flood,Vanish inverted hill and shadowy wood.”

“Behold!—as with a gushing impulse heaves

That downy prow, and softly cleaves

The mirror of the crystal flood,

Vanish inverted hill and shadowy wood.”

He catches sight of the fluttering green linnet among the hazel-trees:

“My dazzled sight he oft deceives,A Brother of the dancing leaves.”

“My dazzled sight he oft deceives,

A Brother of the dancing leaves.”

He looks on the meadows sleeping in the spring sunshine:

“The cattle are grazing,Their heads never raising,There are forty feeding like one!”

“The cattle are grazing,

Their heads never raising,

There are forty feeding like one!”

He beholds the far-off torrent pouring down Ben Cruachan:

“Yon foaming flood seems motionless as ice;Its dizzy turbulence eludes the eye,Frozen by distance.”

“Yon foaming flood seems motionless as ice;

Its dizzy turbulence eludes the eye,

Frozen by distance.”

Now in such an observation of Nature as this, so keen, so patient, so loving, so delicate, there is an immediate comfort for the troubled mind, a direct refuge and repose for the heart. To see and hear such things is peace and joy. It is a consolation and an education. Wordsworth himself has said this very distinctly.

“One impulse from a vernal woodMay teach you more of manOf moral evil and of goodThan all the sages can.”

“One impulse from a vernal wood

May teach you more of man

Of moral evil and of good

Than all the sages can.”

But the most perfect expression of his faith in the educating power of Nature is given in one of the little group of lyrics which are bound together by the name of Lucy,—love-songs so pure and simple that they seem almost mysterious in their ethereal passion.

“Three years she grew in sun and shower,Then Nature said, ‘A lovelier flowerOn earth was never sown;This Child I to myself will take;She shall be mine, and I will makeA Lady of my own.Myself will to my darling beBoth law and impulse; and with meThe Girl, in rock and plain,In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,Shall feel an overseeing powerTo kindle or restrain....The stars of midnight shall be dearTo her; and she shall lean her earIn many a secret placeWhere rivulets dance their wayward round,And beauty born of murmuring soundShall pass into her face.’”

“Three years she grew in sun and shower,Then Nature said, ‘A lovelier flowerOn earth was never sown;This Child I to myself will take;She shall be mine, and I will makeA Lady of my own.

“Three years she grew in sun and shower,

Then Nature said, ‘A lovelier flower

On earth was never sown;

This Child I to myself will take;

She shall be mine, and I will make

A Lady of my own.

Myself will to my darling beBoth law and impulse; and with meThe Girl, in rock and plain,In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,Shall feel an overseeing powerTo kindle or restrain.

Myself will to my darling be

Both law and impulse; and with me

The Girl, in rock and plain,

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,

Shall feel an overseeing power

To kindle or restrain.

...

The stars of midnight shall be dearTo her; and she shall lean her earIn many a secret placeWhere rivulets dance their wayward round,And beauty born of murmuring soundShall pass into her face.’”

The stars of midnight shall be dear

To her; and she shall lean her ear

In many a secret place

Where rivulets dance their wayward round,

And beauty born of murmuring sound

Shall pass into her face.’”

The personification of Nature in this poem is at the farthest removed from the traditional poetic fiction which peopled the world with Dryads and Nymphs and Oreads. Nor has it any touch of the “pathetic fallacy” which imposes the thoughts and feelings of man upon natural objects. It presents unconsciously, very simply, and yet prophetically, Wordsworth’s vision of Nature,—a vision whose distinctive marks are vitality and unity.

It is his faith that “every flower enjoys the air it breathes.” It is also his faith that underlying and animating all this joy there is the life of one mighty Spirit. This faith rises to its most magnificent expression in the famousLines composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey:

“And I have feltA presence that disturbs me with the joyOf elevated thought; a sense sublimeOf something far more deeply interfused,Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,And the round ocean and the living air,And the blue sky, and in the mind of man:A motion and a spirit, that impelsAll thinking things, all objects of all thought,And rolls through all things.”

“And I have felt

A presence that disturbs me with the joy

Of elevated thought; a sense sublime

Of something far more deeply interfused,

Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,

And the round ocean and the living air,

And the blue sky, and in the mind of man:

A motion and a spirit, that impels

All thinking things, all objects of all thought,

And rolls through all things.”

The union of this animating Spirit of Nature, with the beholding, contemplating, rejoicing spirit of man is like a pure and noble marriage, in which man attains peace and the spousal consummation of his being. This is the first remedy which Wordsworth finds for the malady of despair, the first and simplest burden of his prophecy of joy. And he utters it with confidence,

“Knowing that Nature never did betrayThe heart that loved her; ’tis her privilege,Through all the years of this our life, to leadFrom joy to joy: for she can so informThe mind that is within us, so impressWith quietness and beauty, and so feedWith lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor allThe dreary intercourse of daily life,Shall e’er prevail against us, or disturbOur cheerful faith that all which we beholdIs full of blessings.”

“Knowing that Nature never did betray

The heart that loved her; ’tis her privilege,

Through all the years of this our life, to lead

From joy to joy: for she can so inform

The mind that is within us, so impress

With quietness and beauty, and so feed

With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,

Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,

Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all

The dreary intercourse of daily life,

Shall e’er prevail against us, or disturb

Our cheerful faith that all which we behold

Is full of blessings.”

Side by side with this revelation of Nature, and interwoven with it so closely as to be inseparable, Wordsworth was receiving a revelation of humanity, no less marvellous, no less significant for his recovery of joy. Indeed he himself seems to have thought it the more important of the two, for he speaks of the mind of man as

“My haunt and the main region of my song”;

And again he says that he will set out, like an adventurer,

“And through the human heart explore the way;And look and listen—gathering whence I may,Triumph, and thoughts no bondage can restrain.”

“And through the human heart explore the way;

And look and listen—gathering whence I may,

Triumph, and thoughts no bondage can restrain.”

The discovery of humble life, of peasant character, of lowly, trivial scenes and incidents, as a field for poetry, was not original with Wordsworth. But he was the first English poet to explore this field thoroughly, sympathetically, with steady and deepening joy. Burns had been there before him; but the song of Burns though clear and passionate, was fitful. Cowper had been there before him; but Cowper was like a visitor from the polite world, never an inhabitant, never quite able to pierce gently, powerfully down to the realities of lowly life and abide in them. Crabbe had been there before him; but Crabbe was something of a pessimist; he felt the rough shell of the nut, but did not taste the sweet kernel.

Wordsworth, if I may draw a comparison from another art, was the Millet of English poetry. In his verse we find the same quality of perfect comprehension, of tender pathos, of absolute truth interfused with delicate beauty that makes Millet’sAngelus, andThe GleanersandThe SowerandThe Sheepfold, immortal visions of the lowly life. Place beside these pictures, if you will, Wordsworth’sSolitary Reaper,The Old Cumberland Beggar,Margaretwaiting in her ruined cottage for the husband who would never return,Michael, the old shepherd who stood, many and many a day, beside the unfinished sheepfold which he had begun to build with his lost boy,

“And never lifted up a single stone,”—

place these beside Millet’s pictures, and the poems will bear the comparison.

Coleridge called Wordsworth “a miner of the human heart.” But there is a striking peculiarity in his mining: he searched the most familiar places, by the most simple methods, to bring out the rarest and least suspected treasures. His discovery was that there is an element of poetry, like some metal of great value, diffused through the common clay of every-day life.

It is true that he did not always succeed in separating the precious metal from the surrounding dross. There were certain limitations in his mind which prevented him from distinguishing that which was familiar and precious, from that which was merely familiar.

One of these limitations was his lack of a senseof humour. At a dinner-party he announced that he was never witty but once in his life. When asked to narrate the instance, after some hesitation he said: “Well, I will tell you. I was standing some time ago at the entrance of my cottage at Rydal Mount. A man accosted me with the question, ‘Pray, sir, have you seen my wife pass by?’ Whereupon I said, ‘Why, my good friend, I didn’t know till this moment that you had a wife!’” The humour of this story is unintentional and lies otherwhere than Wordsworth thought. The fact that he was capable of telling it as a merry jest accounts for the presence of many queer things in his poetry. For example; the lines inSimon Lee,

“Few months of life has he in storeAs he to you will tell,For still the more he works, the moreDo his weak ankles swell:”

“Few months of life has he in store

As he to you will tell,

For still the more he works, the more

Do his weak ankles swell:”

the stanza inPeter Bell, which Shelley was accused of having maliciously invented, but which was actually printed in the first edition of the poem,

“Is it a party in a parlourCramming just as they on earth were crammed,Some sipping punch—some sipping teaBut, as you by their faces see,All silent and all—damned?”

“Is it a party in a parlour

Cramming just as they on earth were crammed,

Some sipping punch—some sipping tea

But, as you by their faces see,

All silent and all—damned?”

the couplet in the original version ofThe Blind Highland Boywhich describes him as embarking on his voyage in

“A household tub, like one of thoseWhich women use to wash their clothes.”

“A household tub, like one of those

Which women use to wash their clothes.”

It is quite certain, I think, that Wordsworth’s insensibility to the humourous side of things made him incapable of perceiving one considerable source of comfort and solace in lowly life. Plain and poor people get a great deal of consolation, in their hard journey, out of the rude but keen fun that they take by the way. The sense of humour is a means of grace.

I doubt whether Wordsworth’s peasant-poetry has ever been widely popular among peasants themselves. There was an old farmer in the Lake Country who had often seen the poet and talked with him, and who remembered him well. Canon Rawnsley has made an interesting record of some of the old man’s reminiscences. When he was asked whether he had ever read any of Wordsworth’spoetry, or seen any of his books about in the farmhouses, he answered:

“Ay, ay, time or two. But ya’re weel aware there’s potry and potry. There’s potry wi’ a li’le bit pleasant in it, and potry sic as a man can laugh at or the childer understand, and some as takes a deal of mastery to make out what’s said, and a deal of Wordsworth’s was this sort, ye kna. You could tell fra the man’s faace his potry would niver have no laugh in it.”

But when we have admitted these limitations, it remains true that no other English poet has penetrated so deeply into the springs of poetry which rise by every cottage door, or sung so nobly of the treasures which are hidden in the humblest human heart, as Wordsworth has. This is his merit, his incomparable merit, that he has done so much, amid the hard conditions, the broken dreams, and the cruel necessities of life, to remind us how rich we are in being simply human.

Like Clifford, in theSong at the Feast of Brougham Castle,

“Love had he found in huts where poor men lie,”

and thenceforth his chosen task was to explore the beauty and to show the power of that common love.

“There is a comfort in the strength of love;’Twill make a thing endurable, which elseWould overset the brain or break the heart.”

“There is a comfort in the strength of love;

’Twill make a thing endurable, which else

Would overset the brain or break the heart.”

He found the best portion of a good man’s life in

“His little, nameless, unremembered actsOf kindness and of love.”

“His little, nameless, unremembered acts

Of kindness and of love.”

InThe Old Cumberland Beggarhe declared

“’Tis Nature’s lawThat none, the meanest of created things,Of forms created the most vile and brute,The dullest or most noxious, should existDivorced from good—a spirit and pulse of good,A life and soul, to every mode of beingInseparably linked.”

“’Tis Nature’s law

That none, the meanest of created things,

Of forms created the most vile and brute,

The dullest or most noxious, should exist

Divorced from good—a spirit and pulse of good,

A life and soul, to every mode of being

Inseparably linked.”

And then he went on to trace, not always with full poetic inspiration, but still with many touches of beautiful insight, the good that the old beggar did and received in the world, by wakening among the peasants to whose doors he came from year to year, the memory of past deeds of charity, by giving them a sense of kinship with the world of want and sorrow, and by bestowing on them in their povertythe opportunity of showing mercy to one whose needs were even greater than their own; for,—the poet adds—with one of those penetrating flashes which are the surest mark of his genius,—

“Man is dear to man; the poorest poorLong for some moments in a weary lifeWhen they can know and feel that they have been,Themselves, the fathers and the dealers outOf some small blessings; have been kind to suchAs needed kindness, for this single causeThat we have all of us one human heart.”

“Man is dear to man; the poorest poor

Long for some moments in a weary life

When they can know and feel that they have been,

Themselves, the fathers and the dealers out

Of some small blessings; have been kind to such

As needed kindness, for this single cause

That we have all of us one human heart.”

Nor did Wordsworth forget, in his estimate of the value of the simplest life, those pleasures which are shared by all men.

“Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room;And hermits are contented with their cells;And students with their pensive citadels;Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloomHigh as the highest Peak of Furniss-fells,Will murmur by the hour in fox-glove bells;In truth the prison, unto which we doomOurselves, no prison is.”

“Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room;

And hermits are contented with their cells;

And students with their pensive citadels;

Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,

Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom

High as the highest Peak of Furniss-fells,

Will murmur by the hour in fox-glove bells;

In truth the prison, unto which we doom

Ourselves, no prison is.”

He sees a Miller dancing with two girls on the platform of a boat moored in the river Thames, andbreaks out into a song on the “stray pleasures” that are spread through the earth to be claimed by whoever shall find them. A little crowd of poor people gather around a wandering musician in a city street, and the poet cries,

“Now, coaches and chariots! roar on like a stream;Here are twenty souls happy as souls in a dream;They are deaf to your murmurs—they care not for you,Nor what ye are flying, nor what ye pursue!”

“Now, coaches and chariots! roar on like a stream;

Here are twenty souls happy as souls in a dream;

They are deaf to your murmurs—they care not for you,

Nor what ye are flying, nor what ye pursue!”

He describes Coleridge and himself as lying together on the greensward in the orchard by the cottage at Grasmere, and says

“If but a bird, to keep them company,Or butterfly sate down, they were, I ween,As pleased as if the same had been a maiden Queen.”

“If but a bird, to keep them company,

Or butterfly sate down, they were, I ween,

As pleased as if the same had been a maiden Queen.”

It was of such simple and unchartered blessings that he loved to sing. He did not think that the vain or the worldly would care to listen to his voice. Indeed he said in a memorable passage of gentle scorn that he did not expect his poetry to be fashionable. “It is an awful truth,” wrote he to Lady Beaumont, “that there neither is nor can be any genuine enjoyment of poetry among nineteen out of twentyof those persons who either live or wish to live in the broad light of the world,—among those who either are, or are striving to make themselves, people of consideration in society. This is a truth, and an awful one, because to be incapable of a feeling of poetry, in my sense of the word, is to be without love of human nature and reverence for God.” He did not expect that his poetry would be popular in that world where men and women devote themselves to the business of pleasure, and where they care only for the things that minister to vanity or selfishness,—and it never was.

But there was another world where he expected to be welcome and of service. He wished his poetry to cheer the solitary, to uplift the downcast, to bid the despairing hope again, to teach the impoverished how much treasure was left to them. In short, he intended by the quiet ministry of his art to be one of those

“Poets who keep the world in heart,”

—and so he was.

It is impossible to exaggerate the value of such a service. Measured by any true and vital standardWordsworth’s contribution to the welfare of mankind was greater, more enduring than that of the amazing Corsican, Bonaparte, who was born but a few months before him and blazed his way to glory. Wordsworth’s service was to life at its fountain-head. His remedy for the despair and paralysis of the soul was not the prescription of a definite philosophy as an antidote. It was a hygienic method, a simple, healthful, loving life in fellowship with man and nature, by which the native tranquillity and vigour of the soul would be restored. The tendency of his poetry is to enhance our interest in humanity, to promote the cultivation of the small but useful virtues, to brighten our joy in common things, and to deepen our trust in a wise, kind, over-ruling God. Wordsworth gives us not so much a new scheme of life as a new sense of its interior and inalienable wealth. His calm, noble, lofty poetry is needed to-day to counteract the belittling and distracting influence of great cities; to save us from that most modern form of insanity, publicomania, which sacrifices all the sanctities of life to the craze for advertising; and to make a little quiet space inthe heart, where those who are still capable of thought, in this age of clattering machinery, shall be able to hear themselves think.

But there is one still deeper element in Wordsworth’s poetry. He tells us very clearly that the true liberty and grandeur ofmankindare to be found along the line of obedience to law and fidelity to duty. This is the truth which was revealed to him, slowly and serenely, as a consolation for the loss of his brief revolutionary dream. He learned to rejoice in it more and more deeply, and to proclaim it more and more clearly, as his manhood settled into firmness and strength.

Fixing his attention at first upon the humblest examples of the power of the human heart to resist unfriendly circumstances, as inResolution and Independence, and to endure sufferings and trials, as inMargaretandMichael, he grew into a new conception of the right nobility. He saw that it was not necessary to make a great overturning of society before the individual man could begin tofulfil his destiny. “What then remains?” he cries—

“To seekThose helps for his occasion ever nearWho lacks not will to use them; vows, renewedOn the first motion of a holy thought;Vigils of contemplation; praise; and prayer—A stream, which, from the fountain of the heart,Issuing however feebly, nowhere flowsWithout access of unexpected strength.But, above all, the victory is sureFor him, who seeking faith by virtue, strivesTo yield entire submission to the lawOf conscience—conscience reverenced and obeyed,As God’s most intimate presence in the soul,And his most perfect image in the world.”

“To seek

Those helps for his occasion ever near

Who lacks not will to use them; vows, renewed

On the first motion of a holy thought;

Vigils of contemplation; praise; and prayer—

A stream, which, from the fountain of the heart,

Issuing however feebly, nowhere flows

Without access of unexpected strength.

But, above all, the victory is sure

For him, who seeking faith by virtue, strives

To yield entire submission to the law

Of conscience—conscience reverenced and obeyed,

As God’s most intimate presence in the soul,

And his most perfect image in the world.”

If we would hear this message breathed in tones of lyric sweetness, as to the notes of a silver harp, we may turn to Wordsworth’s poems on the Skylark,—

“Type of the wise who soar, but never roam;True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home.”

“Type of the wise who soar, but never roam;

True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home.”

If we would hear it proclaimed with grandeur, as by a solemn organ; or with martial ardour, as by a ringing trumpet, we may read theOde to DutyorThe Character of the Happy Warrior, two of the noblest and most weighty poems that Wordsworthever wrote. There is a certain distinction and elevation about his moral feelings which makes them in themselves poetic. In his poetry beauty is goodness and goodness is beauty.

But I think it is in the Sonnets that this element of Wordsworth’s poetry finds the broadest and most perfect expression. For here he sweeps upward from the thought of the freedom and greatness of the individual man to the vision of nations and races emancipated and ennobled by loyalty to the right. How pregnant and powerful are his phrases! “Plain living and high thinking.” “The homely beauty of the good old cause.” “A few strong instincts and a few plain rules.” “Man’s unconquerable mind.” “By the soul only, the Nations shall be great and free.” The whole series ofSonnets addressed to Liberty, published in 1807, is full of poetic and prophetic fire. But none among them burns with a clearer light, none is more characteristic of him at his best, than that which is entitledLondon, 1802.

“Milton! thou should’st be living at this hour;England hath need of thee; she is a fenOf stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,Have forfeited their ancient English dowerOf inward happiness. We are selfish men;Oh! raise us up; return to us again;And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart;Thou had’st a voice whose sound was like the sea:Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,So didst thou travel on life’s common wayIn cheerful godliness; and yet thy heartThe lowliest duties on herself did lay.”

“Milton! thou should’st be living at this hour;

England hath need of thee; she is a fen

Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,

Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,

Have forfeited their ancient English dower

Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;

Oh! raise us up; return to us again;

And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.

Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart;

Thou had’st a voice whose sound was like the sea:

Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,

So didst thou travel on life’s common way

In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart

The lowliest duties on herself did lay.”

This sonnet embraces within its “scanty plot of ground” the roots of Wordsworth’s strength. Here is his view of nature in the kinship between the lonely star and the solitary soul. Here is his recognition of life’s common way as the path of honour, and of the lowliest duties as the highest. Here is his message that manners and virtue must go before freedom and power. And here is the deep spring and motive of all his work, in the thought thatjoy,inward happiness, is the dower that has been lost and must be regained.

Here then I conclude this chapter on Wordsworth. There are other things that might well be said abouthim, indeed that would need to be said if this were intended for a complete estimate of his influence. I should wish to speak of the deep effect which his poetry has had upon the style of other poets, breaking the bondage of “poetic diction” and leading the way to a simpler and more natural utterance. I should need to touch upon his alleged betrayal of his early revolutionary principles in politics, and to show, (if a paradox may be pardoned), that he never had them and that he always kept them. He never forsook liberty; he only changed his conception of it. He saw that the reconstruction of society must be preceded by reconstruction of the individual. Browning’s stirring lyric,The Lost Leader,—

“Just for a handful of silver he left us,Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat,”—

“Just for a handful of silver he left us,

Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat,”—

may have been written with Wordsworth in mind, but it was a singularly infelicitous suggestion of a remarkably good poem.

All of these additions would be necessary if this estimate were intended to be complete. But it is not, and so let it stand.

If we were to choose a motto for Wordsworth’s poetry it might be this: “Rejoice, and again I say unto you, rejoice.” And if we looked farther for a watchword, we might take it from that other great poet, Isaiah, standing between the fierce radicals and sullen conservatives of Israel, and saying,

“In quietness and confidence shall be your strength,In rest and in returning ye shall be saved.”

“In quietness and confidence shall be your strength,

In rest and in returning ye shall be saved.”

There is a striking contrast between the poetry of Browning and the poetry of Wordsworth; and this comes naturally from the difference between the two men in genius, temperament and life. I want to trace carefully and perhaps more clearly some of the lines of that difference. I do not propose to ask which of them ranks higher as poet. That seems to me a futile question. The contrast in kind interests me more than the comparison of degree. And this contrast, I think, can best be felt and understood through a closer knowledge of the central theme of each of the two poets.

Wordsworth is a poet of recovered joy. He brings consolation and refreshment to the heart,—consolation which is passive strength, refreshment which is peaceful energy. His poetry is addressed not to crowds, but to men standing alone, and feeling their loneliness most deeply when the crowdpresses most tumultuously about them. He speaks to us one by one, distracted by the very excess of life, separated from humanity by the multitude of men, dazzled by the shifting variety of hues into which the eternal light is broken by the prism of the world,—one by one he accosts us, and leads us gently back, if we will follow him, into a more tranquil region and a serener air. There we find the repose of “a heart at leisure from itself.” There we feel the unity of man and nature, and of both in God. There we catch sight of those eternal stars of truth whose shining, though sometimes hidden, is never dimmed by the cloud-confusions of morality. Such is the mission of Wordsworth to the age. Matthew Arnold has described it with profound beauty.

“He found us when the age had boundOur souls in its benumbing round,He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears.He laid us as we lay at birthOn the cool flowery lap of earth,Smiles broke from us and we had ease,The hills were round us, and the breezeWent o’er the sun-lit fields again:Our foreheads felt the wind and rain.Our youth returned; for there was shedOn spirits that had long been dead,Spirits dried up and closely furled,The freshness of the early world.”

“He found us when the age had bound

Our souls in its benumbing round,

He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears.

He laid us as we lay at birth

On the cool flowery lap of earth,

Smiles broke from us and we had ease,

The hills were round us, and the breeze

Went o’er the sun-lit fields again:

Our foreheads felt the wind and rain.

Our youth returned; for there was shed

On spirits that had long been dead,

Spirits dried up and closely furled,

The freshness of the early world.”

But precious as such a service is and ever must be, it does not fill the whole need of man’s heart. There are times and moods in which it seems pale and ineffectual. The very contrast between its serenity, its assurance, its disembodied passion, its radiant asceticism, and the mixed lights, the broken music, the fluctuating faith, the confused conflict of actual life, seems like a discouragement. It calls us to go into a retreat, that we may find ourselves and renew our power to live. But there are natures which do not easily adapt themselves to a retreat,—natures which crave stimulus more than consolation, and look for a solution of life’s problem that can be worked out while they are in motion. They do not wish, perhaps they are not able, to withdraw themselves from active life even for the sake of seeing it more clearly.

Wordsworth’s world seems to them too bare, too still, too monotonous. The rugged and unpopulousmountains, the lonely lakes, the secluded vales, do not attract them as much as the fertile plain with its luxuriant vegetation, the whirling city, the crowded highways of trade and pleasure. Simplicity is strange to them; complexity is their native element. They want music, but they want it to go with them in the march, the parade, the festal procession. The poet for them must be in the world, though he need not be altogether of it. He must speak of the rich and varied life of man as one who knows its artificial as well as its natural elements,—palaces as well as cottages, courts as well as sheep-folds. Art and politics and literature and science and churchmanship and society,—all must be familiar to him, material to his art, significant to his interpretation. His message must be modern and militant. He must not disregard doubt and rebellion and discord, but take them into his poetry and transform them. He must front

“The cloud of mortal destiny,”

and make the most of the light that breaks through it. Such a poet is Robert Browning; and his poetryis the direct answer to at least one side of the modernZeitgeist, restless, curious, self-conscious, energetic, the active, questioning spirit.

Browning’s poetic work-time covered a period of about fifty-six years, (1833-1889,) and during this time he published over thirty volumes of verse, containing more than two hundred and thirty poems, the longest,The Ring and the Book, extending to nearly twenty-one thousand lines. It was an immense output, greater I think, in mass, than that of almost any other English poet except Shakespeare. The mere fact of such productiveness is worth noting, because it is a proof of the activity of the poet’s mind, and also because it may throw some light upon certain peculiarities in the quality of his work.

Browning not only wrote much himself, he was also the cause of much writing in others. Commentaries, guide-books, handbooks, and expositions have grown up around his poetry so fast that the vines almost hide the trellis. The Browning Literature now demands not merely a shelf, but a wholecase to itself in the library. It has come to such a pass that one must choose between reading the books that Browning wrote and the books that other people have written about Browning. Life is too short for both.

A reason, if not a justification, for this growth of a locksmith literature about his work is undoubtedly to be found in what Mr. Augustine Birrell calls “The Alleged Obscurity of Mr. Browning’s Poetry.” The adjective in this happy title indicates one of the points in the voluminous discussion. Does the difficulty in understanding Browning lie in him, or in his readers? Is it an accidental defect of his style, or a valuable element of his art, or an inherent profundity of his subject that makes him hard to read? Or does the trouble reside altogether in the imagination of certain readers, or perhaps in their lack of it? This question was debated so seriously as to become at times almost personal and threaten the unity of households if not the peace of nations. Browning himself was accustomed to tell the story of a young man who could not read his poetry, falling deeply in love with a youngwoman who would hardly read anything else. She made it a condition of her favour that her lover should learn to love her poet, and therefore set the marriage day at a point beyond the time when the bridegroom could present himself before her with convincing evidence that he had perused the works of Browning down to the last line. Such was the strength of love that the condition was triumphantly fulfilled. The poet used to tell with humourous satisfaction that he assisted in person at the wedding of these two lovers whose happiness he had unconsciously delayed and accomplished.

But an incident like this does not contribute much to the settlement of the controversy which it illustrates. Love is a notorious miracle-worker. The question of Browning’s obscurity is still debatable; and whatever may be said on one side or the other, one fact must be recognized: it is not yet quite clear whether his poetry is clear or not.

To this fact I would trace the rise and flourishing of Browning Societies in considerable abundance, during the late Victorian Era, especially near Boston. The enterprise of reading and understandingBrowning presented itself as an affair too large and difficult for the intellectual capital of any private person. Corporations were formed, stock companies of intelligence were promoted, for the purpose of working the field of his poetry. The task which daunted the solitary individual was courageously undertaken by phalanxes and cheerfully pursued in fellowship. Thus the obscurity, alleged or actual, of the poet’s writing, having been at first a hindrance, afterward became an advertisement to his fame. The charm of the enigma, the fascination of solving riddles, the pleasure of understanding something which other people at least professed to be unable to understand, entered distinctly into the growth of his popularity. A Browning cult, a Browning propaganda, came into being and toiled tremendously.

One result of the work of these clubs and societies is already evident: they have done much to remove the cause which called them into being. It is generally recognized that a considerable part of Browning’s poetry is not really so difficult after all. It can be read and enjoyed by any one whose mind is in working order. Those innocent and stupidVictorians were wrong about it. We alert and sagacious George-the-Fifthians need some tougher poetry to try our mettle. So I suppose the Browning Societies, having fulfilled their function, will gradually fade away,—or perhaps transfer their attention to some of those later writers who have put obscurity on a scientific basis and raised impenetrability to a fine art. Meantime I question whether all the claims which were made on behalf of Browning in the period of propaganda will be allowed at their face value. For example, thatThe Ring and the Bookis “the greatest work of creative imagination that has appeared since the time of Shakespeare,”[10]and thatA Grammarian’s Funeralis “the most powerful ode in English, the mightiest tribute ever paid to a man,”[11]and that Browning’s “style as it stands is God-made, not Browning-made,”[12]appear even now like drafts on glory which must be discounted before they are paid. Nor does it seem probable that the general proposition whichwas sometimes advanced by extreme Browningites, (and others,) to the effect that all great poetryoughtto be hard to read, and that a poem which is easy cannot be great, will stand the test of time. Milton’sComus, Gray’sElegy, Wordsworth’sOde on the Intimations of Immortality, Shelley’sSkylark, Keats’Grecian Urn, and Tennyson’sGuineverecannot be reduced to the rank of minor verse by such a formula.

And yet it must be said that the very extravagance of the claims which were made for Browning, the audacity of enthusiasm which he inspired in his expositors, is a proof of the reality and the potency of his influence. Men are not kindled where there is no fire. Men do not keep on guessing riddles unless the answers have some interest and value. A stock company cannot create a prophet out of straw. Browning must have had something important to say to the age, and he must have succeeded in saying it in a way which was suitable, in spite of its defects, to convey his message, else we may be sure his age never would have listened to him, even by select companies, nor discussedhim, even in a partisan temper, nor felt his influence, even at second-hand.

What was it, then, that he had to say, and how did he say it? What was the theme of his poetry, what the method by which he found it, what the manner in which he treated it, and what the central element of his disposition by which the development of his genius was impelled and guided? These are the questions,—questions of fact rather than of theory,—that particularly interest me in regard to Browning. And I hope it may be possible to consider them from a somewhat fresh point of view, and without entering into disturbing and unprofitable comparisons of rank with Shakespeare and the other poets.

But there is no reason why the answers to these questions should be concealed until the end of the chapter. It may be better to state them now, in order that we may be able to test them as we go on, and judge whether they are justified and how far they need to be qualified. There is a particular reason for taking this course, in the fact that Browning changed very little in the process ofgrowth. There were alterations in his style, but there was no real alteration in the man, nor in his poetry. His first theme was his last theme. His early manner of treatment was his latest manner of treatment. What he said at the beginning he said again at the end. With the greatest possible variety of titles he had but one main topic; with the widest imaginable range of subjects, he used chiefly one method and reached but one conclusion; with a nature of almost unlimited breadth he was always under control of one central impulse and loyal to one central quality. Let me try, then, to condense the general impression into a paragraph and take up the particulars afterwards, point by point.

The clew to Browning’s mind, it seems to me, is vivid and inexhaustible curiosity, dominated by a strangely steady optimism. His topic is not the soul, in the abstract, but souls in the concrete. His chosen method is that of spiritual drama, and for the most part, monodrama. His manner is the intense, subtle, passionate style of psychological realism. His message, uttered through the lips ofa hundred imaginary characters, but always with his own accent,—his message is “the Glory of the Imperfect.”

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