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diff --git a/36773-8.txt b/36773-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ef54d13 --- /dev/null +++ b/36773-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,12482 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Oxford Lectures on Poetry, by Andrew Cecil Bradley + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Oxford Lectures on Poetry + +Author: Andrew Cecil Bradley + +Release Date: July 17, 2011 [EBook #36773] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OXFORD LECTURES ON POETRY *** + + + + +Produced by Marius Masi, Suzanne Shell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + _BY A. C. BRADLEY, LL.D., LITT.D._ + + SHAKESPEAREAN TRAGEDY + + LECTURES ON + HAMLET, OTHELLO, KING LEAR, MACBETH + + MACMILLAN & CO LTD. + + + + + OXFORD LECTURES + ON POETRY + + BY + + A. C. BRADLEY + LL.D., LITT.D. + + FORMERLY PROFESSOR OF POETRY IN THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD + AND FELLOW OF BALLIOL COLLEGE + + + MACMILLAN + + London ˇ Melbourne ˇ Toronto + + ST MARTIN'S PRESS + New York + 1965 + + +_This book is copyright in all countries which are signatories of the +Berne Convention_ + +First Edition, May 1909. Second Edition, November 1909 Reprinted 1911, +1914, 1917, 1919, 1920, 1923, 1926, 1934, 1941, 1950, 1955, 1959, 1962, +1963, 1965 + + + MACMILLAN AND COMPANY LIMITED + _St Martin's Street London WC2 + also Bombay Calcutta Madras Melbourne_ + + THE MACMILLAN COMPANY OF CANADA LIMITED + _70 Bond Street Toronto 2_ + + ST MARTIN'S PRESS INC + _175 Fifth Avenue New York 10010 NY_ + + + PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN + + + + + TO + MY OXFORD FRIENDS + 1869-1909 + +_'They have seemed to be together, though absent, shook hands, as over a +vast; and embraced, as it were, from the ends of opposed winds.'_ + + + + +PREFACE + + +This volume consists of lectures delivered during my tenure of the Chair +of Poetry at Oxford and not included in _Shakespearean Tragedy_. Most of +them have been enlarged, and all have been revised. As they were given +at intervals, and the majority before the publication of that book, they +contained repetitions which I have not found it possible wholly to +remove. Readers of a lecture published by the University of Manchester +on _English Poetry and German Philosophy in the Age of Wordsworth_ will +pardon also the restatement of some ideas expressed in it. + +The several lectures are dated, as I have been unable to take account of +most of the literature on their subjects published since they were +delivered. + +They are arranged in the order that seems best to me, but it is of +importance only in the case of the four which deal with the poets of +Wordsworth's time. + +I am indebted to the Delegates of the University Press, and to the +proprietors and editors of the _Hibbert Journal_ and the _Albany_, +_Fortnightly_, and _Quarterly Reviews_, respectively, for permission to +republish the first, third, fifth, eighth, and ninth lectures. A like +acknowledgment is due for leave to use some sentences of an article on +Keats contributed to _Chambers's Cyclopaedia of English Literature_ +(1903). + +In the revision of the proof-sheets I owed much help to a sister who has +shared many of my Oxford friendships. + + + + +NOTE TO THE SECOND EDITION + + +This edition is substantially identical with the first; but it and its +later impressions contain a few improvements in points of detail, and, +thanks to criticisms by my brother, F. H. Bradley, I hope to have made +my meaning clearer in some pages of the second lecture. + +There was an oversight in the first edition which I regret. In adding +the note on p. 247 I forgot that I had not referred to Professor Dowden +in the lecture on "Shakespeare the Man." In everything that I have +written on Shakespeare I am indebted to Professor Dowden, and certainly +not least in that lecture. + + + + +CONTENTS + + + PAGE + POETRY FOR POETRY'S SAKE 3 + + THE SUBLIME 37 + + HEGEL'S THEORY OF TRAGEDY 69 + + WORDSWORTH 99 + + SHELLEY'S VIEW OF POETRY 151 + + THE LONG POEM IN THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH 177 + + THE LETTERS OF KEATS 209 + + THE REJECTION OF FALSTAFF 247 + + SHAKESPEARE'S 'ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA' 279 + + SHAKESPEARE THE MAN 311 + + SHAKESPEARE'S THEATRE AND AUDIENCE 361 + + + + +POETRY FOR POETRY'S SAKE + + +POETRY FOR POETRY'S SAKE[1] + +(INAUGURAL LECTURE) + + +One who, after twenty years, is restored to the University where he was +taught and first tried to teach, and who has received at the hands of +his Alma Mater an honour of which he never dreamed, is tempted to speak +both of himself and of her. But I remember that you have come to listen +to my thoughts about a great subject, and not to my feelings about +myself; and of Oxford who that holds this Professorship could dare to +speak, when he recalls the exquisite verse in which one of his +predecessors described her beauty, and the prose in which he gently +touched on her illusions and protested that they were as nothing when +set against her age-long warfare with the Philistine? How, again, +remembering him and others, should I venture to praise my predecessors? +It would be pleasant to do so, and even pleasanter to me and you if, +instead of lecturing, I quoted to you some of their best passages. But I +could not do this for five years. Sooner or later, my own words would +have to come, and the inevitable contrast. Not to sharpen it now, I +will be silent concerning them also; and will only assure you that I do +not forget them, or the greatness of the honour of succeeding them, or +the responsibility which it entails. + +The words 'Poetry for poetry's sake' recall the famous phrase 'Art for +Art.' It is far from my purpose to examine the possible meanings of that +phrase, or all the questions it involves. I propose to state briefly +what I understand by 'Poetry for poetry's sake,' and then, after +guarding against one or two misapprehensions of the formula, to consider +more fully a single problem connected with it. And I must premise, +without attempting to justify them, certain explanations. We are to +consider poetry in its essence, and apart from the flaws which in most +poems accompany their poetry. We are to include in the idea of poetry +the metrical form, and not to regard this as a mere accident or a mere +vehicle. And, finally, poetry being poems, we are to think of a poem as +it actually exists; and, without aiming here at accuracy, we may say +that an actual poem is the succession of experiences--sounds, images, +thoughts, emotions--through which we pass when we are reading as +poetically as we can.[2] Of course this imaginative experience--if I may +use the phrase for brevity--differs with every reader and every time of +reading: a poem exists in innumerable degrees. But that insurmountable +fact lies in the nature of things and does not concern us now. + +What then does the formula 'Poetry for poetry's sake' tell us about this +experience? It says, as I understand it, these things. First, this +experience is an end in itself, is worth having on its own account, has +an intrinsic value. Next, its _poetic_ value is this intrinsic worth +alone. Poetry may have also an ulterior value as a means to culture or +religion; because it conveys instruction, or softens the passions, or +furthers a good cause; because it brings the poet fame or money or a +quiet conscience. So much the better: let it be valued for these reasons +too. But its ulterior worth neither is nor can directly determine its +poetic worth as a satisfying imaginative experience; and this is to be +judged entirely from within. And to these two positions the formula +would add, though not of necessity, a third. The consideration of +ulterior ends, whether by the poet in the act of composing or by the +reader in the act of experiencing, tends to lower poetic value. It does +so because it tends to change the nature of poetry by taking it out of +its own atmosphere. For its nature is to be not a part, nor yet a copy, +of the real world (as we commonly understand that phrase), but to be a +world by itself, independent, complete, autonomous; and to possess it +fully you must enter that world, conform to its laws, and ignore for the +time the beliefs, aims, and particular conditions which belong to you in +the other world of reality. + +Of the more serious misapprehensions to which these statements may give +rise I will glance only at one or two. The offensive consequences often +drawn from the formula 'Art for Art' will be found to attach not to the +doctrine that Art is an end in itself, but to the doctrine that Art is +the whole or supreme end of human life. And as this latter doctrine, +which seems to me absurd, is in any case quite different from the +former, its consequences fall outside my subject. The formula 'Poetry is +an end in itself' has nothing to say on the various questions of moral +judgment which arise from the fact that poetry has its place in a +many-sided life. For anything it says, the intrinsic value of poetry +might be so small, and its ulterior effects so mischievous, that it had +better not exist. The formula only tells us that we must not place in +antithesis poetry and human good, for poetry is one kind of human good; +and that we must not determine the intrinsic value of this kind of good +by direct reference to another. If we do, we shall find ourselves +maintaining what we did not expect. If poetic value lies in the +stimulation of religious feelings, _Lead, kindly Light_ is no better a +poem than many a tasteless version of a Psalm: if in the excitement of +patriotism, why is _Scots, wha hae_ superior to _We don't want to +fight?_ if in the mitigation of the passions, the Odes of Sappho will +win but little praise: if in instruction, Armstrong's _Art of preserving +Health_ should win much. + +Again, our formula may be accused of cutting poetry away from its +connection with life. And this accusation raises so huge a problem that +I must ask leave to be dogmatic as well as brief. There is plenty of +connection between life and poetry, but it is, so to say, a connection +underground. The two may be called different forms of the same thing: +one of them having (in the usual sense) reality, but seldom fully +satisfying imagination; while the other offers something which satisfies +imagination but has not full 'reality.' They are parallel developments +which nowhere meet, or, if I may use loosely a word which will be +serviceable later, they are analogues. Hence we understand one by help +of the other, and even, in a sense, care for one because of the other; +but hence also, poetry neither is life, nor, strictly speaking, a copy +of it. They differ not only because one has more mass and the other a +more perfect shape, but because they have different _kinds_ of +existence. The one touches us as beings occupying a given position in +space and time, and having feelings, desires, and purposes due to that +position: it appeals to imagination, but appeals to much besides. What +meets us in poetry has not a position in the same series of time and +space, or, if it has or had such a position, it is taken apart from much +that belonged to it there;[3] and therefore it makes no direct appeal +to those feelings, desires, and purposes, but speaks only to +contemplative imagination--imagination the reverse of empty or +emotionless, imagination saturated with the results of 'real' +experience, but still contemplative. Thus, no doubt, one main reason why +poetry has poetic value for us is that it presents to us in its own way +something which we meet in another form in nature or life; and yet the +test of its poetic value for us lies simply in the question whether it +satisfies our imagination; the rest of us, our knowledge or conscience, +for example, judging it only so far as they appear transmuted in our +imagination. So also Shakespeare's knowledge or his moral insight, +Milton's greatness of soul, Shelley's 'hate of hate' and 'love of love,' +and that desire to help men or make them happier which may have +influenced a poet in hours of meditation--all these have, as such, no +poetical worth: they have that worth only when, passing through the +unity of the poet's being, they reappear as qualities of imagination, +and then are indeed mighty powers in the world of poetry. + +I come to a third misapprehension, and so to my main subject. This +formula, it is said, empties poetry of its meaning: it is really a +doctrine of form for form's sake. 'It is of no consequence what a poet +says, so long as he says the thing well. The _what_ is poetically +indifferent: it is the _how_ that counts. Matter, subject, content, +substance, determines nothing; there is no subject with which poetry may +not deal: the form, the treatment, is everything. Nay, more: not only is +the matter indifferent, but it is the secret of Art to "eradicate the +matter by means of the form,"'--phrases and statements like these meet +us everywhere in current criticism of literature and the other arts. +They are the stock-in-trade of writers who understand of them little +more than the fact that somehow or other they are not 'bourgeois.' But +we find them also seriously used by writers whom we must respect, +whether they are anonymous or not; something like one or another of them +might be quoted, for example, from Professor Saintsbury, the late R. A. +M. Stevenson, Schiller, Goethe himself; and they are the watchwords of a +school in the one country where Aesthetics has flourished. They come, as +a rule, from men who either practise one of the arts, or, from study of +it, are interested in its methods. The general reader--a being so +general that I may say what I will of him--is outraged by them. He feels +that he is being robbed of almost all that he cares for in a work of +art. 'You are asking me,' he says, 'to look at the Dresden Madonna as if +it were a Persian rug. You are telling me that the poetic value of +_Hamlet_ lies solely in its style and versification, and that my +interest in the man and his fate is only an intellectual or moral +interest. You allege that, if I want to enjoy the poetry of _Crossing +the Bar_, I must not mind what Tennyson says there, but must consider +solely his way of saying it. But in that case I can care no more for a +poem than I do for a set of nonsense verses; and I do not believe that +the authors of _Hamlet_ and _Crossing the Bar_ regarded their poems +thus.' + +These antitheses of subject, matter, substance on the one side, form, +treatment, handling on the other, are the field through which I +especially want, in this lecture, to indicate a way. It is a field of +battle; and the battle is waged for no trivial cause; but the cries of +the combatants are terribly ambiguous. Those phrases of the so-called +formalist may each mean five or six different things. Taken in one sense +they seem to me chiefly true; taken as the general reader not +unnaturally takes them, they seem to me false and mischievous. It would +be absurd to pretend that I can end in a few minutes a controversy +which concerns the ultimate nature of Art, and leads perhaps to problems +not yet soluble; but we can at least draw some plain distinctions which, +in this controversy, are too often confused. + +In the first place, then, let us take 'subject' in one particular sense; +let us understand by it that which we have in view when, looking at the +title of an un-read poem, we say that the poet has chosen this or that +for his subject. The subject, in this sense, so far as I can discover, +is generally something, real or imaginary, as it exists in the minds of +fairly cultivated people. The subject of _Paradise Lost_ would be the +story of the Fall as that story exists in the general imagination of a +Bible-reading people. The subject of Shelley's stanzas _To a Skylark_ +would be the ideas which arise in the mind of an educated person when, +without knowing the poem, he hears the word 'skylark'. If the title of a +poem conveys little or nothing to us, the 'subject' appears to be either +what we should gather by investigating the title in a dictionary or +other book of the kind, or else such a brief suggestion as might be +offered by a person who had read the poem, and who said, for example, +that the subject of _The Ancient Mariner_ was a sailor who killed an +albatross and suffered for his deed. + +Now the subject, in this sense (and I intend to use the word in no +other), is not, as such, inside the poem, but outside it. The contents +of the stanzas _To a Skylark_ are not the ideas suggested by the work +'skylark' to the average man; they belong to Shelley just as much as the +language does. The subject, therefore, is not the matter _of_ the poem +at all; and its opposite is not the _form_ of the poem, but the whole +poem. The subject is one thing; the poem, matter and form alike, another +thing. This being so, it is surely obvious that the poetic value cannot +lie in the subject, but lies entirely in its opposite, the poem. How +can the subject determine the value when on one and the same subject +poems may be written of all degrees of merit and demerit; or when a +perfect poem may be composed on a subject so slight as a pet sparrow, +and, if Macaulay may be trusted, a nearly worthless poem on a subject so +stupendous as the omnipresence of the Deity? The 'formalist' is here +perfectly right. Nor is he insisting on something unimportant. He is +fighting against our tendency to take the work of art as a mere copy or +reminder of something already in our heads, or at the best as a +suggestion of some idea as little removed as possible from the familiar. +The sightseer who promenades a picture-gallery, remarking that this +portrait is so like his cousin, or that landscape the very image of his +birthplace, or who, after satisfying himself that one picture is about +Elijah, passes on rejoicing to discover the subject, and nothing but the +subject, of the next--what is he but an extreme example of this +tendency? Well, but the very same tendency vitiates much of our +criticism, much criticism of Shakespeare, for example, which, with all +its cleverness and partial truth, still shows that the critic never +passed from his own mind into Shakespeare's; and it may be traced even +in so fine a critic as Coleridge, as when he dwarfs the sublime struggle +of Hamlet into the image of his own unhappy weakness. Hazlitt by no +means escaped its influence. Only the third of that great trio, Lamb, +appears almost always to have rendered the conception of the composer. + +Again, it is surely true that we cannot determine beforehand what +subjects are fit for Art, or name any subject on which a good poem might +not possibly be written. To divide subjects into two groups, the +beautiful or elevating, and the ugly or vicious, and to judge poems +according as their subjects belong to one of these groups or the other, +is to fall into the same pit, to confuse with our pre-conceptions the +meaning of the poet. What the thing is in the poem he is to be judged +by, not by the thing as it was before he touched it; and how can we +venture to say beforehand that he cannot make a true poem out of +something which to us was merely alluring or dull or revolting? The +question whether, having done so, he ought to publish his poem; whether +the thing in the poet's work will not be still confused by the +incompetent Puritan or the incompetent sensualist with the thing in +_his_ mind, does not touch this point: it is a further question, one of +ethics, not of art. No doubt the upholders of 'Art for art's sake' will +generally be in favour of the courageous course, of refusing to +sacrifice the better or stronger part of the public to the weaker or +worse; but their maxim in no way binds them to this view. Rossetti +suppressed one of the best of his sonnets, a sonnet chosen for +admiration by Tennyson, himself extremely sensitive about the moral +effect of poetry; suppressed it, I believe, because it was called +fleshly. One may regret Rossetti's judgment and at the same time respect +his scrupulousness; but in any case he judged in his capacity of +citizen, not in his capacity of artist. + +So far then the 'formalist' appears to be right. But he goes too far, I +think, if he maintains that the subject is indifferent and that all +subjects are the same to poetry. And he does not prove his point by +observing that a good poem might be written on a pin's head, and a bad +one on the Fall of Man. That truth shows that the subject _settles_ +nothing, but not that it counts for nothing. The Fall of Man is really a +more favourable subject than a pin's head. The Fall of Man, that is to +say, offers opportunities of poetic effects wider in range and more +penetrating in appeal. And the fact is that such a subject, as it exists +in the general imagination, has some aesthetic value before the poet +touches it. It is, as you may choose to call it, an inchoate poem or +the débris of a poem. It is not an abstract idea or a bare isolated +fact, but an assemblage of figures, scenes, actions, and events, which +already appeal to emotional imagination; and it is already in some +degree organized and formed. In spite of this a bad poet would make a +bad poem on it; but then we should say he was unworthy of the subject. +And we should not say this if he wrote a bad poem on a pin's head. +Conversely, a good poem on a pin's head would almost certainly transform +its subject far more than a good poem on the Fall of Man. It might +revolutionize its subject so completely that we should say, 'The subject +may be a pin's head, but the substance of the poem has very little to do +with it.' + +This brings us to another and a different antithesis. Those figures, +scenes, events, that form part of the subject called the Fall of Man, +are not the substance of _Paradise Lost_; but in _Paradise Lost_ there +are figures, scenes, and events resembling them in some degree. These, +with much more of the same kind, may be described as its substance, and +may then be contrasted with the measured language of the poem, which +will be called its form. Subject is the opposite not of form but of the +whole poem. Substance is within the poem, and its opposite, form, is +also within the poem. I am not criticizing this antithesis at present, +but evidently it is quite different from the other. It is practically +the distinction used in the old-fashioned criticism of epic and drama, +and it flows down, not unsullied, from Aristotle. Addison, for example, +in examining _Paradise Lost_ considers in order the fable, the +characters, and the sentiments; these will be the substance: then he +considers the language, that is, the style and numbers; this will be the +form. In like manner, the substance or meaning of a lyric may be +distinguished from the form. + +Now I believe it will be found that a large part of the controversy we +are dealing with arises from a confusion between these two distinctions +of substance and form, and of subject and poem. The extreme formalist +lays his whole weight on the form because he thinks its opposite is the +mere subject. The general reader is angry, but makes the same mistake, +and gives to the subject praises that rightly belong to the +substance[4]. I will read an example of what I mean. I can only explain +the following words of a good critic by supposing that for the moment he +has fallen into this confusion: 'The mere matter of all poetry--to wit, +the appearances of nature and the thoughts and feelings of men--being +unalterable, it follows that the difference between poet and poet will +depend upon the manner of each in applying language, metre, rhyme, +cadence, and what not, to this invariable material.' What has become +here of the substance of _Paradise Lost_--the story, scenery, +characters, sentiments, as they are in the poem? They have vanished +clean away. Nothing is left but the form on one side, and on the other +not even the subject, but a supposed invariable material, the +appearances of nature and the thoughts and feelings of men. Is it +surprising that the whole value should then be found in the form? + +So far we have assumed that this antithesis of substance and form is +valid, and that it always has one meaning. In reality it has several, +but we will leave it in its present shape, and pass to the question of +its validity. And this question we are compelled to raise, because we +have to deal with the two contentions that the poetic value lies wholly +or mainly in the substance, and that it lies wholly or mainly in the +form. Now these contentions, whether false or true, may seem at least to +be clear; but we shall find, I think, that they are both of them false, +or both of them nonsense: false if they concern anything outside the +poem, nonsense if they apply to something in it. For what do they +evidently imply? They imply that there are in a poem two parts, factors, +or components, a substance and a form; and that you can conceive them +distinctly and separately, so that when you are speaking of the one you +are not speaking of the other. Otherwise how can you ask the question, +In which of them does the value lie? But really in a poem, apart from +defects, there are no such factors or components; and therefore it is +strictly nonsense to ask in which of them the value lies. And on the +other hand, if the substance and the form referred to are not in the +poem, then both the contentions are false, for its poetic value lies in +itself. + +What I mean is neither new nor mysterious; and it will be clear, I +believe, to any one who reads poetry poetically and who closely examines +his experience. When you are reading a poem, I would ask--not analysing +it, and much less criticizing it, but allowing it, as it proceeds, to +make its full impression on you through the exertion of your recreating +imagination--do you then apprehend and enjoy as one thing a certain +meaning or substance, and as another thing certain articulate sounds, +and do you somehow compound these two? Surely you do not, any more than +you apprehend apart, when you see some one smile, those lines in the +face which express a feeling, and the feeling that the lines express. +Just as there the lines and their meaning are to you one thing, not two, +so in poetry the meaning and the sounds are one: there is, if I may put +it so, a resonant meaning, or a meaning resonance. If you read the line, +'The sun is warm, the sky is clear,' you do not experience separately +the image of a warm sun and clear sky, on the one side, and certain +unintelligible rhythmical sounds on the other; nor yet do you experience +them together, side by side; but you experience the one _in_ the other. +And in like manner, when you are really reading _Hamlet_, the action and +the characters are not something which you conceive apart from the +words; you apprehend them from point to point _in_ the words, and the +words as expressions of them. Afterwards, no doubt, when you are out of +the poetic experience but remember it, you may by analysis decompose +this unity, and attend to a substance more or less isolated, and a form +more or less isolated. But these are things in your analytic head, not +in the poem, which is _poetic_ experience. And if you want to have the +poem again, you cannot find it by adding together these two products of +decomposition; you can only find it by passing back into poetic +experience. And then what you recover is no aggregate of factors, it is +a unity in which you can no more separate a substance and a form than +you can separate living blood and the life in the blood. This unity has, +if you like, various 'aspects' or 'sides,' but they are not factors or +parts; if you try to examine one, you find it is also the other. Call +them substance and form if you please, but these are not the +reciprocally exclusive substance and form to which the two contentions +_must_ refer. They do not 'agree,' for they are not apart: they are one +thing from different points of view, and in that sense identical. And +this identity of content and form, you will say, is no accident; it is +of the essence of poetry in so far as it is poetry, and of all art in so +far as it is art. Just as there is in music not sound on one side and a +meaning on the other, but expressive sound, and if you ask what is the +meaning you can only answer by pointing to the sounds; just as in +painting there is not a meaning _plus_ paint, but a meaning _in_ paint, +or significant paint, and no man can really express the meaning in any +other way than in paint and in _this_ paint; so in a poem the true +content and the true form neither exist nor can be imagined apart. When +then you are asked whether the value of a poem lies in a substance got +by decomposing the poem, and present, as such, only in reflective +analysis, or whether the value lies in a form arrived at and existing in +the same way, you will answer, 'It lies neither in one, nor in the +other, nor in any addition of them, but in the poem, where they are +not.' + +We have then, first, an antithesis of subject and poem. This is clear +and valid; and the question in which of them does the value lie is +intelligible; and its answer is, In the poem. We have next a distinction +of substance and form. If the substance means ideas, images, and the +like taken alone, and the form means the measured language taken by +itself, this is a possible distinction, but it is a distinction of +things not in the poem, and the value lies in neither of them. If +substance and form mean anything _in_ the poem, then each is involved in +the other, and the question in which of them the value lies has no +sense. No doubt you may say, speaking loosely, that in this poet or poem +the aspect of substance is the more noticeable, and in that the aspect +of form; and you may pursue interesting discussions on this basis, +though no principle or ultimate question of value is touched by them. +And apart from that question, of course, I am not denying the usefulness +and necessity of the distinction. We cannot dispense with it. To +consider separately the action or the characters of a play, and +separately its style or versification, is both legitimate and valuable, +so long as we remember what we are doing. But the true critic in +speaking of these apart does not really think of them apart; the whole, +the poetic experience, of which they are but aspects, is always in his +mind; and he is always aiming at a richer, truer, more intense +repetition of that experience. On the other hand, when the question of +principle, of poetic value, is raised, these aspects _must_ fall apart +into components, separately conceivable; and then there arise two +heresies, equally false, that the value lies in one of two things, both +of which are outside the poem, and therefore where its value cannot lie. + +On the heresy of the separable substance a few additional words will +suffice. This heresy is seldom formulated, but perhaps some unconscious +holder of it may object: 'Surely the action and the characters of +_Hamlet_ are in the play; and surely I can retain these, though I have +forgotten all the words. I admit that I do not possess the whole poem, +but I possess a part, and the most important part.' And I would answer: +'If we are not concerned with any question of principle, I accept all +that you say except the last words, which do raise such a question. +Speaking loosely, I agree that the action and characters, as you perhaps +conceive them, together with a great deal more, are in the poem. Even +then, however, you must not claim to possess all of this kind that is in +the poem; for in forgetting the words you must have lost innumerable +details of the action and the characters. And, when the question of +value is raised, I must insist that the action and characters, as you +conceive them, are not in _Hamlet_ at all. If they are, point them out. +You cannot do it. What you find at any moment of that succession of +experiences called _Hamlet_ is words. In these words, to speak loosely +again, the action and characters (more of them than you can conceive +apart) are focussed; but your experience is not a combination of them, +as ideas, on the one side, with certain sounds on the other; it is an +experience of something in which the two are indissolubly fused. If you +deny this, to be sure I can make no answer, or can only answer that I +have reason to believe that you cannot read poetically, or else are +misinterpreting your experience. But if you do not deny this, then you +will admit that the action and characters of the poem, as you separately +imagine them, are no part of it, but a product of it in your reflective +imagination, a faint analogue of one aspect of it taken in detachment +from the whole. Well, I do not dispute, I would even insist, that, in +the case of so long a poem as _Hamlet_, it may be necessary from time to +time to interrupt the poetic experience, in order to enrich it by +forming such a product and dwelling on it. Nor, in a wide sense of +"poetic," do I question the poetic value of this product, as you think +of it apart from the poem. It resembles our recollections of the heroes +of history or legend, who move about in our imaginations, "forms more +real than living man," and are worth much to us though we do not +remember anything they said. Our ideas and images of the "substance" of +a poem have this poetic value, and more, if they are at all adequate. +But they cannot determine the poetic value of the poem, for (not to +speak of the competing claims of the "form") nothing that is outside the +poem can do that, and they, as such, are outside it.'[5] + +Let us turn to the so-called form--style and versification. There is no +such thing as mere form in poetry. All form is expression. Style may +have indeed a certain aesthetic worth in partial abstraction from the +particular matter it conveys, as in a well-built sentence you may take +pleasure in the build almost apart from the meaning. Even so, style is +expressive--presents to sense, for example, the order, ease, and +rapidity with which ideas move in the writer's mind--but it is not +expressive of the meaning of that particular sentence. And it is +possible, interrupting poetic experience, to decompose it and abstract +for comparatively separate consideration this nearly formal element of +style. But the aesthetic value of style so taken is not considerable;[6] +you could not read with pleasure for an hour a composition which had no +other merit. And in poetic experience you never apprehend this value by +itself; the style is here expressive also of a particular meaning, or +rather is one aspect of that unity whose other aspect is meaning. So +that what you apprehend may be called indifferently an expressed meaning +or a significant form. Perhaps on this point I may in Oxford appeal to +authority, that of Matthew Arnold and Walter Pater, the latter at any +rate an authority whom the formalist will not despise. What is the gist +of Pater's teaching about style, if it is not that in the end the one +virtue of style is truth or adequacy; that the word, phrase, sentence, +should express perfectly the writer's perception, feeling, image, or +thought; so that, as we read a descriptive phrase of Keats's, we +exclaim, 'That is the thing itself'; so that, to quote Arnold, the words +are 'symbols equivalent with the thing symbolized,' or, in our technical +language, a form identical with its content? Hence in true poetry it is, +in strictness, impossible to express the meaning in any but its own +words, or to change the words without changing the meaning. A +translation of such poetry is not really the old meaning in a fresh +dress; it is a new product, something like the poem, though, if one +chooses to say so, more like it in the aspect of meaning than in the +aspect of form. + +No one who understands poetry, it seems to me, would dispute this, were +it not that, falling away from his experience, or misled by theory, he +takes the word 'meaning' in a sense almost ludicrously inapplicable to +poetry. People say, for instance, 'steed' and 'horse' have the same +meaning; and in bad poetry they have, but not in poetry that _is_ +poetry. + + 'Bring forth the horse!' The horse was brought: + In truth he was a noble steed! + +says Byron in _Mazeppa_. If the two words mean the same here, transpose +them: + + 'Bring forth the steed!' The steed was brought: + In truth he was a noble horse! + +and ask again if they mean the same. Or let me take a line certainly +very free from 'poetic diction': + + To be or not to be, that is the question. + +You may say that this means the same as 'What is just now occupying my +attention is the comparative disadvantages of continuing to live or +putting an end to myself.' And for practical purposes--the purpose, for +example, of a coroner--it does. But as the second version altogether +misrepresents the speaker at that moment of his existence, while the +first does represent him, how can they for any but a practical or +logical purpose be said to have the same sense? Hamlet was well able to +'unpack his heart with words,' but he will not unpack it with our +paraphrases. + +These considerations apply equally to versification. If I take the +famous line which describes how the souls of the dead stood waiting by +the river, imploring a passage from Charon: + + Tendebantque manus ripae ulterioris amore; + +and if I translate it, 'and were stretching forth their hands in longing +for the further bank,' the charm of the original has fled. Why has it +fled? Partly (but we have dealt with that) because I have substituted +for five words, and those the words of Virgil, twelve words, and those +my own. In some measure because I have turned into rhythmless prose a +line of verse which, as mere sound, has unusual beauty. But much more +because in doing so I have also changed the _meaning_ of Virgil's line. +What that meaning is _I_ cannot say: Virgil has said it. But I can see +this much, that the translation conveys a far less vivid picture of the +outstretched hands and of their remaining outstretched, and a far less +poignant sense of the distance of the shore and the longing of the +souls. And it does so partly because this picture and this sense are +conveyed not only by the obvious meaning of the words, but through the +long-drawn sound of 'tendebantque,' through the time occupied by the +five syllables and therefore by the idea of 'ulterioris,' and through +the identity of the long sound 'or' in the penultimate syllables of +'ulterioris amore'--all this, and much more, apprehended not in this +analytical fashion, nor as _added_ to the beauty of mere sound and to +the obvious meaning, but in unity with them and so as expressive of the +poetic meaning of the whole. + +It is always so in fine poetry. The value of versification, when it is +indissolubly fused with meaning, can hardly be exaggerated. The gift for +feeling it, even more perhaps than the gift for feeling the value of +style, is the _specific_ gift for poetry, as distinguished from other +arts. But versification, taken, as far as possible, all by itself, has a +very different worth. Some aesthetic worth it has; how much, you may +experience by reading poetry in a language of which you do not +understand a syllable.[7] The pleasure is quite appreciable, but it is +not great; nor in actual poetic experience do you meet with it, as such, +at all. For, I repeat, it is not _added_ to the pleasure of the meaning +when you read poetry that you do understand: by some mystery the music +is then the music _of_ the meaning, and the two are one. However fond +of versification you might be, you would tire very soon of reading +verses in Chinese; and before long of reading Virgil and Dante if you +were ignorant of their languages. But take the music as it is _in_ the +poem, and there is a marvellous change. Now + + It gives a very echo to the seat + Where love is throned; + +or 'carries far into your heart,' almost like music itself, the sound + + Of old, unhappy, far-off things + And battles long ago. + +What then is to be said of the following sentence of the critic quoted +before: 'But when any one who knows what poetry is reads-- + + Our noisy years seem moments in the being + Of the eternal silence, + +he sees that, quite independently of the meaning, ... there is one note +added to the articulate music of the world--a note that never will leave +off resounding till the eternal silence itself gulfs it' must think that +the writer is deceiving himself. For I could quite understand his +enthusiasm, if it were an enthusiasm for the music of the meaning; but +as for the music, 'quite independently of the meaning,' so far as I can +hear it thus (and I doubt if any one who knows English can quite do so), +I find it gives some pleasure, but only a trifling pleasure. And indeed +I venture to doubt whether, considered as mere sound, the words are at +all exceptionally beautiful, as Virgil's line certainly is. + +When poetry answers to its idea and is purely or almost purely poetic, +we find the identity of form and content; and the degree of purity +attained may be tested by the degree in which we feel it hopeless to +convey the effect of a poem or passage in any form but its own. Where +the notion of doing so is simply ludicrous, you have quintessential +poetry. But a great part even of good poetry, especially in long works, +is of a mixed nature; and so we find in it no more than a partial +agreement of a form and substance which remain to some extent distinct. +This is so in many passages of Shakespeare (the greatest of poets when +he chose, but not always a conscientious poet); passages where something +was wanted for the sake of the plot, but he did not care about it or was +hurried. The conception of the passage is then distinct from the +execution, and neither is inspired. This is so also, I think, wherever +we can truly speak of merely decorative effect. We seem to perceive that +the poet had a truth or fact--philosophical, agricultural, +social--distinctly before him, and then, as we say, clothed it in +metrical and coloured language. Most argumentative, didactic, or satiric +poems are partly of this kind; and in imaginative poems anything which +is really a mere 'conceit' is mere decoration. We often deceive +ourselves in this matter, for what we call decoration has often a new +and genuinely poetic content of its own; but wherever there is mere +decoration, we judge the poetry to be not wholly poetic. And so when +Wordsworth inveighed against poetic diction, though he hurled his darts +rather wildly, what he was rightly aiming at was a phraseology, not the +living body of a new content, but the mere worn-out body of an old +one.[8] + +In pure poetry it is otherwise. Pure poetry is not the decoration of a +preconceived and clearly defined matter: it springs from the creative +impulse of a vague imaginative mass pressing for development and +definition. If the poet already knew exactly what he meant to say, why +should he write the poem? The poem would in fact already be written. For +only its completion can reveal, even to him, exactly what he wanted. +When he began and while he was at work, he did not possess his meaning; +it possessed him. It was not a fully formed soul asking for a body: it +was an inchoate soul in the inchoate body of perhaps two or three vague +ideas and a few scattered phrases. The growing of this body into its +full stature and perfect shape was the same thing as the gradual +self-definition of the meaning.[9] And this is the reason why such poems +strike us as creations, not manufactures, and have the magical effect +which mere decoration cannot produce. This is also the reason why, if we +insist on asking for the meaning of such a poem, we can only be answered +'It means itself.' + +And so at last I may explain why I have troubled myself and you with +what may seem an arid controversy about mere words. It is not so. These +heresies which would make poetry a compound of two factors--a matter +common to it with the merest prose, _plus_ a poetic form, as the one +heresy says: a poetical substance _plus_ a negligible form, as the other +says--are not only untrue, they are injurious to the dignity of poetry. +In an age already inclined to shrink from those higher realms where +poetry touches religion and philosophy, the formalist heresy encourages +men to taste poetry as they would a fine wine, which has indeed an +aesthetic value, but a small one. And then the natural man, finding an +empty form, hurls into it the matter of cheap pathos, rancid sentiment, +vulgar humour, bare lust, ravenous vanity--everything which, in +Schiller's phrase,[10] the form should extirpate, but which no mere form +can extirpate. And the other heresy--which is indeed rather a practice +than a creed--encourages us in the habit so dear to us of putting our +own thoughts or fancies into the place of the poet's creation. What he +meant by _Hamlet_, or the _Ode to a Nightingale_, or _Abt Vogler_, we +say, is this or that which we knew already; and so we lose what he had +to tell us. But he meant what he said, and said what he meant. + +Poetry in this matter is not, as good critics of painting and music +often affirm, different from the other arts; in all of them the content +is one thing with the form. What Beethoven meant by his symphony, or +Turner by his picture, was not something which you can name, but the +picture and the symphony. Meaning they have, but _what_ meaning can be +said in no language but their own: and we know this, though some strange +delusion makes us think the meaning has less worth because we cannot put +it into words. Well, it is just the same with poetry. But because poetry +is words, we vainly fancy that some other words than its own will +express its meaning. And they will do so no more--or, if you like to +speak loosely, only a trifle more--than words will express the meaning +of the Dresden Madonna.[11] Something a little like it they may indeed +express. And we may find analogues of the meaning of poetry outside it, +which may help us to appropriate it. The other arts, the best ideas of +philosophy or religion, much that nature and life offer us or force upon +us, are akin to it. But they are only akin. Nor is it the expression of +them. Poetry does not present to imagination our highest knowledge or +belief, and much less our dreams and opinions; but it, content and form +in unity, embodies in its own irreplaceable way something which embodies +itself also in other irreplaceable ways, such as philosophy or religion. +And just as each of these gives a satisfaction which the other cannot +possibly give, so we find in poetry, which cannot satisfy the needs they +meet, that which by their natures they cannot afford us. But we shall +not find it fully if we look for something else. + +And now, when all is said, the question will still recur, though now in +quite another sense, What does poetry mean?[12] This unique expression, +which cannot be replaced by any other, still seems to be trying to +express something beyond itself. And this, we feel, is also what the +other arts, and religion, and philosophy are trying to express: and that +is what impels us to seek in vain to translate the one into the other. +About the best poetry, and not only the best, there floats an atmosphere +of infinite suggestion. The poet speaks to us of one thing, but in this +one thing there seems to lurk the secret of all. He said what he meant, +but his meaning seems to beckon away beyond itself, or rather to expand +into something boundless which is only focussed in it; something also +which, we feel, would satisfy not only the imagination, but the whole of +us; that something within us, and without, which everywhere + + makes us seem + To patch up fragments of a dream, + Part of which comes true, and part + Beats and trembles in the heart. + +Those who are susceptible to this effect of poetry find it not only, +perhaps not most, in the ideals which she has sometimes described, but +in a child's song by Christina Rossetti about a mere crown of +wind-flowers, and in tragedies like _Lear_, where the sun seems to have +set for ever. They hear this spirit murmuring its undertone through the +_Aeneid_, and catch its voice in the song of Keats's nightingale, and +its light upon the figures on the Urn, and it pierces them no less in +Shelley's hopeless lament, _O world, O life, O time_, than in the +rapturous ecstasy of his _Life of Life_. This all-embracing perfection +cannot be expressed in poetic words or words of any kind, nor yet in +music or in colour, but the suggestion of it is in much poetry, if not +all, and poetry has in this suggestion, this 'meaning,' a great part of +its value. We do it wrong, and we defeat our own purposes, when we try +to bend it to them: + + We do it wrong, being so majestical, + To offer it the show of violence; + For it is as the air invulnerable, + And our vain blows malicious mockery. + +It is a spirit. It comes we know not whence. It will not speak at our +bidding, nor answer in our language. It is not our servant; it is our +master. + +1901 + + + NOTE A + +The purpose of this sentence was not, as has been supposed, to give a +definition of poetry. To define poetry as something that goes on in us +when we read poetically would be absurd indeed. My object was to suggest +to my hearers in passing that it is futile to ask questions about the +end, or substance, or form of poetry, if we forget that a poem is +neither a mere number of black marks on a white page, nor such +experience as is evoked in us when we read these marks as we read, let +us say, a newspaper article; and I suppose my hearers to know, +sufficiently for the purpose of the lecture, how that sort of reading +differs from poetical reading. + +The truths thus suggested are so obvious, when stated, that I thought a +bare reminder of them would be enough. But in fact the mistakes we make +about 'subject,' 'substance,' 'form,' and the like, are due not solely +to misapprehension of our poetic experience, but to our examining what +is not this experience. The whole lecture may be called an expansion of +this statement. + +The passage to which the present note refers raises difficult questions +which any attempt at a 'Poetics' ought to discuss. I will mention three. +(1) If the experience called a poem varies 'with every reader and every +time of reading' and 'exists in innumerable degrees,' what is the poem +itself, if there is such a thing? (2) How does a series of successive +experiences form _one_ poem? (3) If the object in the case of poetry and +music ('arts of hearing') is a succession somehow and to some extent +unified, how does it differ in this respect from the object in 'arts of +sight'--a building, a statue, a picture? + + + NOTE B + +A lyric, for example, may arise from 'real' emotions due to transitory +conditions peculiar to the poet. But these emotions and conditions, +however interesting biographically, are poetically irrelevant. The poem, +what the poet _says_, is universal, and is appropriated by people who +live centuries after him and perhaps know nothing of him and his life; +and if it arose from mere imagination it is none the worse (or the +better) for that. So far as it cannot be appropriated without a +knowledge of the circumstances in which it arose, it is probably, so +far, faulty (probably, because the difficulty _may_ come from our +distance from the whole mental world of the poet's time and country). + +What is said in the text applies equally to all the arts. It applies +also to such aesthetic apprehension as does not issue in a work of art. +And it applies to this apprehension whether the object belongs to +'Nature' or to 'Man.' A beautiful landscape is not a 'real' landscape. +Much that belongs to the 'real' landscape is ignored when it is +apprehended aesthetically; and the painter only carries this unconscious +idealisation further when he deliberately alters the 'real' landscape in +further ways. + +All this does not in the least imply that the 'real' thing, where there +is one (personal emotion, landscape, historical event, etc.), is of +small importance to the aesthetic apprehension or the work of art. But +it is relevant only as it appears _in_ that apprehension or work. + +If an artist alters a reality (_e.g._ a well-known scene or historical +character) so much that his product clashes violently with our familiar +ideas, he may be making a mistake: not because his product is untrue to +the reality (this by itself is perfectly irrelevant), but because the +'untruth' may make it difficult or impossible for others to appropriate +his product, or because this product may be aesthetically inferior to +the reality even as it exists in the general imagination. + + + NOTE C + +For the purpose of the experiment you must, of course, know the sounds +denoted by the letters, and you must be able to make out the rhythmical +scheme. But the experiment will be vitiated if you get some one who +understands the language to read or recite to you poems written in it, +for he will certainly so read or recite as to convey to you something of +the meaning through the sound (I do not refer of course to the logical +meaning). + +Hence it is clear that, if by 'versification taken by itself' one means +the versification of a _poem_, it is impossible under the requisite +conditions to get at this versification by itself. The versification of +a poem is always, to speak loosely, influenced by the sense. The bare +metrical scheme, to go no further, is practically never followed by the +poet. Suppose yourself to know no English, and to perceive merely that +in its general scheme + + It gives a very echo to the seat + +is an iambic line of five feet; and then read the line as you would have +to read it; and then ask if _that_ noise is the sound of the line _in +the poem_. + +In the text, therefore, more is admitted than in strictness should be +admitted. For I have assumed for the moment that you can hear the sound +of poetry if you read poetry which you do not in the least understand, +whereas in fact that sound cannot be produced at all except by a person +who knows something of the meaning. + + + NOTE D + +This paragraph has not, to my knowledge, been adversely criticised, but +it now appears to me seriously misleading. It refers to certain kinds of +poetry, and again to certain passages in poems, which we feel to be less +poetical than some other kinds or passages. But this difference of +degree in poeticalness (if I may use the word) is put as a difference +between 'mixed' and 'pure' poetry; and that distinction is, I think, +unreal and mischievous. Further, it is implied that in less poetical +poetry there necessarily is only a partial unity of content and form. +This (unless I am now mistaken) is a mistake, and a mistake due to +failure to hold fast the main idea of the lecture. Naturally it would be +most agreeable to me to re-write the paragraph, but if I reprint it and +expose my errors the reader will perhaps be helped to a firmer grasp of +that idea. + +It is true that where poetry is most poetic we feel most decidedly how +impossible it is to separate content and form. But where poetry is less +poetic and does not make us feel this unity so decidedly, it does not +follow that the unity is imperfect. Failure or partial failure in this +unity is always (as in the case of Shakespeare referred to) a failure on +the part of the _poet_ (though it is not always due to the same causes). +It does not lie of necessity in the nature of a particular kind of +poetry (_e.g._ satire) or in the nature of a particular passage. All +poetry cannot be equally poetic, but _all_ poetry ought to maintain the +unity of content and form, and, in that sense, to be 'pure.' Only in +certain kinds, and in certain passages, it is more difficult for the +poet to maintain it than in others. + +Let us take first the 'passages' and suppose them to occur in one of the +more poetic kinds of poetry. In certain parts of any epic or tragedy +matter has to be treated which, though necessary to the whole, is not in +itself favourable to poetry, or would not in itself be a good 'subject.' +But it is the business of the poet to do his best to make this matter +poetry, and pure poetry. And, if he succeeds, the passage, though it +will probably be less poetic than the bulk of the poem, will exhibit the +complete unity of content and form. It will not strike us as a mere +bridge between other passages; it will be enjoyable for itself; and it +will not occur to us to think that the poet was dealing with an +un-poetic 'matter' and found his task difficult or irksome. Shakespeare +frequently does not trouble himself to face this problem and leaves an +imperfect unity. The conscientious artists, like Virgil, Milton, +Tennyson, habitually face, it and frequently solve it.[13] And when they +wholly or partially fail, the fault is still _theirs_. It is, in one +sense, due to the 'matter,' which set a hard problem; but they would be +the first to declare that _nothing_ in the poem ought to be only mixedly +poetic. + +In the same way, satire is not in its nature a highly poetic kind of +poetry, but it ought, in its own kind, to be poetry throughout, and +therefore ought not to show a merely partial unity of content and form. +If the satirist makes us exclaim 'This is sheer prose wonderfully well +disguised,' that is a fault, and _his_ fault (unless it happens to be +ours). The idea that a tragedy or lyric could really be reproduced in a +form not its own strikes us as ridiculous; the idea that a satire could +so be reproduced seems much less ridiculous; but if it were true the +satire would not be poetry at all. + +The reader will now see where, in my judgment, the paragraph is wrong. +Elsewhere it is, I think, right, though it deals with a subject far too +large for a paragraph. This is also true of the next paragraph, which +uses the false distinction of 'pure' and 'mixed,' and which will hold in +various degrees of poetry in various degrees poetical. + +It is of course possible to use a distinction of 'pure' and 'mixed' in +another sense. Poetry, whatever its kind, would be pure as far as it +preserved the unity of content and form; mixed, so far as it failed to +do so--in other words, failed to be poetry and was partly prosaic. + + + NOTE E + +It is possible therefore that the poem, as it existed at certain stages +in its growth, may correspond roughly with the poem as it exists in the +memories of various readers. A reader who is fond of the poem and often +thinks of it, but remembers only half the words and perhaps fills up the +gaps with his own words, may possess something like the poem as it was +when half-made. There are readers again who retain only what they would +call the 'idea' of the poem; and the poem _may_ have begun from such an +idea. Others will forget all the words, and will not profess to remember +even the 'meaning,' but believe that they possess the 'spirit' of the +poem. And what they possess may have, I think, an immense value. The +poem, of course, it is not; but it may answer to the state of +imaginative feeling or emotional imagination which was the germ of the +poem. This is, in one sense, quite definite: it would not be the germ of +a decidedly different poem: but in another sense it is indefinite, +comparatively structureless, more a 'stimmung' than an idea. + +Such correspondences, naturally, must be very rough, if only because the +readers have been at one time in contact with the fully grown poem. + + + NOTE F + +I should be sorry if what is said here and elsewhere were taken to imply +depreciation of all attempts at the interpretation of works of art. As +regards poetry, such attempts, though they cannot possibly express the +whole meaning of a poem, may do much to facilitate the poetic +apprehension of that meaning. And, although the attempt is still more +hazardous in the case of music and painting, I believe it may have a +similar value. That its results _may_ be absurd or disgusting goes +without saying, and whether they are ever of use to musicians or the +musically educated I do not know. But I see no reason why an exceedingly +competent person should not try to indicate the emotional tone of a +composition, movement, or passage, or the changes of feeling within it, +or even, very roughly, the 'idea' he may suppose it to embody (though he +need not imply that the composer had any of this before his mind). And I +believe that such indications, however inadequate they must be, may +greatly help the uneducated lover of music to hear more truly the music +itself. + + + NOTE G + +This new question has 'quite another sense' than that of the question, +What is the meaning or content expressed by the form of a poem? The new +question asks, What is it that the _poem_, the unity of this content and +form, is trying to express? This 'beyond' is beyond the content as well +as the form. + +Of course, I should add, it is not _merely_ beyond them or outside of +them. If it were, they (the poem) could not 'suggest' it. They are a +partial manifestation of it, and point beyond themselves to it, both +because they _are_ a manifestation and because this is partial. + +The same thing is true, not only (as is remarked in the text) of the +other arts and of religion and philosophy, but also of what is commonly +called reality. This reality is a manifestation of a different order +from poetry, and in certain important respects a much more imperfect +manifestation. Hence, as was pointed out (pp. 6, 7, note B), poetry is +not a copy of it, but in dealing with it idealises it, and in doing so +produces in certain respects a fuller manifestation. On the other hand, +that imperfect 'reality' has for us a character in which poetry is +deficient,--the character in virtue of which we call it 'reality.' It +is, we feel, thrust upon us, not made by us or by any other man. And in +this respect it seems more akin than poetry to that 'beyond,' or +absolute, or perfection, which we want, which partially expresses itself +in both, and which could not be perfection and could not satisfy us if +it were not real (though it cannot be real in the same sense as that +imperfect 'reality'). This seems the ultimate ground of the requirement +that poetry, though no copy of 'reality,' should not be mere 'fancy,' +but should refer to, and interpret, that 'reality.' For that reality, +however imperfectly it reveals perfection, is at least no mere fancy. +(Not that the merest fancy can fail to reveal something of perfection.) + +The lines quoted on p. 26 are from a fragment of Shelley's beginning 'Is +it that in some brighter sphere.' + + +FOOTNOTES: + + [1] The lecture, as printed in 1901, was preceded by the following + note: "This Lecture is printed almost as it was delivered. I am aware + that, especially in the earlier pages, difficult subjects are treated + in a manner far too summary, but they require an exposition so full + that it would destroy the original form of the Lecture, while a + slight expansion would do little to provide against + misunderstandings." A few verbal changes have now been made, some + notes have been added, and some of the introductory remarks omitted. + + [2] Note A. + + [3] Note B. + + [4] What is here called 'substance' is what people generally mean + when they use the word 'subject' and insist on the value of the + subject. I am not arguing against this usage, or in favour of the + usage which I have adopted for the sake of clearness. It does not + matter which we employ, so long as we and others know what we mean. + (I use 'substance' and 'content' indifferently.) + + [5] These remarks will hold good, _mutatis mutandis_, if by + 'substance' is understood the 'moral' or the 'idea' of a poem, + although perhaps in one instance out of five thousand this may be + found in so many words in the poem. + + [6] On the other hand, the absence, or worse than absence, of style, + in this sense, is a serious matter. + + [7] Note C. + + [8] This paragraph is criticized in Note D. + + [9]: Note E. + + [10] Not that to Schiller 'form' meant mere style and versification. + + [11] Note F. + + [12] Note G. + + [13] In Schiller's phrase, they have extirpated the mere 'matter.' We + often say that they do this by dint of style. This is roughly true, + but in strictness it means, as we have seen, not that they decorate + the mere 'matter' with a mere 'form,' but that they produce a new + content-form. + + + + +THE SUBLIME + + +THE SUBLIME[1] + + +Coleridge used to tell a story about his visit to the Falls of Clyde; +but he told it with such variations that the details are uncertain, and +without regard to truth I shall change it to the shape that suits my +purpose best. After gazing at the Falls for some time, he began to +consider what adjective would answer most precisely to the impression he +had received; and he came to the conclusion that the proper word was +'sublime.' Two other tourists arrived, and, standing by him, looked in +silence at the spectacle. Then, to Coleridge's high satisfaction, the +gentleman exclaimed, 'It is sublime.' To which the lady responded, 'Yes, +it is the prettiest thing I ever saw.' + +This poor lady's incapacity (for I assume that Coleridge and her husband +were in the right) is ludicrous, but it is also a little painful. +Sublimity and prettiness are qualities separated by so great a distance +that our sudden attempt to unite them has a comically incongruous +effect. At the same time the first of these qualities is so exalted that +the exhibition of entire inability to perceive it is distressing. +Astonishment, rapture, awe, even self-abasement, are among the emotions +evoked by sublimity. Many would be inclined to pronounce it the very +highest of all the forms assumed by beauty, whether in nature or in +works of imagination. + +I propose to make some remarks on this quality, and even to attempt some +sort of answer to the question what sublimity is. I say 'some sort of +answer,' because the question is large and difficult, and I can deal +with it only in outline and by drawing artificial limits round it and +refusing to discuss certain presuppositions on which the answer rests. +What I mean by these last words will be evident if I begin by referring +to a term which will often recur in this lecture--the term 'beauty.' + +When we call sublimity a form of beauty, as I did just now, the word +'beauty' is obviously being used in the widest sense. It is the sense +which the word bears when we distinguish beauty from goodness and from +truth, or when 'beautiful' is taken to signify anything and everything +that gives aesthetic satisfaction, or when 'Aesthetics' and 'Philosophy +of the Beautiful' are used as equivalent expressions. Of beauty, thus +understood, sublimity is one particular kind among a number of others, +for instance prettiness. But 'beauty' and 'beautiful' have also another +meaning, narrower and more specific, as when we say that a thing is +pretty but not beautiful, or that it is beautiful but not sublime. The +beauty we have in view here is evidently not the same as beauty in the +wider sense; it is only, like sublimity or prettiness, a particular kind +or mode of that beauty. This ambiguity of the words 'beauty' and +'beautiful' is a great inconvenience, and especially so in a lecture, +where it forces us to add some qualification to the words whenever they +occur: but it cannot be helped. (Now that the lecture is printed I am +able to avoid these qualifications by printing the words in inverted +commas where they bear the narrower sense.)[2] + +Now, obviously, all the particular kinds or modes of beauty must have, +up to a certain point, the same nature. They must all possess that +character in virtue of which they are called beautiful rather than good +or true. And so a philosopher, investigating one of these kinds, would +first have to determine this common nature or character; and then he +would go on to ascertain what it is that distinguishes the particular +kind from its companions. But here we cannot follow such a method. The +nature of beauty in general is so much disputed and so variously defined +that to discuss it here by way of preface would be absurd; and on the +other hand it would be both presumptuous and useless to assume the truth +of any one account of it. Our only plan, therefore, must be to leave it +entirely alone, and to consider merely the distinctive character of +sublimity. Let beauty in general be what it may, what is it that marks +off _this_ kind of beauty from others, and what is there peculiar in our +state of mind when we are moved to apply to anything the specific +epithet 'sublime'?--such is our question. And this plan is not merely +the only possible one, but it is, I believe, quite justifiable, since, +so far as I can see, the answer to our particular question, unless it is +pushed further than I propose to go, is unaffected by the differences +among theories of repute concerning beauty in general. At the same time, +it is essential to realise and always to bear in mind one consequence of +this plan; which is that our account of what is peculiar to sublimity +will not be an account of sublimity in its full nature. For sublimity is +not those peculiar characteristics alone, it is that _beauty_ which is +distinguished by them, and a large part of its effect is due to that +general nature of beauty which it shares with other kinds, and which we +leave unexamined. + +In considering the question thus defined I propose to start from our +common aesthetic experience and to attempt to arrive at an answer by +degrees. It will be understood, therefore, that our first results may +have to be modified as we proceed. And I will venture to ask my hearers, +further, to ignore for the time any doubts they may feel whether I am +right in saying, by way of illustration, that this or that thing is +sublime. Such differences of opinion scarcely affect our question, which +is not whether in a given case the epithet is rightly applied, but what +the epithet signifies. And it has to be borne in mind that, while no two +kinds of beauty can be quite the same, a _thing_ may very well possess +beauty of two different kinds. + +Let us begin by placing side by side five terms which represent five of +the many modes of beauty--sublime, grand, 'beautiful,' graceful, pretty. +'Beautiful' is here placed in the middle. Before it come two terms, +sublime and grand; and beyond it lie two others, graceful and pretty. +Now is it not the case that the first two, though not identical, still +seem to be allied in some respect; that the last two also seem to be +allied in some respect; that in this respect, whatever it may be, these +two pairs seem to stand apart from one another, and even to stand in +contrast; that 'beauty,' in this respect, seems to hold a neutral +position, though perhaps inclining rather to grace than to grandeur; and +that the extreme terms, sublime and pretty, seem in this respect to be +the most widely removed; so that this series of five constitutes, in a +sense, a descending series,--descending not necessarily in value, but in +some particular respect not yet assigned? If, for example, in the lady's +answer, 'Yes, it is the prettiest thing I ever saw,' you substitute for +'prettiest' first 'most graceful,' and then 'most beautiful,' and then +'grandest,' you will find that your astonishment at her diminishes at +each step, and that at the last, when she identifies sublimity and +grandeur, she is guilty no longer of an absurdity, but only of a slight +anti-climax. If, I may add, she had said 'majestic,' the anti-climax +would have been slighter still, and, in fact, in one version of the +story Coleridge says that 'majestic' was the word he himself chose. + +What then is the 'respect' in question here,--the something or other in +regard to which sublimity and grandeur seemed to be allied with one +another, and to differ decidedly from grace and prettiness? It appears +to be greatness. Thousands of things are 'beautiful,' graceful, or +pretty, and yet make no impression of greatness, nay, this impression in +many cases appears to collide with, and even to destroy, that of grace +or prettiness, so that if a pretty thing produced it you would cease to +call it pretty. But whatever strikes us as sublime produces an +impression of greatness, and more--of exceeding or even overwhelming +greatness. And this greatness, further, is apparently no mere +accompaniment of sublimity, but essential to it: remove the greatness in +imagination, and the sublimity vanishes. Grandeur, too, seems always to +possess greatness, though not in this superlative degree; while 'beauty' +neither invariably possesses it nor tends, like prettiness and grace, to +exclude it. I will try, not to defend these statements by argument, but +to develop their meaning by help of illustrations, dismissing from view +the minor differences between these modes of beauty, and, for the most +part, leaving grandeur out of account. + +We need not ask here what is the exact meaning of that 'greatness' of +which I have spoken: but we must observe at once that the greatness in +question is of more than one kind. Let us understand by the term, to +begin with, greatness of extent,--of size, number, or duration; and let +us ask whether sublime things are, in this sense, exceedingly great. +Some certainly are. The vault of heaven, one expanse of blue, or dark +and studded with countless and prodigiously distant stars; the sea that +stretches to the horizon and beyond it, a surface smooth as glass or +breaking into innumerable waves; time, to which we can imagine no +beginning and no end,--these furnish favourite examples of sublimity; +and to call them great seems almost mockery, for they are images of +immeasurable magnitude. When we turn from them to living beings, of +course our standard of greatness changes;[3] but, using the standard +appropriate to the sphere, we find again that the sublime things have, +for the most part, great magnitude. A graceful tree need not be a large +one; a pretty tree is almost always small; but a sublime tree is almost +always large. If you were asked to mention sublime animals, you would +perhaps suggest, among birds, the eagle; among fishes, if any, the +whale; among beasts, the lion or the tiger, the python or the elephant. +But you would find it hard to name a sublime insect; and indeed it is +not easy, perhaps not possible, to feel sublimity in any animal smaller +than oneself, unless one goes beyond the special kind of greatness at +present under review. Consider again such facts as these: that a human +being of average, or even of less than average, stature and build may be +graceful and even 'beautiful,' but can hardly, in respect of stature and +build, be grand or sublime; that we most commonly think of flowers as +little things, and also most commonly think of them as 'beautiful,' +graceful, pretty, but rarely as grand, and still more rarely as +sublime, and that in these latter cases we do not think of them as +small; that a mighty river may well be sublime, but hardly a stream; a +towering or far-stretching mountain, but hardly a low hill; a vast +bridge, but hardly one of moderate span; a great cathedral, but hardly a +village church; that a model of a sublime building is not sublime, +unless in imagination you expand it to the dimensions of its original; +that a plain, though flat, may be sublime if its extent is immense; that +while we constantly say 'a pretty little thing,' or even 'a beautiful +little thing,' nobody ever says 'a sublime little thing.' Examples like +these seem to show clearly--not that bigness is sublimity, for bigness +need have no beauty, while sublimity is a mode of beauty--but that this +particular mode of beauty is frequently connected with, and dependent +on, exceeding greatness of extent. + +Let us now take a further step. Can there be sublimity when such +greatness is absent? And, if there can, is greatness of some other sort +always present in such cases, and essential to the sublime effect? The +answer to the first of these questions is beyond doubt. Children have no +great extension, and what Wordsworth calls 'a six-years' darling of a +pigmy size' is (if a darling) generally called pretty but not sublime; +for it _is_ 'of a pigmy size.' Yet it certainly _may_ be sublime, and it +is so to the poet who addresses it thus: + + Thou whose exterior semblance doth belie + Thy soul's immensity.... + Mighty prophet! Seer blest! + On whom those truths do rest + Which we are toiling all our lives to find. + +A baby is still smaller, but a baby too may be sublime. The starry sky +is not more sublime than the babe on the arm of the Madonna di San +Sisto. A sparrow is more diminutive still; but that it is possible for a +sparrow to be sublime is not difficult to show. This is a translation +of a prose poem by Tourgénieff: + + I was on my way home from hunting, and was walking up the garden + avenue. My dog was running on in front of me. + + Suddenly he slackened his pace, and began to steal forward as though + he scented game ahead. + + I looked along the avenue; and I saw on the ground a young sparrow, + its beak edged with yellow, and its head covered with soft down. It + had fallen from the nest (a strong wind was blowing, and shaking the + birches of the avenue); and there it sat and never stirred, except to + stretch out its little half-grown wings in a helpless flutter. + + My dog was slowly approaching it, when suddenly, darting from the tree + overhead, an old black-throated sparrow dropt like a stone right + before his nose, and, all rumpled and flustered, with a plaintive + desperate cry flung itself, once, twice, at his open jaws with their + great teeth. + + It would save its young one; it screened it with its own body; the + tiny frame quivered with terror; the little cries grew wild and + hoarse; it sank and died. It had sacrificed itself. + + What a huge monster the dog must have seemed to it! And yet it could + not stay up there on its safe bough. A power stronger than its own + will tore it away. + + My dog stood still, and then slunk back disconcerted. Plainly he too + had to recognise that power. I called him to me; and a feeling of + reverence came over me as I passed on. + + Yes, do not laugh. It was really reverence I felt before that little + heroic bird and the passionate outburst of its love. + + Love, I thought, is verily stronger than death and the terror of + death. By love, only by love, is life sustained and moved. + +This sparrow, it will be agreed, is sublime. What, then, makes it so? +Not largeness of size, assuredly, but, we answer, its love and courage. +Yes; but what do we mean by '_its_ love and courage'? We often meet with +love and courage, and always admire and approve them; but we do not +always find them sublime. Why, then, are they sublime in the sparrow? +From their extraordinary greatness. It is not in the quality alone, but +in the quantity of the quality, that the sublimity lies. And this may be +readily seen if we imagine the quantity to be considerably reduced,--if +we imagine the parent bird, after its first brave effort, flinching and +flying away, or if we suppose the bird that sacrifices itself to be no +sparrow but a turkey. In either case love and courage would remain, but +sublimity would recede or vanish, simply because the love and courage +would no longer possess the required immensity.[4] + +The sublimity of the sparrow, then, no less than that of the sky or sea, +depends on exceeding or overwhelming greatness--a greatness, however, +not of extension but rather of strength or power, and in this case of +spiritual power. 'Love is _stronger_ than death,' quotes the poet; 'a +power _stronger_ than its own tore it away.' So it is with the dog of +whom Scott and Wordsworth sang, whose master had perished among the +crags of Helvellyn, and who was found three months after by his master's +body, + + How nourished here through such long time + He knows who gave that love sublime, + And gave that strength of feeling, great + Above all human estimate.[5] + +And if we look further we shall find that these cases of sublimity are, +in this respect, far from being exceptions: 'thy soul's _immensity_,' +says Wordsworth to the child; '_mighty_ prophet' he calls it. We shall +find, in fact, that in the sublime, when there is not greatness of +extent, there is another greatness, which (without saying that the +phrase is invariably the most appropriate) we may call greatness of +power and which in these cases is essential. + +We must develop this statement a little. Naturally the power, and +therefore the sublimity, will differ in its character in different +instances, and therefore will affect us variously. It may be--to +classify very roughly--physical, or vital, or (in the old wide sense of +the word) moral, like that of the sparrow and the dog. And physical +force will appeal to the imagination in one way, and vital in another, +and moral or spiritual in another. But it is still power of some kind +that makes a thing sublime rather than graceful, and immensity of power +that makes it sublime rather than merely grand. For example, the lines +of the water in a thin cascade may be exquisitely graceful, but such a +cascade has not power enough to be sublime. Flickering fire in a grate +is often 'beautiful,' but it is not sublime; the fire of a big bonfire +is on the way to be so; a 'great fire' frequently is so, because it +gives the impression of tremendous power. The ocean, in those stanzas of +_Childe Harold_ which no amount of familiarity or of defect can deprive +of their sublimity, is the untameable monster which engulfs men as +lightly as rain-drops and shatters fleets like toys. The sublimity of +Behemoth and Leviathan in the _Book of Job_ lies in the contrast of +their enormous might with the puny power of man; that of the horse in +the fiery energy of his courage and strength. Think of sublime figures +or ideas in the world of fiction or of history, and you find that, +whether they are radiant or gloomy, violent or peaceful, terrible or +adorable, they all impress the imagination by their immense or even +irresistible might. It is so with Achilles, standing alone beyond the +wall, with the light of the divine flame soaring from his head, while he +sends across the trench that shout at whose far-off sound the hearts of +the Trojans die within them; or with Odysseus, when the moment of his +vengeance has come, and he casts off his rags, and leaps onto the +threshold with his bow, and pours his arrows down at his feet, and looks +down the long hall at the doomed faces of his feasting enemies. Milton's +Satan is sublime when he refuses to accept defeat from an omnipotent +foe; he ceases to be so in tempting Eve, because here he shows not power +but cunning, and we feel not the strength of his cunning but the +weakness of his victim. In the bust of Zeus in the Vatican, in some of +the figures of the Medici Chapel, in 'The horse and his rider,' we feel +again sublimity, because we feel gigantic power, put forth or held in +reserve. Fate or Death, imagined as a lurking assassin, is not sublime, +but may become so when imagined as inevitable, irresistible, +_ineluctabile fatum_. The eternal laws to which Antigone appeals, like +that Duty which preserves the strength and freshness of the most ancient +heavens, are sublime. Prometheus, the saviour of mankind, opposing a +boundless power of enduring pain to a boundless power of inflicting it; +Regulus returning unmoved to his doom; Socrates, serene and even joyous +in the presence of injury and death and the lamentations of his friends, +are sublime. The words 'I have overcome the world' are among the most +sublime on record, and they are also the expression of the absolute +power of the spirit.[6] + +It seems clear, then, that sublimity very often arises from an +overwhelming greatness of power. So abundant, indeed, are the instances +that one begins to wonder whether it ever arises from any other kind of +greatness, and whether we were right in supposing that mere magnitude of +extension can produce it. Would such magnitude, however prodigious, seem +to us sublime unless we insensibly construed it as the sign of power? In +the case of living things, at any rate, this doubt seems to be well +founded. A tree is sublime not because it occupies a large extent of +empty space or time, but from the power in it which raises aloft and +spreads abroad a thousand branches and a million leaves, or which has +battled for centuries with buffeting storms and has seen summers and +winters arise and pass like the hours of our day. It is not the mere +bulk of the lion or the eagle that wins them their title as king of +beasts or of birds, but the power exhibited in the gigantic head and arm +or the stretch of wing and the piercing eye. And even when we pass from +the realm of life our doubt remains. Would a mountain, a river, or a +building be sublime to us if we did not read their masses and lines as +symbols of force? Would even the illimitable extent of sea or sky, the +endlessness of time, or the countlessness of stars or sands or waves, +bring us anything but fatigue or depression if we did not apprehend +them, in some way and however vaguely, as expressions of immeasurable +power--power that created them, or lives in them, or _can_ count them; +so that what impresses us is not the mere absence of limits, but the +presence of something that overpowers any imaginable limit? If these +doubts are justified (as in my opinion they are), the conclusion will +follow that the exceeding greatness required for sublimity is _always_ +greatness of some kind of power, though in one class of cases the +impression of this greatness can only be conveyed through immensity of +extent. + +However this question may be decided, our result so far seems to be that +the peculiarity of the sublime lies in some exceeding and overwhelming +greatness. But before this result can be considered safe, two obstacles +must be removed. In the first place, are there no negative instances? Is +it impossible to find anything sublime which does _not_ show this +greatness? Naturally I can say no more than that I have conscientiously +searched for exceptions to the rule and have searched in vain. I can +find only apparent exceptions which in reality confirm the rule; and I +will mention only those which look the most formidable. They are cases +where at first sight there seems to be not merely an inconsiderable +amount of power or other greatness, but actually the negation of it. For +example, the silence of night, or the sudden pause in a storm or in +stormy music, or again the silence and movelessness of death, may +undoubtedly be sublime; and how, it may be asked, can a mere absence of +sound and motion be an exhibition of immense greatness? It cannot, I +answer; but neither can it be sublime. If you apprehend the silence in +these cases as a mere absence, no feeling of sublimity will arise in +your mind; and if you do apprehend the silence as sublime, it is to you +the sign of immense power, put forth or held in reserve. The 'dead pause +abrupt of mighty winds' is the pause _of_ mighty winds and not of gentle +breezes; and it is not the absence of mighty winds, but their _pause_ +before they burst into renewed fury; or if their silence is not their +will, it is a silence imposed on them by something mightier even than +they. In either case there may be sublimity, but then there is the +impression of immense power. In the same way the silence of night, when +it seems sublime, is apprehended not as the absence but as the subdual +of sound,--the stillness wrought by a power so mighty that at its touch +all the restless noises of the day fall dumb,--or the brooding of an +omnipotent peace over the world. And such a peace it is, an unassailable +peace, that may make the face of death sublime, a stillness which is not +moveless but immovable.[7] + +At present, then, our result seems to stand firm. But another danger +remains. Granted that in the sublime there is always some exceeding and +overwhelming greatness, is that _all_ there is? Is there not in every +case some further characteristic? This question, premising that the +phrase 'overwhelming greatness' contains important implications which +have yet to be considered, I can only answer like the last. I do not +find any other peculiarity that is _always_ present. Several have been +alleged, and one or two of these will be mentioned later, but none of +them appears to show itself indubitably wherever sublimity is found. It +is easy to give a much fuller account of the sublime if you include in +it everything that impresses you in a sublime baby while you omit to +consider Behemoth, or if you build upon Socrates and ignore Satan, or if +you confine yourself to the sublime thunderstorm and forget the sublime +rainbow or sunrise. But then your account will not answer to the +instances you have ignored; and when you take them in you will have to +pare it down until perhaps you end in a result like ours. At any rate we +had better be content with it for the present, and turn to another +aspect of the matter.[8] + +So far, on the whole, we have been regarding the sublime object as if +its sublimity were independent of our state of mind in feeling and +apprehending it. Yet the adjective in the phrase 'overwhelming +greatness' should at once suggest the truth that this state of mind is +essential to sublimity. Let us now therefore look inward, and ask how +this state differs from our state in perceiving or imagining what is +graceful or 'beautiful.' Since Kant dealt with the subject, most writers +who have thought about it have agreed that there is a decided +difference, which I will try to describe broadly, and without pledging +myself to the entire accuracy of the description. + +When, on seeing or hearing something, we exclaim, How graceful! or How +lovely! or How 'beautiful'! there is in us an immediate outflow of +pleasure, an unchecked expansion, a delightful sense of harmony between +the thing and ourselves. + + The air + Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself + Unto our gentle senses.... The heaven's breath + Smells wooingly here. + +The thing wins us and draws us towards itself without resistance. +Something in us hastens to meet it in sympathy or love. Our feeling, we +may say, is entirely affirmative. For though it is not always untouched +by pain (for the thing may have sadness in it),[9] this touch of pain or +sadness does not mean any disharmony between the thing and us, or +involve any check in our acceptance of it. + +In the case of sublimity, on the other hand, this acceptance does not +seem to be so simple or immediate. There seem, in fact, to be two +'aspects' or stages in it.[10] First--if only for a fraction of a +second--there is a sense of being checked, or baffled, or even +stupefied, or possibly even repelled or menaced, as though something +were affecting us which we could not receive, or grasp, or stand up to. +In certain cases we appear to shrink away from it, as though it thrust +upon us a sense of our own feebleness or insignificance. This we may +call by the convenient but too strong name of the negative stage. It is +essential to sublimity; and nothing seems to correspond to it in our +perception of loveliness or grace except sometimes a sense of surprise +or wonder, which is wholly pleasant, and which does not necessarily +qualify the lovely or graceful thing. + +But this first stage or aspect clearly does not by itself suffice for +sublimity. To it there succeeds, it may be instantaneously or more +gradually, another: a powerful reaction, a rush of self-expansion, or an +uplifting, or a sense of being borne out of the self that was checked, +or even of being carried away beyond all checks and limits. These +feelings, even when the sublime thing might be called forbidding, +menacing, or terrible, are always positive,--feelings of union with it; +and, when its nature permits of this, they may amount to rapture or +adoration. But the mark of the negation from which they have issued, the +'smell of the fire,' usually remains on them. The union, we may say +perhaps, has required a self-surrender, and the rapture or adoration is +often strongly tinged with awe. + +Now, this peculiar doubleness in our apprehension of sublimity, this +presence of two equally necessary stages or phases, a negative and a +positive, seems to correspond with the peculiarity which we found in the +sublime object when we were provisionally regarding it by itself. It is +its overwhelming greatness which for a moment checks, baffles, subdues, +even repels us or makes us feel our littleness, and which then, forcing +its way into the imagination and emotions, distends or uplifts them to +its own dimensions. We burst our own limits, go out to the sublime thing, +identify ourselves ideally with it, and share its immense greatness. But +if, and in so far as, we remain conscious of our difference from it, we +still feel the insignificance of our actual selves, and our glory is +mingled with awe or even with self-abasement.[11] + +In writing thus I was endeavouring simply and without any _arričre +pensée_ to describe a mode of aesthetic experience. But it must have +occurred to some of my hearers that the description recalls other kinds +of experience. And if they find it accurate in the main, they will +appreciate, even if they do not accept, the exalted claim which +philosophers, in various forms, have made for the sublime. It awakes in +us, they say, through the check or shock which it gives to our finitude, +the consciousness of an infinite or absolute; and this is the reason of +the kinship we feel between this particular mode of aesthetic experience +on the one side, and, on the other, morality or religion. For there, by +the denial of our merely finite or individual selves, we rise into union +with the law which imposes on us an unconditional demand, or with the +infinite source and end of our spiritual life. + +These are ideas much too large to be considered now, and even later I +can but touch on them. But the mere mention of them may carry us to the +last enquiries with which we can deal. For it suggests this question: +Supposing that high claim to be justified at all, can it really be made +for _all_ sublimity, or must it not be confined to the very highest +forms? A similar question must be raised as to various other statements +regarding the sublime; and I go on to speak of some of these. + +(1) Burke asserted that the sublime is always founded on fear; indeed he +considered this to be its distinguishing characteristic. Setting aside, +then, the connection of this statement with Burke's general doctrine (a +doctrine impossible to accept), we may ask, Is it true that the 'check' +administered by the sublime object is always one of fear? We must +answer, first, that if this check is part of an aesthetic experience and +not a mere preliminary to it, it can _never_ be fear in the common +meaning of that word, or what may be called practical or real fear. So +far as we are _practically_ afraid of a storm or a mountain, afraid, for +instance, for ourselves as bodily beings in this particular spatial and +temporal position, the storm or mountain is not sublime to us, it is +simply terrible. _That_ fear must be absent, or must not engage +attention, or must be changed in character, if the object is to be for +us _sublimely_ terrible, something with which we identify ourselves in +imaginative sympathy, and which so causes a great self-expansion. But, +secondly, even if 'fear' is understood rightly as indicating a feature +in an aesthetic and not a practical experience, our question must +obviously be answered in the negative. There is fear in the apprehension +of some sublimity, but by no means in that of all. If there is a +momentary check, for example, in the case of a rainbow, a glorious +sunrise, the starry night, Socrates, or Tourgénieff's sparrow, 'fear,' +unless the meaning of the word is unnaturally extended, is surely not +the name for this check. + +Burke's mistake, however, implies a recognition of the 'negative aspect' +in sublimity, and it may remind us of a truth. Instances of the sublime +differ greatly in regard to the prominence and tone of this aspect. It +is less marked, for example, and less obvious, in the case of a sublime +rainbow or sunrise than in that of a sublime and 'terrible' +thunderstorm. And in general we may say that the _distinctive_ nature of +sublimity appears most clearly where this aspect is most prominent,--so +prominent, perhaps, that we have a more or less explicit sense of the +littleness and powerlessness of ourselves, and indeed of the whole +world of our usual experience. It is here that the object is most +decidedly more than 'glorious,' or even 'majestic,' and that sublimity +appears in antithesis to grace. Only we must not give an account of the +sublime which fully applies to these cases _alone_, or suppose that the +negative aspect is absent in other cases. If a rainbow or sunrise is +really sublime, it is overwhelming as well as uplifting. Nor must we +assume that the most distinctively sublime must also be the most +sublime. The sunrise witnessed from an immense snowfield in the high +Alps may be as sublime as an Alpine thunderstorm, though its sublimity +is different. + +(2) Grace and 'beauty,' it has been said, though not of course merely +sensuous, are yet friendly to sense. It is their essence, in fact, to be +a harmonious unity of sense and spirit, and so to reconcile powers which +in much of our experience are conflicting and dissonant. But sublimity +is harsh and hostile to sense. It makes us feel in ourselves and in the +world the presence of something irresistibly superior to sense. And this +is the reason why it does not soothe or delight, but uplifts us. + +This statement recalls some of the ideas we have been considering, but +it may easily mislead. For one thing, it is impossible for any sublimity +whatever to be _merely_ hostile to 'sense,' since everything aesthetic +must appeal to sense or sensuous imagination, so that the sublime must +at least express its hostility to sense by means of sense. And if we +take the phrase in another meaning, the statement may mislead still, for +it attributes to sublimity in general what is a characteristic only of +certain forms of the sublime. Scores of examples could easily be quoted +which show no hostility to sense: _e.g._ a sublime lion, or bull, or +tree. And if we think of our old examples of the rainbow and the +sunrise, or, better still, of a thunderstorm, or 'The horse and his +rider,' or the 'Sanctus' in Bach's Mass, we find the sublime thing +actually making a powerful appeal to sense and depending for its +sublimity on the vehemence or volume of this appeal. Diminish at all +markedly in these cases the amount of light, colour, or sound, and the +sublimity would vanish. Of course the appeal here is not merely to +sense, but it _is_ to sense. + +But undoubtedly there is another kind of sublimity; and it is +particularly interesting. Here, it is true, a sort of despite is done to +the senses and what speaks to them. As we have seen, the greatness of +soul in the sparrow is enhanced by contrast with the smallness and +feebleness of its body, and pours contempt on the visible magnitude of +the hound; and the stillness of night or death is sublime from its +active negation of sound and motion. Again, there is a famous passage +which depends for its effect on this, that, first, sublime things are +introduced which appeal powerfully to sense, and then something else, +which does not so appeal, is made to appear even more sublime and to put +them to shame: first a great and strong wind, an earthquake, a fire; and +after the fire a still small voice. Sometimes, again, as Burke observed, +sublimity depends on, or is increased by, darkness, obscurity, +vagueness,--refusal of satisfaction to the sense of sight. Often in +these cases the sublime object is terrible, and its terror is increased +by inability to see or distinguish it. Examples are the image of 'the +pestilence that walketh in darkness,' or Milton's description of Death, +or the lines in the _Book of Job_: + + In thoughts from the visions of the night + When deep sleep falleth on men, + Fear came upon me and trembling, + Which made all my bones to shake. + Then a spirit passed before my face; + The hair of my flesh stood up. + It stood still, but I could not discern the form thereof. + An image was before mine eyes. + There was silence, and I heard a voice. + +It has been observed that attempts to illustrate such passages as these +dissipate their sublimity by diminishing the obscurity of the object. +Blake's illustrations of the lines in Milton and in _Job_[12] show this, +while his design of the morning-stars singing together is worthy even of +the words. + +We may trace this severity towards sense, again, in examples already +mentioned, the ideas of Fate, of the eternal laws to which Antigone +appeals, of Duty in Wordsworth's ode. We imagine these powers as removed +from sight, and indeed wholly immaterial, and yet as exercising +sovereign dominion over the visible and material world. And their +sublimity would be endangered if we tried to bring them nearer to sense +by picturing the means by which they exercise their control. + +I will take a last example. It has probably been mentioned in almost +every account of the sublime since Longinus quoted it in his work on +Elevation of Style. And it is of special interest here because it +illustrates at one and the same time the two kinds of sublimity which we +are engaged in distinguishing. 'God said, Let there be light, and there +was light.' The idea of the first and instantaneous appearance of light, +and that the whole light of the whole world, is already sublime; and its +primary appeal is to sense. The further idea that this transcendently +glorious apparition is due to mere words, to a breath--our symbol of +tenuity, evanescence, impotence to influence material bulk--heightens +enormously the impression of absolutely immeasurable power. + +To sum up, then, on this matter. It is not safe to distinguish the +sublime from the 'beautiful' by its hostility to sense. The sublime may +impress its overwhelming greatness in either of two ways, by an appeal +to sense, or by a kind of despite done to it. Nor can we assert, if we +think of the sunrise, the thunderstorm, or of sublime music, that the +second of these ways is more distinctive of the sublime than the first. +But perhaps we may say this. In 'beauty' that which appears in a +sensuous form seems to rest in it, to be perfectly embodied in it, and +to have no tendency to pass beyond it. In the sublime, even where no +such tendency is felt and sublimity is nearest to 'beauty,' we still +feel the presence of a power held in reserve, which could with ease +exceed its present expression. In _some_ forms of sublimity, again, the +sensuous embodiment seems threatening to break in its effort to express +what appears in it. And in others we definitely feel that the power +which for a moment intimates its presence to sense is infinite and +utterly uncontainable by any or all vehicles of its manifestation. Here +we are furthest (in a way) from sense, and furthest also from 'beauty.' + +(3) I come finally and, as it will at first seem, needlessly to an idea +which has already been touched on. The words 'boundless,' 'illimitable,' +'infinite,' constantly recur in discussions of sublimity, and it cannot +be denied that our experience constantly provokes them. The sublime has +been said to awake in us the consciousness of our own infinity. It has +been said, again, to represent in all cases the inadequacy of all finite +forms to express the infinite. And so we may be told that, even if we do +not adopt some such formula, but continue to speak of 'greatness,' we +ought at least to go beyond the adjective 'exceeding' or 'overwhelming,' +and to substitute 'immeasurable' or 'incomparable' or 'infinite.' + +Now, at the point we have reached, it would seem we might at once answer +that a claim is here being made for the sublime in general which really +holds good only of one kind of sublimity. Sometimes the sublime object +_is_ apprehended as the Infinite, or again as an expression of it. This +is, for example, a point of view frequent in Hebrew poetry. Sometimes, +again, the object (_e.g._ time or the heavens) is apprehended, not +indeed as _the_ Infinite, but still as infinite or immeasurable. But how +are we to say that a sublime lion or mountain, or Satan or Lady Macbeth, +is apprehended as the Infinite, or as infinite, or (usually) as even an +expression of the Infinite? And how are we to say that the greatness of +most sublime objects is apprehended as incomparable or immeasurable? It +is only failure to observe these distinctions that leads to errors like +one recorded in Coleridge's Table-talk (July 25, 1832): 'Could you ever +discover anything sublime, in our sense of the word, in the classic +Greek literature? I never could. Sublimity is Hebrew by birth.' + +This reply, however, though sound so far as it goes, does not settle the +question raised. It may still be maintained that sublimity in all cases, +and even when we have no idea of infinity before us, does represent the +inadequacy of all finite forms to express the infinite. And it is +unfortunately impossible for us to deal fully with this contention. It +would carry us into the region of metaphysics; and, while believing that +no theory of the sublime can be complete which stops short of that +region, I am aiming in this lecture at no such theory, but only at a +result which may hold good without regard to further developments. All +that I can do is to add a few words on the question whether, going +beyond the adjective 'exceeding' or 'overwhelming,' we can say that the +sublime is the beautiful which has immeasurable, incomparable, or +infinite greatness. And the answer which I suggest and will go on to +explain may be put thus: the greatness is only sometimes immeasurable, +but it is _always_ unmeasured. + +We cannot apprehend an object as sublime while we apprehend it as +comparably, measurably, or finitely great. Let the thing be what it +may--physical, vital, or spiritual--the moment we say to ourselves, 'It +is very great, but I know _how_ great,' or 'It is very great, but +something else is as great or greater,' at that moment it has ceased to +be sublime. Outside the consciousness of its sublimity we may be +perfectly well aware that a thing is limited, measurable, equal or +inferior to something else. But then we are _not_ finding it sublime. +And when we _are_ so finding it, we are absorbed in _its_ greatness, and +have no thought either of the limits of that or of its equality or +inferiority to anything else. The lion of whom we are thinking, 'An +elephant could kill him,' is no sublime lion. The Falls of Schaffhausen +are sublime when you are lost in astonishment at them, but not when you +are saying to yourself 'What must Niagara be!' This seems indubitable, +and hence we may say that, in one sense, all sublimity has unmeasured +greatness, and that no greatness is sublime which we apprehend as +finite. + +But the absence of a consciousness of measure or finitude is one thing; +the presence of a consciousness of immeasurableness or infinity is +another. The first belongs to all sublimity, the second only to one kind +of it,--to that where we _attempt_ to measure, or find limits to, the +greatness of the thing. _If_ we make this attempt, as when we try in +imagination to number the stars or to find an end to time, then it is +essential to sublimity that we should fail, and so fail that the idea of +immeasurability or endlessness emerges. In like manner, _if_ we compare +things, nothing will appear sublime whose greatness is surpassed or even +equalled by that of something else; and, if this process of comparison +is pursued, in the end nothing will be found sublime except the absolute +totality (however it may be imagined). And this kind of sublimity, +which arises from attempts to measure or compare, is often exceedingly +striking. But it is only one kind. For it is an entire delusion--though +a very common one in theories of the sublime--to suppose that we _must_ +attempt to measure or compare. On the contrary, in the majority of cases +our impression of overwhelming greatness is accompanied neither by any +idea that this greatness has a measure, nor by the idea that it is +immeasurable or infinite.[13] + +It will not do, then, to lay it down that the sublime is the beautiful +which has immeasurable, incomparable, or infinite greatness. But I +suggest that, after the explanations given, we may conveniently use the +adjective 'unmeasured,' so long as we remember that this means one thing +where we do not measure at all, and another thing where we try to +measure and fail. And, this being so, it seems that we may say that +_all_ sublimity, and not only that in which the idea of infinite +greatness or of the Infinite emerges, is an image of infinity; for in +all, through a certain check or limitation and the overcoming of it, we +reach the perception or the imaginative idea of something which, on the +one hand, has a positive nature, and, on the other, is either _not_ +determined as finite or _is_ determined as infinite. But we must not add +that this makes the sublime superior to the 'beautiful.' For the +'beautiful' too, though in a different way, is an image of infinity. In +'beauty,' as we said, that which appears in a sensuous form seems to +rest in that form, to be wholly embodied in it; it shows no tendency to +pass beyond it, and intimates no reserve of force that might strain or +break it. So that the 'beautiful' thing is a whole complete in itself, +and in moments when beauty fills our souls we know what Wordsworth meant +when he said 'the least of things seemed infinite,' though each thing, +being but one of many, must from another point of view, here suppressed, +be finite. 'Beauty,' then, we may perhaps say, is the image of the total +presence of the Infinite within any limits it may choose to assume; +sublimity the image of its boundlessness, and of its rejection of any +pretension to independence or absoluteness on the part of its finite +forms; the one the image of its immanence, the other of its +transcendence. + +Within an hour I could attempt no more than an outline of our subject. +That is inevitable; and so is another defect, which I regret more. In +analysing any kind of aesthetic experience we have to begin by +disentangling the threads that meet in it; and when we can only make a +beginning, no time is left for the further task of showing how they are +interwoven. We distinguish, for example, one kind of sublimity from +another, and we must do so; but in the actual experience, the single +instance, these kinds often melt together. I take one case of this. +Trying to overlook the field in which sublimity appears, we say that +there is a sublimity of inorganic things, and of things vital, and of +things spiritual, and that these kinds differ. And this is true; and +perhaps it is also true that sometimes we experience one of these kinds, +so to say, quite pure and unmixed with others. But it is not always, +perhaps not usually so. More frequently kind mingles with kind, and we +mutilate the experience when we name it after one of them. In life the +imagination, touched at one point, tingles all over and responds at all +points. It is offered an impression of physical or vital greatness, but +at once it brings from the other end of its world reminiscences of +quite another order, and fuses the impression with them. Or an appeal is +made to the sense of spiritual greatness, but there rises before the +imagination a vision with the outlines and hues of material Nature. +Offer it a sunset--a mere collection of coloured lines and spots--and +they become to it regrets and hopes and longings too deep for tears. +Tell it of souls made perfect in bliss, and it sees an immeasurable +rose, or city-walls that flash with the light of all the gems on earth. +The truth that a sparrow and a mountain are different, and that Socrates +is not Satan, interests it but little. What it cares for is the truth +that, when they are sublime, they are all the same; for each becomes +infinite, and it feels in each its own infinity. + +1903. + + + NOTES[14] + +I add here a few remarks on some points which it was not convenient to +discuss in the lecture. + +1. We have seen that in the apprehension of sublimity we do not always +employ comparison or attempt to measure. To feel a thing overwhelmingly +great it is not necessary to have before the mind either the idea of +something less great, or any standard of greatness. To argue that this +must be necessary because 'great' means nothing except as opposed to +'small,' is like arguing that I cannot have a perception of pride +without thinking of humility. + +This point seems to me quite clear. But a question remains. If we go +below consciousness, what is it that happens in us? The apprehension of +sublimity implies that we have received an exceedingly strong +impression. This as a matter of fact must mean an impression very much +stronger than something else; and this something else must be, so to +say, a standard with which the impression is unconsciously compared. +What then is it? + +Stated in the most general terms, it must apparently be the usual or +average strength of impressions. + +But this unconscious standard takes particular concrete forms in various +classes of cases. Not seldom it seems to be our sense of our own power +or of average human power. This is especially so where the thing felt to +be sublime is, in the relevant respect, _in eodem genere_ with +ourselves. A sublime lion, for example, is immensely superior to us, or +to the average man, in muscular force and so in dangerousness, +Tourgénieff's sparrow in courage and love, a god in all sorts of ways. +And the use of this unconscious standard is probably the reason of the +fact, noted in the lecture, that it is difficult to feel sublimity, as +regards vital force, in a creature smaller than ourselves. + +But this is not the only standard. A sublime lion is not only immensely +stronger than we are, but is generally also exceptional among lions; and +so with a sublime tree or bridge or thunderstorm. So that we seem also +to use as unconscious standard the idea of the average of the kind to +which the thing belongs. An average thunderstorm hardly seems sublime, +and yet it is overwhelmingly superior to us in power.[15] + +What, again, is the psychical machinery employed when we attempt to +measure the shoreless sea, or time, and find them immeasurable? Is there +any standard of the 'usual' here? I will leave this question to more +skilled psychologists than myself. + +2. Since the impression produced by sublimity is one of very exceptional +strength, we are not able to feel it continuously for long, though we +can repeat it after a pause. In this the sublime differs from the +'beautiful,' on which we like to _dwell_ after our first surprise is +over. A tragedy or symphony that was sublime from beginning to end could +not be so experienced. Living among mountains, we feel their beauty more +or less constantly, their sublimity only by flashes. + +3. If our account of the impression produced by sublimity is true, why +should not any sensation whatever produce this impression merely by +gaining extraordinary strength? It seems to me it would, supposing at +its normal strength it conformed to the general requirements of +aesthetic experience, and supposing the requisite accession of strength +did not remove this conformity. But this, in one respect at least, it +would do. It would make the light, sound, smell, physiologically +painful, and we should feel it as painful or even dangerous. We find +this in the case of lightning. If it is to be felt as aesthetic it must +not pass a certain degree of brightness; or, as we sometimes say, it +must not be too 'near.' + + +FOOTNOTES: + + [1] I have learned something from many discussions of this subject. + In its outline the view I have taken is perhaps nearer to Hartmann's + than to any other. + + [2] Popular usage coincides roughly with this sense. Indeed, it can + hardly be said to recognise the wider one at all. 'Beauty' and + 'beautiful,' in that wider sense, are technical terms of Aesthetics. + It is a misfortune that the language of Aesthetics should thus differ + from the ordinary language of speech and literature; but the + misfortune seems to be unavoidable, for there is no word in the + ordinary language which means 'whatever gives aesthetic + satisfaction,' and yet that idea _must_ have a name in Aesthetics. + + [3] I do not mean to imply that in aesthetic apprehension itself we + always, or generally, make conscious use of a standard or, indeed, + think of greatness. But here we are _reflecting_ on this + apprehension. + + [4] Thus, it may be noticed, the sparrow's size, which is the reverse + of sublime, is yet indirectly essential to the sublimity of the + sparrow. + + [5] The poet's language here has done our analysis for us. + + [6] A word may be added here on a disputed point as to 'spiritual' + sublimity. It has been held that intellect cannot be sublime; but + surely in the teeth of facts. Not to speak of intellect as it appears + in the sphere of practice, how can it be denied that the intellect of + Aristotle or Shakespeare or Newton may produce the impression of + sublimity? All that is true is, first, that the intellect must be + apprehended imaginatively and not thought abstractly (otherwise it + can produce _no_ aesthetic impression), and, secondly, that it + appears sublime in virtue not of its quality alone but of the + quantity, or force, of that quality. + + [7] The same principle applies to other cases. If, for example, the + desolation of a landscape is felt to be sublime, it is so not as the + mere negation of life, verdure, etc., but as their _active_ negation. + + [8] The reader will remember that in one sense of the question, Is + there no more in the sublime than overwhelming greatness? this + question must of course be answered in the affirmative. Sublimity is + a mode of beauty: the sublime is not the overwhelmingly great, it is + the beautiful which has overwhelming greatness; and it affects us + through its whole nature, not by mere greatness. + + [9] I am warning the reader against a mistake which may arise from + the complexity of aesthetic experience. We may make a broad + distinction between 'glad' and 'sad' modes of beauty; but that does + not coincide with the distinction of modes with which we are + concerned in this lecture. What is lovely or 'beautiful' may be glad + or sad, and so may what is grand or sublime. + + [10] In what follows I have spoken as if the two were always + successive stages, and as if these always came in the same order. It + is easier to make the matter quickly clear by taking this view, which + also seemed to answer to my own experience. But I do not wish to + commit myself to an opinion on the point, which is of minor + importance. What is essential is to recognise the presence of the two + 'aspects' or 'stages,' and to see that both are requisite to + sublimity. + + [11] 'Ich fühlte mich so klein, so gross,' says Faust, remembering + the vision of the Erdgeist, whom he addresses as 'Erhabener Geist.' + He was at once overwhelmed and uplifted. + + [12] At least if the 'Vision' is sublime its sublimity is not that of + the original. We can 'discern the form thereof' distinctly enough. + + [13] To avoid complication I have passed by the case where we compare + the sublime thing with another thing and find it much greater without + finding it immeasurably great. Here the greatness, it appears to me, + is still unmeasured. That is to say, we do not attempt to determine + its amount, and if we did we should lose the impression of sublimity. + We may _say_, perhaps, that it is ten, fifty, or a million times, as + great; but these words no more represent mathematical calculations + than Hamlet's 'forty thousand brothers.' + + [14] I am far from being satisfied with the ideas imperfectly + expressed in the first and third of these Notes, but they require + more consideration than I can give to them during the printing of the + Second Edition. The reader is requested to take them as mere + suggestions. + + [15] Hence a creature much less powerful than ourselves _may_, I + suppose, be sublime, even from the mere point of view of vital + energy. But I doubt if this is so in my own case. I have seen + 'magnificent' or 'glorious' cocks and cats, but if I called them + 'sublime' I should say rather more than I feel. I mention cocks, + because Ruskin somewhere mentions a sublime cock; but I cannot find + the passage, and this cock may have been sublime (if it really was so + to Ruskin) from some other than 'vital' greatness. + + + + +HEGEL'S THEORY OF TRAGEDY + + +HEGEL'S THEORY OF TRAGEDY[1] + + +Since Aristotle dealt with tragedy, and, as usual, drew the main +features of his subject with those sure and simple strokes which no +later hand has rivalled, the only philosopher who has treated it in a +manner both original and searching is Hegel. I propose here to give a +sketch of Hegel's theory, and to add some remarks upon it. But I cannot +possibly do justice in a sketch to a theory which fills many pages of +the _Aesthetik_; which I must tear from its connections with the +author's general view of poetry, and with the rest of his philosophy[2]; +and which I must try to exhibit as far as possible in the language of +ordinary literature. To estimate this theory, therefore, from my sketch +would be neither safe nor just--all the more because, in the interest of +immediate clearness, I have not scrupled to insert without warning +various remarks and illustrations for which Hegel is not responsible. + +On certain characteristics of tragedy the briefest reminder will +suffice. A large part of the nature of this form of drama is common to +the drama in all its forms; and of this nothing need be said. It will be +agreed, further, that in all tragedy there is some sort of collision or +conflict--conflict of feelings, modes of thought, desires, wills, +purposes; conflict of persons with one another, or with circumstances, +or with themselves; one, several, or all of these kinds of conflict, as +the case may be. Again, it may be taken for granted that a tragedy is a +story of unhappiness or suffering, and excites such feelings as pity and +fear. To this, if we followed the present usage of the term, we should +add that the story of unhappiness must have an unhappy end; by which we +mean in effect that the conflict must close with the death of one or +more of the principal characters. But this usage of the word 'tragedy' +is comparatively recent; it leaves us without a name for many plays, in +many languages, which deal with unhappiness without ending unhappily; +and Hegel takes the word in its older and wider sense. + +Passing on from these admitted characteristics of tragedy, we may best +approach Hegel's peculiar view by observing that he lays particular +stress on one of them. That a tragedy is a story of suffering is +probably to many people the most obvious fact about it. Hegel says very +little of this; partly, perhaps, because it is obvious, but more because +the essential point to him is not the suffering but its cause, namely, +the action or conflict. Mere suffering, he would say, is not tragic, but +only the suffering that comes of a special kind of action. Pity for mere +misfortune, like fear of it, is not tragic pity or fear. These are due +to the spectacle of the conflict and its attendant suffering, which do +not appeal simply to our sensibilities or our instinct of +self-preservation, but also to our deeper mind or spirit (_Geist_, a +word which, with its adjective, I shall translate 'spirit,' 'spiritual,' +because our words 'mind' and 'mental' suggest something merely +intellectual). + +The reason why the tragic conflict thus appeals to the spirit is that it +is itself a conflict of the spirit. It is a conflict, that is to say, +between powers that rule the world of man's will and action--his +'ethical substance.' The family and the state, the bond of parent and +child, of brother and sister, of husband and wife, of citizen and ruler, +or citizen and citizen, with the obligations and feelings appropriate to +these bonds; and again the powers of personal love and honour, or of +devotion to a great cause or an ideal interest like religion or science +or some kind of social welfare--such are the forces exhibited in tragic +action; not indeed alone, not without others less affirmative and +perhaps even evil, but still in preponderating mass. And as they form +the substance of man, are common to all civilised men, and are +acknowledged as powers rightfully claiming human allegiance, their +exhibition in tragedy has that interest, at once deep and universal, +which is essential to a great work of art. + +In many a work of art, in many a statue, picture, tale, or song, such +powers are shown in solitary peace or harmonious co-operation. Tragedy +shows them in collision. Their nature is divine, and in religion they +appear as gods; but, as seen in the world of tragic action, they have +left the repose of Olympus, have entered into human wills, and now meet +as foes. And this spectacle, if sublime, is also terrible. The +essentially tragic fact is the self-division and intestinal warfare of +the ethical substance, not so much the war of good with evil as the war +of good with good. Two of these isolated powers face each other, making +incompatible demands. The family claims what the state refuses, love +requires what honour forbids. The competing forces are both in +themselves rightful, and so far the claim of each is equally justified; +but the right of each is pushed into a wrong, because it ignores the +right of the other, and demands that absolute sway which belongs to +neither alone, but to the whole of which each is but a part. + +And one reason why this happens lies in the nature of the characters +through whom these claims are made. It is the nature of the tragic hero, +at once his greatness and his doom, that he knows no shrinking or +half-heartedness, but identifies himself wholly with the power that +moves him, and will admit the justification of no other power. However +varied and rich his inner life and character may be, in the conflict it +is all concentrated in one point. Antigone _is_ the determination to do +her duty to her dead brother; Romeo is not a son or a citizen as well as +a lover, he is lover pure and simple, and his love is the whole of him. + +The end of the tragic conflict is the denial of both the exclusive +claims. It is not the work of chance or blank fate; it is the act of the +ethical substance itself, asserting its absoluteness against the +excessive pretensions of its particular powers. In that sense, as +proceeding from an absolute right which cancels claims based on right +but pushed into wrong, it may be called the act of 'eternal justice.' +Sometimes it can end the conflict peacefully, and the tragedy closes +with a solution. Appearing as a divine being, the spiritual unity +reconciles by some adjustment the claims of the contending powers +(_Eumenides_); or at its bidding one of them softens its demand +(_Philoctetes_); or again, as in the more beautiful solution of the +_Oedipus Coloneus_, the hero by his own self-condemnation and inward +purification reconciles himself with the supreme justice, and is +accepted by it. But sometimes the quarrel is pressed to extremes; the +denial of the one-sided claims involves the death of one or more of the +persons concerned; and we have a catastrophe. The ultimate power thus +appears as a destructive force. Yet even here, as Hegel insists, the end +is not without an aspect of reconciliation. For that which is denied is +not the rightful powers with which the combatants have identified +themselves. On the contrary, those powers, and with them the only thing +for which the combatants cared, are affirmed. What is denied is the +exclusive and therefore wrongful assertion of their right. + +Such in outline is Hegel's main view. It may be illustrated more fully +by two examples, favourites of his, taken from Aeschylus and Sophocles. +Clytemnestra has murdered Agamemnon, her husband and king. Orestes, +their son, is impelled by filial piety to avenge his father, and is +ordered by Apollo to do so. But to kill a mother is to sin against +filial piety. The spiritual substance is divided against itself. The +sacred bond of father and son demands what the equally sacred bond of +son and mother forbids. When, therefore, Orestes has done the deed, the +Furies of his murdered mother claim him for their prey. He appeals to +Apollo, who resists their claim. A solution is arrived at without a +catastrophe. The cause is referred to Athene, who institutes at Athens a +court of sworn judges. The votes of this court being equally divided, +Athene gives her casting-vote for Orestes; while the Furies are at last +appeased by a promise of everlasting honour at Athens. + +In the _Antigone_, on the other hand, to Hegel the 'perfect exemplar of +tragedy,' the solution is negative. The brother of Antigone has brought +against his native city an army of foreigners bent on destroying it. He +has been killed in the battle, and Creon, the ruler of the city, has +issued an edict forbidding anyone on pain of death to bury the corpse. +In so doing he not only dishonours the dead man, but violates the rights +of the gods of the dead. Antigone without hesitation disobeys the +edict, and Creon, despite the remonstrance of his son, who is affianced +to her, persists in exacting the penalty. Warned by the prophet +Teiresias, he gives way, but too late. Antigone, immured in a rocky +chamber to starve, has anticipated her death. Her lover follows her +example, and his mother refuses to survive him. Thus Antigone has lost +her life through her absolute assertion of the family against the state; +Creon has violated the sanctity of the family, and in return sees his +own home laid in ruins. But in this catastrophe neither the right of the +family nor that of the state is denied; what is denied is the +absoluteness of the claim of each. + +The danger of illustrations like these is that they divert attention +from the principle illustrated to questions about the interpretation of +particular works. So it will be here. I cannot stay to discuss these +questions, which do not affect Hegel's principle; but it will be well, +before going further, to remove a misunderstanding of it which is +generally to be found in criticisms of his treatment of the _Eumenides_ +and the _Antigone_. The main objection may be put thus: 'Hegel talks of +equally justified powers or claims. But Aeschylus never meant that +Orestes and the Furies were equally justified; for Orestes was +acquitted. Nor did Sophocles mean that Antigone and Creon were equally +right. And how can it have been equally the duty of Orestes to kill his +mother and not to kill her?' But, in the first place, it is most +important to observe that Hegel is not discussing at all what we should +generally call the moral quality of the acts and persons concerned, or, +in the ordinary sense, what it was their duty to do. And, in the second +place, when he speaks of 'equally justified' powers, what he means, and, +indeed, sometimes says, is that these powers are _in themselves_ equally +justified. The family and the state, the bond of father and son, the +bond of mother and son, the bond of citizenship, these are each and all, +one as much as another, powers rightfully claiming human allegiance. It +is tragic that observance of one should involve the violation of +another. These are Hegel's propositions, and surely they are true. Their +truth is quite unaffected by the fact (assuming it is one) that in the +circumstances the act combining this observance of one and violation of +another was morally right, or by the fact (if so it is) that one such +act (say Antigone's) was morally right, and another (say Creon's) was +morally wrong. It is sufficient for Hegel's principle that the violation +should take place, and that we should feel its weight. We do feel it. We +may approve the act of Antigone or Orestes, but in approving it we still +feel that it is no light matter to disobey the law or to murder a +mother, that (as we might say) there is much justice in the pleas of the +Furies and of Creon, and that the _tragic_ effect depends upon these +facts. If, again, it is objected that the underlying conflict in the +_Antigone_ is not between the family and the state, but between divine +and human law, that objection, if sound, might touch Hegel's +interpretation,[3] but it would not affect his principle, except for +those who recognise no obligation in human law; and it will scarcely be +contended that Sophocles is to be numbered among them. On the other +hand, it is, I think, a matter for regret that Hegel employed such words +as 'right,' 'justified,' and 'justice.' They do not mislead readers +familiar with his writings, but to others they suggest associations with +criminal law, or our everyday moral judgments, or perhaps the theory of +'poetic justice'; and these are all out of place in a discussion on +tragedy. + +Having determined in outline the idea or principle of tragedy, Hegel +proceeds to give an account of some differences between ancient and +modern works. In the limited time at our disposal we shall do best to +confine ourselves to a selection from his remarks on the latter. For in +speaking of ancient tragedy Hegel, who finds something modern in +Euripides, makes accordingly but little use of him for purposes of +contrast, while his main point of view as to Aeschylus and Sophocles has +already appeared in the illustrations we have given of the general +principle. I will only add, by way of preface, that the pages about to +be summarised leave on one, rightly or wrongly, the impression that to +his mind the principle is more adequately realised in the best classical +tragedies than in modern works. But the question whether this really was +his deliberate opinion would detain us too long from weightier +matters.[4] + +Hegel considers first the cases where modern tragedy resembles ancient +in dealing with conflicts arising from the pursuit of ends which may be +called substantial or objective and not merely personal. And he points +out that modern tragedy here shows a much greater variety. Subjects are +taken, for example, from the quarrels of dynasties, of rivals for the +throne, of kings and nobles, of state and church. Calderon shows the +conflict of love and honour regarded as powers imposing obligations. +Schiller in his early works makes his characters defend the rights of +nature against convention, or of freedom of thought against +prescription--rights in their essence universal. Wallenstein aims at the +unity and peace of Germany; Karl Moor attacks the whole arrangement of +society; Faust seeks to attain in thought and action union with the +Absolute. In such cases the end is more than personal; it represents a +power claiming the allegiance of the individual; but, on the other +hand, it does not always or generally represent a great _ethical_ +institution or bond like the family or the state. We have passed into a +wider world. + +But, secondly, he observes, in regard to modern tragedy, that in a +larger number of instances such public or universal interests either do +not appear at all, or, if they appear, are scarcely more than a +background for the real subject. The real subject, the impelling end or +passion, and the ensuing conflict, is personal,--these particular +characters with their struggle and their fate. The importance given to +subjectivity--this is the distinctive mark of modern sentiment, and so +of modern art; and such tragedies bear its impress. A part at least of +Hegel's meaning may be illustrated thus. We are interested in the +personality of Orestes or Antigone, but chiefly as it shows itself in +one aspect, as identifying itself with a certain ethical relation; and +our interest in the personality is inseparable and indistinguishable +from our interest in the power it represents. This is not so with +Hamlet, whose position so closely resembles that of Orestes. What +engrosses our attention is the whole personality of Hamlet in his +conflict, not with an opposing spiritual power, but with circumstances +and, still more, with difficulties in his own nature. No one could think +of describing Othello as the representative of an ethical family +relation. His passion, however much nobility he may show in it, is +personal. So is Romeo's love. It is not pursued, like Posa's freedom of +thought, as something universal, a right of man. Its right, if it could +occur to us to use the term at all, is Romeo's right. + +On this main characteristic of modern tragedy others depend. For +instance, that variety of subject to which reference has just been made +depends on it. For when so much weight is attached to personality, +almost any fatal collision in which a sufficiently striking character is +involved may yield material for tragedy. Naturally, again, +characterisation has become fuller and more subtle, except in dramas +which are more or less an imitation of the antique. The characters in +Greek tragedy are far from being types or personified abstractions, as +those of classical French tragedy tend to be: they are genuine +individuals. But still they are comparatively simple and easy to +understand, and have not the intricacy of the characters in Shakespeare. +These, for the most part, represent simply themselves; and the loss of +that interest which attached to the Greek characters from their +identification with an ethical power, is compensated by an extraordinary +subtlety in their portrayal, and also by their possession of some +peculiar charm or some commanding superiority. Finally, the interest in +personality explains the freedom with which characters more or less +definitely evil are introduced in modern tragedy. Mephistopheles is as +essentially modern as Faust. The passion of Richard or Macbeth is not +only personal, like that of Othello; it is egoistic and anarchic, and +leads to crimes done with a full knowledge of their wickedness; but to +the modern mind the greatness of the personality justifies its +appearance in the position of hero. Such beings as Iago and Goneril, +almost portents of evil, are not indeed made the heroes of tragedies; +but, according to Hegel, they would not have been admitted in Greek +tragedy at all. If Clytemnestra had been cited in objection as a +parallel to Lady Macbeth, he would have replied that Lady Macbeth had +not the faintest ground of complaint against Duncan, while in reading +the _Agamemnon_ we are frequently reminded that Clytemnestra's husband +was the sacrificer of their child. He might have added that Clytemnestra +is herself an example of the necessity, where one of the principal +characters inspires hatred or horror, of increasing the subtlety of the +drawing or adding grandeur to the evil will. + +It remains to compare ancient and modern tragedy in regard to the issue +of the conflict. We have seen that Hegel attributes this issue in the +former to the ethical substance or eternal justice, and so accounts for +such reconciliation as we feel to be present even where the end is a +catastrophe. Now, in the catastrophe of modern tragedy, he says, a +certain justice is sometimes felt to be present; but even then it +differs from the antique justice. It is in some cases more 'abstract': +the end pursued by the hero, though it is not egoistic, is still +presented rather as his particular end than as something rightful though +partial; and hence the catastrophe appears as the reaction, not of an +undivided ethical totality, but merely of the universal turning against +a too assertive particular.[5] In cases, again, where the hero (Richard +or Macbeth) openly attacks an ethical power and plunges into evil, we +feel that he meets with justice, and only gets what he deserves; but +then this justice is colder and more 'criminalistic' than that of +ancient tragedy. Thus even when the modern work seems to resemble the +ancient in its issue, the sense of reconciliation is imperfect. And +partly for this reason, partly from the concentration of our interest on +individuality as such, we desire to see in the individual himself some +sort of reconciliation with his fate. What shape this will take depends, +of course, on the story and the character of the hero. It may appear in +a religious form, as his feeling that he is exchanging his earthly being +for an indestructible happiness; or again, in his recognition of the +justice of his fall; or at least he may show us that, in face of the +forces that crush him to death, he maintains untouched the freedom and +strength of his own will. + +But there remain, says Hegel, many modern tragedies where we have to +attribute the catastrophe not to any kind of justice, but to unhappy +circumstances and outward accidents. And then we can only feel that the +individual whose merely personal ends are thwarted by mere particular +circumstances and chances, pays the penalty that awaits existence in a +scene of contingency and finitude. Such a feeling cannot rise above +sadness, and, if the hero is a noble soul, it may become the impression +of a dreadful external necessity. This impression can be avoided only +when circumstance and accident are so depicted that they are felt to +coincide with something in the hero himself, so that he is not simply +destroyed by an outward force. So it is with Hamlet. 'This bank and +shoal of time' is too narrow for his soul, and the death that seems to +fall on him by chance is also within him. And so in _Romeo and Juliet_ +we feel that the rose of a love so beautiful is too tender to bloom in +the storm-swept valley of its birth. But such a feeling of +reconciliation is still one of pain, an unhappy blessedness.[6] And if +the situation displayed in a drama is of such a kind that we feel the +issue to depend _simply_ on the turn the dramatist may choose to give to +the course of events, we are fully justified in our preference for a +happy ending. + +In this last remark (or rather in the pages misrepresented by it) Hegel, +of course, is not criticising Shakespeare. He is objecting to the +destiny-dramas of his own time, and to the fashionable indulgence in +sentimental melancholy. Strongly as he asserted the essential function +of negation throughout the universe, the affirmative power of the +spirit, even in its profoundest divisions, was for him the deepest truth +and the most inspiring theme. And one may see this even in his +references to Shakespeare. He appreciated Shakespeare's representation +of extreme forms of evil, but, even if he was fully satisfied of its +justification, his personal preference lay in another direction, and +while I do not doubt that he thought _Hamlet_ a greater work than +_Iphigenie_, I suspect he loved Goethe's play the best. + +Most of those who have thought about this subject will agree that the +ideas I have tried to sketch are interesting and valuable; but they +suggest scores of questions. Alike in the account of tragedy in general, +and in that of the differences between ancient and modern tragedy, +everyone will find statements to doubt and omissions to regret; and +scarcely one of Hegel's interpretations of particular plays will escape +objection. It is impossible for me to touch on more than a few points; +and to the main ideas I owe so much that I am more inclined to dwell on +their truth than to criticise what seem to be defects. But perhaps after +all an attempt to supplement and amend may be the best way of throwing +some part of Hegel's meaning more into relief. And I will begin with the +attempt to supplement. + +He seems to be right in laying emphasis on the action and conflict in +tragedy rather than on the suffering and misfortune. No mere suffering +or misfortune, no suffering that does not spring in great part from +human agency, and in some degree from the agency of the sufferer, is +tragic, however pitiful or dreadful it may be. But, sufficient +connection with these agencies being present, misfortune, the fall from +prosperity to adversity, with the suffering attending it, at once +becomes tragic; and in many tragedies it forms a large ingredient, as +does the pity for it in the tragic feeling. Hegel, I think, certainly +takes too little notice of it; and by this omission he also withdraws +attention from something the importance of which he would have admitted +at once; I mean the way in which suffering is borne. Physical pain, to +take an extreme instance, is one thing: Philoctetes, bearing it, is +another. And the noble endurance of pain that rends the heart is the +source of much that is best worth having in tragedy. + +Again, there is one particular kind of misfortune _not_ obviously due to +human agency, which undoubtedly may affect us in a tragic way. I mean +that kind which suggests the idea of fate. Tragedies which represent man +as the mere plaything of chance or a blank fate or a malicious fate, are +never really deep: it is satisfactory to see that Maeterlinck, a man of +true genius, has now risen above these ideas. But, where those factors +of tragedy are present which Hegel emphasises, the impression of +something fateful in what we call accident, the impression that the hero +not only invites misfortune by his exceptional stature and exceptional +daring, but is also, if I may so put it, strangely and terribly unlucky, +is in many plays a genuine ingredient in tragic effect. It is so, for +example, in the _Oedipus Tyrannus_. It is so even in dramas like +Shakespeare's, which exemplify the saying that character is destiny. +Hegel's own reference to the prominence of accident in the plot of +_Hamlet_ proves it. Othello would not have become Iago's victim if his +own character had been different; but still, as we say, it is an +extraordinary fatality which makes him the companion of the one man in +the world who is at once able enough, brave enough, and vile enough to +ensnare him. In the _Antigone_ itself, and in the very catastrophe of +it, accident plays its part: we can hardly say that it depends solely on +the characters of Creon and Antigone that the one yields just too late +to save the life of the other. Now, it may be said with truth that +Hegel's whole account of the ultimate power in tragedy is a +rationalisation of the idea of fate, but his remarks on this particular +aspect of fate are neither sufficient nor satisfactory. + +His insistence on the need for some element of reconciliation in a +tragic catastrophe, and his remarks on the various forms it assumes, +have the greatest value; but one result of the omissions just noticed is +that he sometimes exaggerates it, and at other times rates it too low. +When he is speaking of the kind of tragedy he most approves, his +language almost suggests that our feeling at the close of the conflict +is, or should be, one of complete reconciliation. This it surely neither +is nor can be. Not to mention the suffering and death we have witnessed, +the very existence of the conflict, even if a supreme ethical power is +felt to be asserted in its close, remains a painful fact, and, in large +measure, a fact not understood. For, though we may be said to see, in +one sense, how the opposition of spiritual powers arises, something in +us, and that the best, still cries out against it. And even the +perception or belief that it must needs be that offences come would not +abolish our feeling that the necessity is terrible, or our pain in the +woe of the guilty and the innocent. Nay, one may conjecture, the feeling +and the pain would not vanish if we fully understood that the conflict +and catastrophe were by a rational necessity involved in the divine and +eternally accomplished purpose of the world. But this exaggeration in +Hegel's language, if partly due to his enthusiasm for the affirmative, +may be mainly, like some other defects, an accident of lecturing. In the +_Philosophy of Religion_, I may add, he plainly states that in the +solution even of tragedies like the _Antigone_ something remains +unresolved (ii. 135). + +On the other hand, his treatment of the aspect of reconciliation in +modern tragedy is in several respects insufficient. I will mention only +one. He does not notice that in the conclusion of not a few tragedies +pain is mingled not merely with acquiescence, but with something like +exultation. Is there not such a feeling at the close of _Hamlet_, +_Othello_, and _King Lear_; and that although the end in the last two +cases touches the limit of legitimate pathos? This exultation appears to +be connected with our sense that the hero has never shown himself so +great or noble as in the death which seals his failure. A rush of +passionate admiration, and a glory in the greatness of the soul, mingle +with our grief; and the coming of death, so far from destroying these +feelings, appears to leave them untouched, or even to be entirely in +harmony with them. If in such dramas we may be said to feel that the +ultimate power is no mere fate, but a spiritual power, then we also feel +that the hero was never so near to this power as in the moment when it +required his life. + +The last omission I would notice in Hegel's theory is that he underrates +the action in tragedy of what may be called by a rough distinction moral +evil rather than defect. Certainly the part played by evil differs +greatly in different cases, but it is never absent, not even from +tragedies of Hegel's favourite type. If it does not appear in the main +conflict, it appears in its occasion. You may say that, while Iago and +Macbeth have evil purposes, neither the act of Orestes nor the vengeance +of the Furies, neither Antigone's breach of the edict nor even Creon's +insistence on her punishment, springs from evil in them; but the +situation with which Orestes or Antigone has to deal, and so in a sense +the whole tragedy, arises from evil, the murder of Agamemnon, and the +attempt of Polyneices to bring ruin on his native city. In fact, if we +confine the title 'tragedy' to plays ending with a catastrophe, it will +be found difficult to name great tragedies, ancient or modern, in which +evil has not directly or indirectly a prominent part. And its presence +has an important bearing on the effect produced by the catastrophe. On +the one hand, it deepens the sense of painful awe. The question why +affirmative spiritual forces should collide is hard enough; but the +question why, together with them, there should be generated violent evil +and extreme depravity is harder and more painful still. But, on the +other hand, the element of reconciliation in the catastrophe is +strengthened by recognition of the part played by evil in bringing it +about; because our sense that the ultimate power cannot endure the +presence of such evil is implicitly the sense that this power is at +least more closely allied with good. If it rejects the exaggerated +claims of its own isolated powers, that which provokes from it a much +more vehement reaction must be still more alien to its nature. This +feeling is forcibly evoked by Shakespeare's tragedies, and in many Greek +dramas it is directly appealed to by repeated reminders that what is at +work in the disasters is the unsleeping Ate which follows an ancestral +sin. If Aristotle did not in some lost part of the _Poetics_ discuss +ideas like this, he failed to give a complete rationale of Greek +tragedy. + +I come lastly to the matter I have most at heart. What I take to be the +central idea in Hegel's theory seems to me to touch the essence of +tragedy. And I will not assert that his own statement of it fails to +cover the whole field of instances. For he does not teach, as he is +often said to do, that tragedy portrays only the conflict of such +ethical powers as the family and the state. He adds to these, as we have +seen, others, such as love and honour, together with various universal +ends; and it may even be maintained that he has provided in his general +statement for those numerous cases where, according to himself, no +substantial or universal ends collide, but the interest is centred on +'personalities.' Nevertheless, when these cases come to be considered +more fully--and, in Hegel's view, they are the most characteristically +modern cases--we are not satisfied. They naturally tend to appear as +declensions from the more ideal ancient form; for how can a personality +which represents only itself claim the interest of one which represents +something universal? And further, they are sometimes described in a +manner which strikes the reader, let us say, of Shakespeare, as both +insufficient and misleading. Without raising, then, unprofitable +questions about the comparative merits of ancient and modern tragedy, I +should like to propose a restatement of Hegel's general principle which +would make it more obviously apply to both. + +If we omit all reference to ethical or substantial powers and interests, +what have we left? We have the more general idea--to use again a formula +not Hegel's own--that tragedy portrays a self-division and self-waste of +spirit, or a division of spirit involving conflict and waste. It is +implied in this that on _both_ sides in the conflict there is a +spiritual value. The same idea may be expressed (again, I think, not in +Hegel's own words) by saying that the tragic conflict is one not merely +of good with evil, but also, and more essentially, of good with good. +Only, in saying this, we must be careful to observe that 'good' here +means anything that has spiritual value, not moral goodness alone,[7] +and that 'evil' has a similarly wide sense. + +Now this idea of a division of spirit involving conflict and waste +covers the tragedies of ethical and other universal powers, and it +covers much besides. According to it the collision of such powers would +be one kind of tragic collision, but only one. _Why_ are we tragically +moved by the conflict of family and state? Because we set a high value +on family and state. Why then should not the conflict of anything else +that has sufficient value affect us tragically? It does. The value must +be sufficient--a moderate value will not serve; and other +characteristics must be present which need not be considered here. But, +granted these conditions, _any_ spiritual conflict involving spiritual +waste is tragic. And it is just one greatness of modern art that it has +shown the tragic fact in situations of so many and such diverse kinds. +These situations have not the peculiar effectiveness of the conflicts +preferred by Hegel, but they may have an equal effectiveness peculiar to +themselves. + +Let me attempt to test these ideas by choosing a most unfavourable +instance--unfavourable because the play seems at first to represent a +conflict simply of good and evil, and so, according both to Hegel's +statement and the proposed restatement, to be no tragedy at all: I mean +_Macbeth_. What is the conflict here? It will be agreed that it does not +lie between two ethical powers or universal ends, and that, as Hegel +says, the main interest is in personalities. Let us take it first, then, +to lie between Macbeth and the persons opposing him, and let us ask +whether there is not spiritual value or good on both sides--not an equal +amount of good (that is not necessary), but enough good on each to give +the impression of spiritual waste. Is there not such good in Macbeth? It +is not a question merely of moral goodness, but of good. It is not a +question of the use made of good, but of its presence. And such bravery +and skill in war as win the enthusiasm of everyone about him; such an +imagination as few but poets possess; a conscience so vivid that his +deed is to him beforehand a thing of terror, and, once done, condemns +him to that torture of the mind on which he lies in restless ecstasy; a +determination so tremendous and a courage so appalling that, for all +this torment, he never dreams of turning back, but, even when he has +found that life is a tale full of sound and fury, signifying nothing, +will tell it out to the end though earth and heaven and hell are leagued +against him; are not these things, in themselves, good, and gloriously +good? Do they not make you, for all your horror, admire Macbeth, +sympathise with his agony, pity him, and see in him the waste of forces +on which you place a spiritual value? It is simply on this account that +he is for you, not the abstraction called a criminal who merely 'gets +what he deserves' (art, like religion, knows no such thing), but a +tragic hero, and that his war with other forces of indubitable spiritual +worth is a tragic war.[8] + +It is required by the restatement of Hegel's principle to show that in +the external conflict of persons there is good on both sides. It is not +required that this should be true, secondly, of both sides in the +conflict within the hero's soul; for the hero is only a part of the +tragedy. Nevertheless in almost all cases, if not in all, it is true. It +is obviously so where, as in the hero and also the heroine of the _Cid_, +the contending powers in this internal struggle are love and honour. +Even when love is of a quality less pure and has a destructive force, as +in Shakespeare's Antony, it is clearly true. And it remains true even +where, as in Hamlet and Macbeth, the contest seems to lie, and for most +purposes might conveniently be said to lie, between forces simply good +and simply the reverse. This is not really so, and the tragic effect +depends upon the fact. It depends on our feeling that the elements in +the man's nature are so inextricably blended that the good in him, that +which we admire, instead of simply opposing the evil, reinforces it. +Macbeth's imagination deters him from murder, but it also makes the +vision of a crown irresistibly bright. If he had been less determined, +nay, if his conscience had been less maddening in its insistence that he +had thrown the precious jewel of his soul irretrievably away, he might +have paused after his first deed, might even have repented. Yet his +imagination, his determination, and his conscience were things good. +Hamlet's desire to do his duty is a good thing, but what opposes this +desire is by no means simply evil. It is something to which a +substantial contribution is made by the qualities we most admire in him. +Thus the nature of tragedy, as seen in the external conflict, repeats +itself on each side of this conflict, and everywhere there is a +spiritual value in both the contending forces. + +In showing that _Macbeth_, a tragedy as far removed as possible from the +_Antigone_ as understood by Hegel, is still of one nature with it, and +equally answers to the account of tragedy proposed, it has been +necessary to ignore the great difference between the two plays. But when +once the common essence of all tragedies has been determined, their +differences become the interesting subject. They could be distinguished +according to the character of the collisions on which they are built, or +of the main forces which move the principal agents. And it may well be +that, other things being equal (as they never are), the tragedy in which +the hero is, as we say, a good man, is more tragic than that in which he +is, as we say, a bad one. The more spiritual value, the more tragedy in +conflict and waste. The death of Hamlet or Othello is, so far, more +tragic than that of Macbeth, that of Macbeth than that of Richard. Below +Richard stands Iago, a figure still tragic, but unfit for the hero's +part; below him persons like Regan or, in the very depth, Oswald, +characters no longer (at least in the dramatic sense) tragic at all. +Moral evil, that is to say, so greatly diminishes the spiritual value we +ascribe to the personality that a very large amount of good of some kind +is required to bring this personality up to the tragic level, the +destruction of evil as such being in no degree tragic. And again, it may +well be that, other things being equal, the more nearly the contending +forces approach each other in goodness, the more tragic is the conflict; +that the collision is, so far, more tragic in the _Antigone_ than in +_Macbeth_, and Hamlet's internal conflict than his struggle with outward +enemies and obstacles. But it is dangerous to describe tragedy in terms +that even appear to exclude _Macbeth_, or to describe _Macbeth_, even +casually or by implication, in terms which imply that it portrays a +conflict of mere evil with mere good. + +The restatement of Hegel's main principle as to the conflict would +involve a similar restatement as to the catastrophe (for we need not +consider here those 'tragedies' which end with a solution). As before, +we must avoid any reference to ethical or universal ends, or to the work +of 'justice' in the catastrophe. We might then simply say that, as the +tragic action portrays a self-division or intestinal conflict of spirit, +so the catastrophe displays the violent annulling of this division or +conflict. But this statement, which might be pretty generally accepted, +would represent only half of Hegel's idea, and perhaps nothing of what +is most characteristic and valuable in it. For the catastrophe (if I may +put his idea in my own way) has two aspects, a negative and an +affirmative, and we have ignored the latter. On the one hand it is the +act of a power immeasurably superior to that of the conflicting agents, +a power which is irresistible and unescapable, and which overbears and +negates whatever is incompatible with it. So far, it may be called, in +relation to the conflicting agents,[9] necessity or fate; and unless a +catastrophe affects us in ways corresponding with this aspect it is not +truly tragic. But then if this were all and this necessity were merely +infinite, characterless, external force, the catastrophe would not only +terrify (as it should), it would also horrify, depress, or at best +provoke indignation or rebellion; and these are not tragic feelings. The +catastrophe, then, must have a second and affirmative aspect, which is +the source of our feelings of reconciliation, whatever form they may +assume. And this will be taken into account if we describe the +catastrophe as the violent self-restitution of the divided spiritual +unity. The necessity which acts and negates in it, that is to say, is +yet of one substance with both the agents. _It_ is divided against +itself in them; they are _its_ conflicting forces; and in restoring its +unity through negation it affirms them, so far as they are compatible +with that unity. The qualification is essential, since the hero, for all +his affinity with that power, is, as the living man we see before us, +not so compatible. He must die, and his union with 'eternal justice' +(which is more than 'justice') must itself be 'eternal' or ideal. But +the qualification does not abolish what it qualifies. This is no +occasion to ask how in particular, and in what various ways in various +works, we feel the effect of this affirmative aspect in the catastrophe. +But it corresponds at least with that strange double impression which is +produced by the hero's death. He dies, and our hearts die with him; and +yet his death matters nothing to us, or we even exult. He is dead; and +he has no more to do with death than the power which killed him and with +which he is one. + +I leave it to students of Hegel to ask whether he would have accepted +the criticisms and modifications I have suggested. Naturally I think he +would, as I believe they rest on truth, and am sure he had a habit of +arriving at truth. But in any case their importance is trifling, +compared with that of the theory which they attempt to strengthen and to +which they owe their existence. + +1901. + + + NOTE + +Why did Hegel, in his lectures on Aesthetics, so treat of tragedy as to +suggest the idea that the kind of tragedy which he personally preferred +(let us for the sake of brevity call it 'ancient') is also the most +adequate embodiment of the idea of tragedy? This question can be +answered, I think, only conjecturally, but some remarks on it may have +an interest for readers of Hegel (they are too brief to be of use to +others). + +One answer might be this. Hegel did not really hold that idea. But he +was lecturing, not writing a book. He thought the principle of tragedy +was more clearly and readily visible in ancient works than in modern; +and so, for purposes of exposition, he emphasised the ancient form. And +this fact, with his personal enthusiasm for certain Greek plays, leads +the reader of the _Aesthetik_ to misconstrue him. + +Again, we must remember the facts of Hegel's life. He seems first to +have reflected on tragedy at a time when his enthusiasm for the Greeks +and their 'substantial' ethics was combined, not only with a +contemptuous dislike for much modern 'subjectivity' (this he never +ceased to feel), but with a certain hostility to the individualism and +the un-political character of Christian morality. His first view of +tragedy was thus, in effect, a theory of Aeschylean and Sophoclean +tragedy; and it appears in the early essay on _Naturrecht_ and more +fully in the _Phaenomenologie_. Perhaps, then, when he came to deal with +the subject more generally, he insensibly regarded the ancient form as +the typical form, and tended to treat the modern rather as a +modification of this type than as an alternative embodiment of the +general idea of tragedy. The note in the _Rechtsphilosophie_ (p. 196) +perhaps favours this idea. + +But, whether it is correct or no, I believe that the impression produced +by the _Aesthetik_ is a true one, and that Hegel did deliberately +consider the ancient form the more satisfactory. It would not follow, of +course, from that opinion that he thought the advantage was all on one +side, or considered this or that ancient poet greater than this or that +modern, or wished that modern poets had tried to write tragedies of the +Greek type. Tragedy would, in his view, be in somewhat the same position +as Sculpture. Renaissance sculpture, he might say, has qualities in +which it is superior to Greek, and Michael Angelo may have been as great +an artist as Pheidias; but all the same for certain reasons Greek +sculpture is, and probably will remain, sculpture _par excellence_. So, +though not to the same extent, with tragedy. + +And such a view would cohere with his general view of Art. For he taught +that, in a sense, Classical Art is Art _par excellence_, and that in +Greece beauty held a position such as it never held before and will not +hold again. To explain in a brief note how this position bears upon his +treatment of modern tragedy would be impossible: but if the student of +Hegel will remember in what sense and on what grounds he held it; that +he describes Beauty as the '_sinnliches_ Scheinen der Idee'; that for +him the new idea that distinguished Christianity and Romantic Art from +Greek religion and Classical Art is that '_unendliche_ Subjektivität' +which implies a negative, though not merely negative, relation to sense; +and that in Romantic Art this idea is not only exhibited in the +religious sphere, but appears in the position given to personal honour, +love, and loyalty, and indirectly in what Hegel calls 'die formelle +Selbstständigkeit der individuellen Besonderheiten,' and in the fuller +admission of common and un-beautiful reality into the realm of +Beauty,--he will see how all this is connected with those +characteristics of modern tragedy which Hegel regards as necessary and +yet as, in part, drawbacks. This connection, which Hegel has no occasion +to work out, will be apparent even from consideration of the +introductory chapter on 'die romantische Kunstform,' _Aesthetik_, ii. +120-135. + +There is one marked difference, I may add, between ancient and modern +tragedy, which should be considered with reference to this subject, and +which Hegel, I think, does not explicitly point out. Speaking roughly, +we may say that the former includes, while the latter tends to ignore, +the accepted religious ideas of the time. The ultimate reason of this +difference, on Hegel's view, would be that the Olympian gods are +themselves the '_sinnliches_ Scheinen der Idee,' and so are in the same +element as Art, while this is, on the whole, not so with modern +religious ideas. One result would be that Greek tragedy represents the +total Greek mind more fully than modern tragedy can the total modern +mind. + + +FOOTNOTES: + + [1] See, primarily, _Aesthetik_, iii. 479-581, and especially + 525-581. There is much in _Aesthetik_, i. 219-306, and a good deal in + ii. 1-243, that bears on the subject. See also the section on Greek + religion in _Religionsphilosophie_, ii. 96-156, especially 131-6, + 152-6; and the references to the death of Socrates in _Geschichte der + Philosophie_, ii. 81 ff., especially 102-5. The works so far cited + all consist of posthumous redactions of lecture-notes. Among works + published by Hegel himself, the early essay on 'Naturrecht' (_Werke_, + i. 386 ff.), and _Phaenomenologie d. Geistes_, 320-348, 527-542, deal + with or bear on _Greek_ tragedy. See also _Rechtsphilosophie_, 196, + note. There is a note on _Wallenstein_ in _Werke_, xvii. 411-4. These + references are to the second edition of the works cited, where there + are two editions. + + [2] His theory of tragedy is connected with his view of the function + of negation in the universe. No statement therefore which ignores his + metaphysics and his philosophy of religion can be more than a + fragmentary account of that theory. + + [3] I say 'might,' because Hegel himself in the _Phaenomenologie_ + uses those very terms 'divine' and 'human law' in reference to the + _Antigone_. + + [4] See Note at end of lecture. + + [5] This interpretation of Hegel's 'abstract' is more or less + conjectural and doubtful. + + [6] Hegel's meaning does not fully appear in the sentences here + condensed. The 'blessedness' comes from the sense of greatness or + beauty in the characters. + + [7] Hegel himself expressly guards against this misconception. + + [8] The same point may be put thus, in view of that dangerous word + 'personality.' Our interest in Macbeth may be called interest in a + personality; but it is not an interest in some bare form of + self-consciousness, nor yet in a person in the legal sense, but in a + personality full of matter. This matter is not an ethical or + universal end, but it must in a sense be universal--human nature in a + particular form--or it would not excite the horror, sympathy, and + admiration it does excite. Nor, again, could it excite these feelings + if it were not composed largely of qualities on which we set a high + value. + + [9] In relation to _both_ sides in the conflict (though it may not + need to negate life in both). For the ultimate agent in the + catastrophe is emphatically not the finite power of one side. It is + beyond both, and, at any rate in relation to them, boundless. + + + + +WORDSWORTH + + +WORDSWORTH[1] + + +'Never forget what, I believe, was observed to you by Coleridge, that +every great and original writer, in proportion as he is great or +original, must himself create the taste by which he is to be relished; +he must teach the art by which he is to be seen.... My ears are +stone-dead to this idle buzz, and my flesh as insensible as iron to +these petty stings.' These sentences, from a letter written by +Wordsworth to Lady Beaumont in 1807, may remind us of the common +attitude of his reviewers in the dozen years when most of his best +poetry was produced. A century has gone by, and there is now no English +poet, either of that period or of any other, who has been the subject of +criticism more just, more appreciative, we may even say more +reverential. Some of this later criticism might have satisfied even that +sense of wonder, awe, and solemn responsibility with which the poet +himself regarded the operation of the spirit of poetry within him; and +if we desire an interpretation of that spirit, we shall find a really +astonishing number of excellent guides. Coleridge, Hazlitt, Arnold, +Swinburne, Brooke, Myers, Pater, Lowell, Legouis,--how easy to add to +this list of them! Only the other day there came another, Mr. Walter +Raleigh. And that the best book on an English poet that has appeared for +some years should be a study of Wordsworth is just what might have been +expected. The whirligig of time has brought him a full revenge. + +I have no idea of attempting in these two lectures another study, or +even an estimate, of Wordsworth. My purpose is much more limited. I +think that in a good deal of current criticism, and also in the notions +of his poetry prevalent among general readers, a disproportionate +emphasis is often laid on certain aspects of his mind and writings. And +I should like to offer some words of warning as to this tendency, and +also some advice as to the spirit in which he should be approached. I +will begin with the advice, though I am tempted at the last moment to +omit it, and simply to refer you to Mr. Raleigh, who throughout his book +has practised what I am about to preach. + + + 1. + +There have been greater poets than Wordsworth, but none more original. +He saw new things, or he saw things in a new way. Naturally, this would +have availed us little if his new things had been private fancies, or if +his new perception had been superficial. But that was not so. If it had +been, Wordsworth might have won acceptance more quickly, but he would +not have gained his lasting hold on poetic minds. As it is, those in +whom he creates the taste by which he is relished, those who learn to +love him (and in each generation they are not a few), never let him go. +Their love for him is of the kind that he himself celebrated, a settled +passion, perhaps 'slow to begin,' but 'never ending,' and twined around +the roots of their being. And the reason is that they find his way of +seeing the world, his poetic experience, what Arnold meant by his +'criticism of life,' to be something deep, and therefore something that +will hold. It continues to bring them joy, peace, strength, exaltation. +It does not thin out or break beneath them as they grow older and wiser; +nor does it fail them, much less repel them, in sadness or even in their +sorest need. And yet--to return to our starting-point--it continues to +strike them as original, and something more. It is not like +Shakespeare's myriad-mindedness; it is, for good or evil or both, +peculiar. They can remember, perhaps, the day when first they saw a +cloud somewhat as Wordsworth saw it, or first really understood what +made him write this poem or that; his unique way of seeing and feeling, +though now familiar and beloved, still brings them not only peace, +strength, exaltation, but a 'shock of mild surprise'; and his paradoxes, +long known by heart and found full of truth, still remain paradoxes. + +If this is so, the road into Wordsworth's mind must be through his +strangeness and his paradoxes, and not round them. I do not mean that +they are everywhere in his poetry. Much of it, not to speak of +occasional platitudes, is beautiful without being peculiar or difficult; +and some of this may be as valuable as that which is audacious or +strange. But unless we get hold of that, we remain outside Wordsworth's +centre; and, if we have not a most unusual affinity to him, we cannot +get hold of that unless we realise its strangeness, and refuse to blunt +the sharpness of its edge. Consider, for example, two or three of his +statements; the statements of a poet, no doubt, and not of a +philosopher, but still evidently statements expressing, intimating, or +symbolising, what for him was the most vital truth. He said that the +meanest flower that blows could give him thoughts that often lie too +deep for tears. He said, in a poem not less solemn, that Nature was the +soul of all his moral being; and also that she can so influence us that +nothing will be able to disturb our faith that all that we behold is +full of blessings. After making his Wanderer tell the heart-rending tale +of Margaret, he makes him say that the beauty and tranquillity of her +ruined cottage had once so affected him + + That what we feel of sorrow and despair + From ruin and from change, and all the grief + The passing shows of Being leave behind, + Appeared an idle dream, that could not live + Where meditation was. + +He said that this same Wanderer could read in the silent faces of the +clouds unutterable love, and that among the mountains all things for him +breathed immortality. He said to 'Almighty God,' + + But thy most dreaded instrument + For working out a pure intent + Is Man arrayed for mutual slaughter; + Yea, Carnage is thy daughter. + +This last, it will be agreed, is a startling statement; but is it a whit +more extraordinary than the others? It is so only if we assume that we +are familiar with thoughts that lie too deep for tears, or if we +translate 'the soul of all my moral being' into 'somehow concordant with +my moral feelings,' or convert 'all that we behold' into 'a good deal +that we behold,' or transform the Wanderer's reading of the silent faces +of the clouds into an argument from 'design.' But this is the road round +Wordsworth's mind, not into it.[2] + +Again, with all Wordsworth's best poems, it is essential not to miss the +unique tone of his experience. This doubtless holds good of any true +poet, but not in the same way. With many poems there is little risk of +our failing either to feel what is distinctive of the writer, or to +appropriate what he says. What is characteristic, for example, in +Byron's lines, _On this day I complete my thirty-sixth year_, or in +Shelley's _Stanzas written in dejection near Naples_, cannot escape +discovery, nor is there any difficulty in understanding the mood +expressed. But with Wordsworth, for most readers, this risk is +constantly present in some degree. Take, for instance, one of the most +popular of his lyrics, the poem about the daffodils by the lake. It is +popular partly because it remains a pretty thing even to those who +convert it into something quite undistinctive of Wordsworth. And it is +comparatively easy, too, to perceive and to reproduce in imagination a +good deal that _is_ distinctive; for instance, the feeling of the +sympathy of the waves and the flowers and the breeze in their glee, and +the Wordsworthian 'emotion recollected in tranquillity' expressed in the +lines (written by his wife), + + They flash upon that inward eye + Which is the bliss of solitude. + +But there remains something still more intimately Wordsworthian: + + I wandered lonely as a Cloud + That floats on high o'er vales and hills. + +It is thrust into the reader's face, for these are the opening lines. +But with many readers it passes unheeded, because it is strange and +outside their own experience. And yet it is absolutely essential to the +effect of the poem. + +This poem, however, even when thoroughly conventionalised, would remain, +as I said, a pretty thing; and it could scarcely excite derision. Our +point is best illustrated from the pieces by which Wordsworth most +earned ridicule, the ballad poems. They arose almost always from some +incident which, for him, had a novel and arresting character and came on +his mind with a certain shock; and if we do not get back to this through +the poem, we remain outside it. We may, of course, get back to this and +yet consider the poem to be more or less a failure. There is here +therefore room for legitimate differences of opinion. Mr. Swinburne +sees, no doubt, as clearly as Coleridge did, the intention of _The Idiot +Boy_ and _The Thorn_, yet he calls them 'doleful examples of +eccentricity in dullness,' while Coleridge's judgment, though he +criticised both poems, was very different. I believe (if I may venture +into the company of such critics) that I see why Wordsworth wrote _Goody +Blake and Harry Gill_ and the _Anecdote for Fathers_, and yet I doubt if +he has succeeded in either; but a great man, Charles James Fox, selected +the former for special praise, and Matthew Arnold included the latter in +a selection from which he excluded _The Sailor's Mother_.[3] Indeed, of +all the poems at first most ridiculed there is probably not one that has +not been praised by some excellent judge. But they were ridiculed by +men who judged them without attempting first to get inside them. And +this is fatal. + +I may bring out the point by referring more fully to one of them. _Alice +Fell_ was beloved by the best critic of the nineteenth century, Charles +Lamb; but the general distaste for it was such that it was excluded 'in +policy' from edition after edition of Wordsworth's Poems; many still who +admire _Lucy Gray_ see nothing to admire in _Alice Fell_; and you may +still hear the question asked, What could be made of a child crying for +the loss of her cloak? And what, I answer, could be made of a man poking +his stick into a pond to find leeches? What sense is there in asking +questions about the subject of a poem, if you first deprive this subject +of all the individuality it possesses in the poem? Let me illustrate +this individuality methodically. A child crying for the loss of her +cloak is one thing, quite another is a child who has an imagination, and +who sees the tattered remnants of her cloak whirling in the wheel-spokes +of a post-chaise fiercely driven by strangers on lonesome roads through +a night of storm in which the moon is drowned. She was alone, and, +having to reach the town she belonged to, she got up behind the chaise, +and her cloak was caught in the wheel. And she is fatherless and +motherless, and her poverty (the poem is called _Alice Fell, or +Poverty_) is so extreme that for the loss of her weather-beaten rag she +does not 'cry'; she weeps loud and bitterly; weeps as if her innocent +heart would break; sits by the stranger who has placed her by his side +and is trying to console her, insensible to all relief; sends forth sob +after sob as if her grief could never, never have an end; checks herself +for a moment to answer a question, and then weeps on as if she had lost +her only friend, and the thought would choke her very heart. It was +_this_ poverty and _this_ grief that Wordsworth described with his +reiterated hammering blows. Is it not pathetic? And to Wordsworth it was +more. To him grief like this is sublime. It is the agony of a soul from +which something is torn away that was made one with its very being. What +does it matter whether the thing is a woman, or a kingdom, or a tattered +cloak? It is the passion that counts. Othello must not agonise for a +cloak, but 'the little orphan Alice Fell' has nothing else to agonise +for. Is all this insignificant? And then--for this poem about a child is +right to the last line--next day the storm and the tragedy have +vanished, and the new cloak is bought, of duffil grey, as warm a cloak +as man can sell; and the child is as pleased as Punch.[4] + + + 2. + +I pass on from this subject to another, allied to it, but wider. In +spite of all the excellent criticism of Wordsworth, there has gradually +been formed, I think, in the mind of the general reader a partial and +misleading idea of the poet and his work. This partiality is due to +several causes: for instance, to the fact that personal recollections of +Wordsworth have inevitably been, for the most part, recollections of his +later years; to forgetfulness of his position in the history of +literature, and of the restricted purpose of his first important poems; +and to the insistence of some of his most influential critics, notably +Arnold, on one particular source of his power--an insistence perfectly +just, but accompanied now and then by a lack of sympathy with other +aspects of his poetry. The result is an idea of him which is mainly true +and really characteristic, but yet incomplete, and so, in a sense, +untrue; a picture, I might say, somewhat like Millais' first portrait of +Gladstone, which renders the inspiration, the beauty, the light, but +not the sternness or imperiousness, and not all of the power and fire. +Let me try to express this idea, which, it is needless to say, I do not +attribute, in the shape here given to it, to anyone in particular. + +It was not Wordsworth's function to sing, like most great poets, of war, +or love, or tragic passions, or the actions of supernatural beings. His +peculiar function was 'to open out the soul of little and familiar +things,' alike in nature and in human life. His 'poetry is great because +of the extraordinary power with which he feels the joy offered to us in +nature, the joy offered to us in the simple primary affections and +duties.' His field was therefore narrow; and, besides, he was deficient +in romance, his moral sympathies were somewhat limited, and he tended +also to ignore the darker aspects of the world. But in this very +optimism lay his strength. The gulf which for Byron and Shelley yawned +between the real and the ideal, had no existence for him. For him the +ideal was realised, and Utopia a country which he saw every day, and +which, he thought, every man might see who did not strive, nor cry, nor +rebel, but opened his heart in love and thankfulness to sweet influences +as universal and perpetual as the air. The spirit of his poetry was also +that of his life--a life full of strong but peaceful affections; of a +communion with nature in keen but calm and meditative joy; of perfect +devotion to the mission with which he held himself charged; and of a +natural piety gradually assuming a more distinctively religious tone. +Some verses of his own best describe him, and some verses of Matthew +Arnold his influence on his readers. These are his own words (from _A +Poet's Epitaph_): + + But who is he, with modest looks, + And clad in homely russet brown? + He murmurs near the running brooks + A music sweeter than their own. + + + He is retired as noontide dew, + Or fountain in a noon-day grove; + And you must love him, ere to you + He will seem worthy of your love. + + The outward shows of sky and earth, + Of hill and valley, he has viewed; + And impulses of deeper birth + Have come to him in solitude. + + In common things that round us lie + Some random truths he can impart, + --The harvest of a quiet eye + That broods and sleeps on his own heart. + + But he is weak; both man and boy, + Hath been an idler in the land: + Contented if he might enjoy + The things which others understand. + +And these are the words from Arnold's _Memorial Verses_: + + He too upon a wintry clime + Had fallen--on this iron time + Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears + He found us when the age had bound + Our souls in its benumbing round-- + He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears. + He laid us as we lay at birth + On the cool flowery lap of earth; + Smiles broke from us and we had ease. + The hills were round us, and the breeze + Went o'er the sunlit fields again; + Our foreheads felt the wind and rain. + Our youth returned: for there was shed + On spirits that had long been dead, + Spirits dried up and closely furled, + The freshness of the early world. + + Ah, since dark days still bring to light + Man's prudence and man's fiery might, + Time may restore us in his course + Goethe's sage mind and Byron's force; + But where will Europe's latter hour + Again find Wordsworth's healing power? + Others will teach us how to dare, + And against fear our breast to steel; + Others will strengthen us to bear-- + But who, ah who, will make us feel? + The cloud of mortal destiny, + Others will front it fearlessly-- + But who, like him, will put it by? + + Keep fresh the grass upon his grave, + O Rotha! with thy living wave. + Sing him thy best! for few or none + Hears thy voice right, now he is gone. + +Those last words are enough to disarm dissent. No, that voice will never +again be heard quite right now Wordsworth is gone. Nor is it, for the +most part, dissent that I wish to express. The picture we have been +looking at, though we may question the accuracy of this line or that, +seems to me, I repeat, substantially true. But is there nothing missing? +Consider this picture, and refuse to go beyond it, and then ask if it +accounts for all that is most characteristic in Wordsworth. How did the +man in the picture ever come to write the Immortality _Ode_, or +_Yew-trees_, or why should he say, + + For I must tread on shadowy ground, must sink + Deep--and, aloft ascending, breathe in worlds + To which the heaven of heavens is but a veil? + +How, again, could he say that Carnage is God's daughter, or write the +_Sonnets dedicated to National Liberty and Independence_, or the tract +on the Convention of Cintra? Can it be true of him that many of his +best-known poems of human life--perhaps the majority--deal with painful +subjects, and not a few with extreme suffering? Should we expect him to +make an 'idol' of Milton, or to show a 'strong predilection for such +geniuses as Dante and Michael Angelo'? He might easily be 'reserved,' +but is it not surprising to find him described as haughty, prouder than +Lucifer, inhumanly arrogant? Why should his forehead have been marked by +the 'severe worn pressure of thought,' or his eyes have looked so +'supernatural ... like fires, half burning, half smouldering, with a +sort of acrid fixture of regard, and seated at the further end of two +caverns'? In all this there need be nothing inconsistent with the +picture we have been looking at; but that picture fails to suggest it. +In that way the likeness it presents is only partial, and I propose to +emphasise some of the traits which it omits or marks too faintly.[5] + +And first as to the restriction of Wordsworth's field. Certainly his +field, as compared with that of some poets, is narrow; but to describe +it as confined to external nature and peasant life, or to little and +familiar things, would be absurdly untrue, as a mere glance at his Table +of Contents suffices to show. And its actual restriction was not due to +any false theory, nor mainly to any narrowness of outlook. It was due, +apart from limitation of endowment, on the one hand to that diminution +of poetic energy which in Wordsworth began comparatively soon, and on +the other, especially in his best days, to deliberate choice; and we +must not assume without question that he was inherently incapable of +doing either what he would not do, or what, in his last five and thirty +years, he could no longer do. + +There is no reason to suppose that Wordsworth undervalued or objected to +the subjects of such poets as Homer and Virgil, Chaucer and Spenser, +Shakespeare and Milton. And when, after writing his part of the _Lyrical +Ballads_, he returned from Germany and settled in the Lake Country, the +subjects he himself revolved for a great poem were not concerned with +rural life or humble persons. Some old 'romantic' British theme, left +unsung by Milton; some tale of Chivalry, dire enchantments, war-like +feats; vanquished Mithridates passing north and becoming Odin; the +fortunes of the followers of Sertorius; de Gourgues' journey of +vengeance to Florida; Gustavus; Wallace and his exploits in the war for +his country's independence,--these are the subjects he names first. And, +though his 'last and favourite aspiration' was towards + + Some philosophic song + Of Truth that cherishes our daily life, + +--that song which was never completed--yet, some ten years later, he +still hoped, when it should be finished, to write an epic. Whether at +any time he was fitted for the task or no, he wished to undertake it; +and his addiction, by no means entire even in his earlier days, to +little and familiar things was due, not at all to an opinion that they +are the only right subjects or the best, nor merely to a natural +predilection for them, but to the belief that a particular kind of +poetry was wanted at that time to counteract its special evils. There +prevailed, he thought, a 'degrading thirst after outrageous +stimulation.' The violent excitement of public events, and 'the +increasing accumulation of men in cities, where the uniformity of their +occupations produces a craving for extraordinary incident, which the +rapid communication of intelligence hourly gratifies,' had induced a +torpor of mind which only yielded to gross and sensational effects--such +effects as were produced by 'frantic novels,' of the Radcliffe or Monk +Lewis type, full of mysterious criminals, gloomy castles and terrifying +spectres. He wanted to oppose to this tendency one as far removed from +it as possible; to write a poetry even _more_ alien to it than +Shakespeare's tragedies or Spenser's stories of knights and dragons; to +show men that wonder and beauty can be felt, and the heart be moved, +even when the rate of the pulse is perfectly normal. In the same way, he +grieved Coleridge by refusing to interest himself in the Somersetshire +fairies, and declared that he desired for his scene no planet but the +earth, and no region of the earth stranger than England and the lowliest +ways in England. And, being by no means merely a gentle shepherd, but a +born fighter who was easily provoked and could swing his crook with +uncommon force, he asserted his convictions defiantly and carried them +out to extremes. And so in later days, after he had somewhat narrowed, +when in the Seventh Book of the _Excursion_ he made the Pastor protest +that poetry was not wanted to multiply and aggravate the din of war, or +to propagate the pangs and turbulence of passionate love, he did this +perhaps because the world which would not listen to him[6] was +enraptured by _Marmion_ and the earlier poems of Byron. + +How great Wordsworth's success might have been in fields which he +deliberately avoided, it is perhaps idle to conjecture. I do not suppose +it would have been very great, but I see no reason to believe that he +would have failed. With regard, for instance, to love, one cannot read +without a smile his reported statement that, had he been a writer of +love-poetry, it would have been natural to him to write it with a degree +of warmth which could hardly have been approved by his principles, and +which might have been undesirable for the reader. But one may smile at +his naďveté without disbelieving his statement. And, in fact, Wordsworth +neither wholly avoided the subject nor failed when he touched it. The +poems about Lucy are not poems of passion, in the usual sense, but they +surely are love-poems. The verses _'Tis said that some have died for +love_, excluded from Arnold's selection but praised by Ruskin, are +poignant enough. And the following lines from _Vaudracour and Julia_ +make one wonder how this could be to Arnold the only poem of +Wordsworth's that he could not read with pleasure: + + Arabian fiction never filled the world + With half the wonders that were wrought for him. + Earth breathed in one great presence of the spring; + Life turned the meanest of her implements, + Before his eyes, to price above all gold; + The house she dwelt in was a sainted shrine; + Her chamber-window did surpass in glory + The portals of the dawn; all paradise + Could, by the simple opening of a door, + Let itself in upon him:--pathways, walks, + Swarmed with enchantment, till his spirit sank, + Surcharged, within him, overblest to move + Beneath a sun that wakes a weary world + To its dull round of ordinary cares; + A man too happy for mortality! + +As a whole, _Vaudracour and Julia_ is a failure, but these lines haunt +my memory, and I cannot think them a poor description of that which they +profess to describe. This is not precisely 'passion,' and, I admit, they +do not prove Wordsworth's capacity to deal with passion. The main reason +for doubting whether, if he had made the attempt, he would have reached +his highest level, is that, so far as we can see, he did not strongly +feel--perhaps hardly felt at all--that the _passion_ of love is a way +into the Infinite; and a thing must be no less than this to Wordsworth +if it is to rouse all his power. Byron, it seemed to him, had + + dared to take + Life's rule from passion craved for passion's sake;[7] + +and he utterly repudiated that. 'The immortal mind craves objects that +endure.' + +Then there is that 'romance' which Wordsworth abjured. In using the word +I am employing the familiar distinction between two tendencies of the +Romantic Revival, one called naturalistic and one called, in a more +special sense, romantic, and signalised, among other ways, by a love of +the marvellous, the supernatural, the exotic, the worlds of mythology. +It is a just and necessary distinction: the _Ancient Mariner_ and +_Michael_ are very dissimilar. But, like most distinctions of the kind, +it becomes misleading when it is roughly handled or pushed into an +antithesis; and it would be easy to show that these two tendencies +exclude one another only in their inferior examples, and that the better +the example of either, the more it shows its community with the other. +There is not a great deal of truth to nature in _Lalla Rookh_, but there +is plenty in the _Ancient Mariner_: in certain poems of Crabbe there is +little romance, but there is no want of it in _Sir Eustace Grey_ or in +_Peter Grimes_. Taking the distinction, however, as we find it, and +assuming, as I do, that it lay beyond Wordsworth's power to write an +_Ancient Mariner_, or to tell us of + + magic casements opening on the foam + Of perilous seas in faery lands forlorn, + +we are not therefore to conclude that he was by nature deficient in +romance and incapable of writing well what he refused to write. The +indications are quite contrary. Not to speak here of his own peculiar +dealings with the supernatural, his vehement defence (in the _Prelude_) +of fairy-tales as food for the young is only one of many passages which +show that in his youth he lived in a world not haunted only by the +supernatural powers of nature. He delighted in 'Arabian fiction.' The +'Arabian sands' (_Solitary Reaper_) had the same glamour for him as for +others. His dream of the Arab and the two books (_Prelude_, v.) has a +very curious romantic effect, though it is not romance _in excelsis_, +like _Kubla Khan_. His love of Spenser; his very description of him, + + Sweet Spenser, moving through his clouded heaven + With the moon's beauty and the moon's soft pace; + +the very lines, so characteristic of his habitual attitude, in which he +praises the Osmunda fern as + + lovelier, in its own retired abode + On Grasmere's beach, than Naiad by the side + Of Grecian brook, or Lady of the Mere + Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance,[8] + +--these, and a score of other passages, all point the same way. He would +not carry his readers to the East, like Southey and Moore and Byron, +nor, like Coleridge, towards the South Pole; but when it suited his +purpose, as in _Ruth_, he could write well enough of un-English scenery: + + He told of the magnolia, spread + High as a cloud, high overhead, + The cypress and her spire; + Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam + Cover a hundred leagues, and seem + To set the hills on fire. + +He would not choose Endymion or Hyperion for a subject, for he was +determined to speak of what Englishmen may see every day; but what he +wrote of Greek religion in the _Excursion_ is full of imagination and +brought inspiration to Keats, and the most famous expression in English +of that longing for the perished glory of Greek myth which appears in +much Romantic poetry came from Wordsworth's pen: + + Great God! I'd rather be + A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; + So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, + Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; + Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; + Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. + +As for war, Wordsworth neither strongly felt, nor at all approved, that +elementary love of fighting which, together with much nobler things, is +gratified by some great poetry. And assuredly he could not, even if he +would, have rivalled the last canto of _Marmion_, nor even the best +passages in the _Siege of Corinth_. But he is not to be judged by his +intentional failures. The martial parts of the _White Doe of Rylstone_ +are, with few exceptions, uninteresting, if not painfully tame. The +former at least they were meant to be. The _Lay of the Last Minstrel_ +was on every tongue. The modest poet was as stiff-necked a person as +ever walked the earth; and he was determined that no reader of his poem +who missed its spiritual interest should be interested in anything else. +Probably he overshot his mark. For readers who could understand him the +effect he aimed at would not have been weakened by contrast with an +outward action narrated with more spirit and sympathy. But, however that +may be, he did what he meant to do. In the _Song at the Feast of +Brougham Castle_, again, the war-like close of the Song was not written +for its own sake. It was designed with a view to the transition to the +longer metre, the thought of peace in communion with nature, and the +wonderful stanza 'Love had he found in huts where poor men lie.' But, +for the effect of this transition, it was necessary for Wordsworth to +put his heart into the martial close of the Song; and surely it has +plenty of animation and glory. Its author need not have shrunk from the +subject of war if he had wished to handle it _con amore_. + +The poet whose portrait we drew when we began might have been the author +of the _White Doe_, and perhaps of _Brougham Castle_, and possibly of +the _Happy Warrior_. He could no more have composed the _Poems dedicated +to National Independence and Liberty_ than the political sonnets of +Milton. And yet Wordsworth wrote nothing more characteristic than these +Poems, which I am not going to praise, since Mr. Swinburne's praise of +them is, to my mind, not less just than eloquent. They are +characteristic in many ways. The later are, on the whole, decidedly +inferior to the earlier. Even in this little series, which occupies the +first fifteen years of the century, the decline of Wordsworth's poetic +power and the increasing use of theological ideas are clearly visible. +The Odes, again, are much inferior to the majority of the Sonnets. And +this too is characteristic. The entire success of the _Ode to Duty_ is +exceptional, and it is connected with the fact that the poem is written +in regular stanzas of a simple metrical scheme. The irregular Odes are +never thus successful. Wordsworth could not command the tone of +sustained rapture, and where his metrical form is irregular his ear is +uncertain. The Immortality Ode, like _King Lear_, is its author's +greatest product, but not his best piece of work. The Odes among the +_Poems_ which we are now considering are declamatory, even violent, and +yet they stir comparatively little emotion, and they do not sing. The +sense of massive passion, concentrated, and repressing the utterance it +permits itself, is that which most moves us in his political verse. And +the Sonnet suited this. + +The patriotism of these _Poems_ is equally characteristic. It +illustrates Wordsworth's total rejection of the Godwinian ideas in which +he had once in vain sought refuge, and his belief in the necessity and +sanctity of forms of association arising from natural kinship. It is +composed, we may say, of two elements. The first is the simple love of +country raised to a high pitch, the love of 'a lover or a child'; the +love that makes it for some men a miserable doom to be forced to live in +a foreign land, and that makes them feel their country's virtues and +faults, and joys and sorrows, like those of the persons dearest to them. +We talk as if this love were common. It is very far from common; but +Wordsworth felt it.[9] The other element in his patriotism I must call +by the dreaded name of 'moral,' a name which Wordsworth did not dread, +because it meant for him nothing stereotyped or narrow. His country is +to him the representative of freedom, left, as he writes in 1803, + + the only light + Of Liberty that yet remains on earth. + +This Liberty is, first, national independence; and that requires +military power, the maintenance of which is a primary moral duty.[10] +But neither military power nor even national independence is of value in +itself; and neither could be long maintained without that which gives +value to both. This is the freedom of the soul, plain living and high +thinking, indifference to the externals of mere rank or wealth or power, +domestic affections not crippled (as they may be) by poverty. Wordsworth +fears for his country only when he doubts whether this inward freedom is +not failing;[11] but he seldom fears for long. England, in the war +against Napoleon, is to him almost what the England of the Long +Parliament and the Commonwealth was to Milton,--an elect people, the +chosen agent of God's purpose on the earth. His ideal of life, unlike +Milton's in the stress he lays on the domestic affections and the +influence of nature, is otherwise of the same Stoical cast. His country +is to him, as to Milton, + + An old and haughty nation, proud in arms.[12] + +And his own pride in it is, like Milton's, in the highest degree +haughty. It would be calumnious to say that it recalls the description +of the English given by the Irishman Goldsmith, + + Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, + I see the lords of human kind pass by; + +for Wordsworth had not the faintest wish to see his countrymen the lords +of human kind, nor is there anything vulgar in his patriotism; but there +_is_ pride in his port and defiance in his eye. And, lastly, the +character of his ideal and of this national pride, with him as with +Milton, is connected with personal traits,--impatience of constraint, +severity, a certain austere passion, an inclination of imagination to +the sublime. + + + 3. + +These personal traits, though quite compatible with the portrait on +which I am commenting, are not visible in it. Nor are others, which +belong especially, but not exclusively, to the younger Wordsworth. He +had a spirit so vehement and affections so violent (it is his sister's +word) as to inspire alarm for him. If he had been acquainted with that +excuse for impotent idleness and selfishness, 'the artistic +temperament,' he might have made out a good claim to it. He was from the +beginning self-willed, and for a long time he appeared aimless. He would +not work at the studies of his university: he preferred to imagine a +university in which he _would_ work. He had a passion for wandering +which was restrained only by want of means, and which opened his heart +to every pedlar or tramp whom he met. After leaving Cambridge he would +not fix on a profession. He remained, to the displeasure of his +relatives, an idler in the land or out of it; and as soon as he had Ł900 +of capital left to him he determined _not_ to have a profession. +Sometimes he worked hard at his poetry, even heroically hard; but he did +not work methodically, and often he wrote nothing for weeks, but loafed +and walked and enjoyed himself. He was not blind like Milton, but the +act of writing was physically disagreeable to him, and he made his +woman-kind write to his dictation. He would not conform to rules, or +attend to the dinner-bell, or go to church (he made up for this neglect +later). 'He wrote his _Ode to Duty_,' said one of his friends, 'and then +he had done with that matter.' He never 'tired' of his 'unchartered +freedom.' In age, if he wanted to go out, whatever the hour and whatever +the weather, he must have his way. 'In vain one reminded him that a +letter needed an answer or that the storm would soon be over. It was +very necessary for him to do what he liked.' If the poetic fit was on +him he could attend to nothing else. He was passionately fond of his +children, but, when the serious illness of one of them coincided with an +onset of inspiration, it was impossible to rouse him to a sense of +danger. At such times he was as completely possessed as any wild poet +who ruins the happiness of everyone dependent on him. But he has himself +described the tyranny of inspiration, and the reaction after it, in his +_Stanzas written in Thomson's Castle of Indolence_. It is almost beyond +doubt, I think, that the first portrait there is that of himself; and +though it is idealised it is probably quite as accurate as the portrait +in _A Poet's Epitaph_. In the _Prelude_ he tells us that, though he +rarely at Cambridge betrayed by gestures or looks his feelings about +nature, yet, when he did so, some of his companions said he was mad. +Hazlitt, describing his manner of reading his own poetry in much later +years, says, 'It is clear that he is either mad or inspired.' + +Wordsworth's lawlessness was of the innocuous kind, but it is a +superstition to suppose that he was a disgustingly well-regulated +person. It is scarcely less unjust to describe his poetic sympathies as +narrow and his poetic morality as puritanical. The former, of course, +had nothing like the range of minds like Chaucer, or Shakespeare, or +Browning, or the great novelists. Wordsworth's want of humour would by +itself have made that impossible; and, in addition, though by no means +wanting in psychological curiosity, he was not much interested in +complex natures. Simple souls, and especially simple souls that are also +deep, were the natures that attracted him: and in the same way the +passions he loved to depict are not those that storm themselves out or +rush to a catastrophe, but those that hold the soul in a vice for long +years. But, these limitations admitted, it will not be found by anyone +who reviews the characters in the smaller poems and the _Excursion_ +(especially Book vii.), that Wordsworth's poetic sympathies are narrow. +They are wider than those of any imaginative writer of his time and +country except Scott and perhaps Crabbe. + +Nor is his morality narrow. It is serious, but it is human and kindly +and not in the least ascetic. 'It is the privilege of poetic genius,' he +says in his defence of Burns, 'to catch a spirit of pleasure wherever it +can be found--in the walks of nature and in the business of men. The +poet, trusting to primary instincts, luxuriates among the felicities of +love and wine, and is enraptured while he describes the fairer aspects +of war: nor does he shrink from the company of the passion of love +though immoderate--from convivial pleasure though intemperate--nor from +the presence of war though savage and recognised as the handmaid of +desolation. Who but some impenetrable dunce or narrow-minded puritan in +works of art ever read without delight the picture which Burns has drawn +of the convivial exaltation of the rustic adventurer Tam o' Shanter?' +There is no want of sympathy in Wordsworth's own picture of the +'convivial exaltation' of his Waggoner. It is true that he himself never +describes a scene in which, to quote his astonishing phrase, 'conjugal +fidelity archly bends to the service of general benevolence,' and that +his treatment of sexual passion is always grave and, in a true sense, +moral; but it is plain and manly and perfectly free from timidity or +monkishness. It would really be easier to make out against Wordsworth a +charge of excessive tolerance than a charge of excessive rigidity. A +beggar is the sort of person he likes. It is all very well for him to +say that he likes the Old Cumberland Beggar because, by making people +give, he keeps love alive in their hearts. It may be so--he says so, and +I always believe him. But that was not his only reason; and it is clear +to me that, when he met the tall gipsy-beggar, he gave her money because +she was beautiful and queenly, and that he delighted in her two lying +boys because of their gaiety and joy in life. Neither has he the least +objection to a thief. The grandfather and grandson who go pilfering +together, two infants separated by ninety years, meet with nothing but +smiles from him. The Farmer of Tilsbury Vale, after thirty years of +careless hospitality, found himself ruined. He borrowed money, spent +some of it in paying a few of his other debts, and absconded to London. + + But this he did all in the _ease_ of his heart. + +And for this reason, and because in London he keeps the ease of his +heart and continues to love the country, Wordsworth dismisses him with a +blessing. What he cannot bear is torpor. He passes a knot of gipsies in +the morning; and, passing them again after his twelve hours of joyful +rambling, he finds them just as they were, sunk in sloth; and he breaks +out, + + Oh, better wrong and strife, + Better vain deeds and evil than such life. + +He changed this shocking exclamation later, but it represents his +original feeling, and he might have trusted that only an 'impenetrable +dunce or narrow-minded puritan' would misunderstand him.[13] + +Wordsworth's morality is of one piece with his optimism and with his +determination to seize and exhibit in everything the element of good. +But this is a subject far too large for treatment here, and I can refer +to it only in the most summary way. What Arnold precisely meant when he +said that Wordsworth 'put by' the cloud of human destiny I am not sure. +That Wordsworth saw this cloud and looked at it steadily is beyond all +question. I am not building on such famous lines as + + The still sad music of humanity, + +or + + the fierce confederate storm + Of Sorrow, barricadoed evermore + Within the walls of cities; + +or + + Amid the groves, under the shadowy hills, + The generations are prepared; the pangs, + The internal pangs, are ready; the dread strife + Of poor humanity's afflicted will + Struggling in vain with ruthless destiny; + +for, although such quotations could be multiplied, isolated expressions, +even when not dramatic,[14] would prove little. But I repeat the remark +already made, that if we review the subjects of many of Wordsworth's +famous poems on human life,--the subjects, for example, of _The Thorn_, +_The Sailor's Mother_, _Ruth_, _The Brothers_, _Michael_, _The +Affliction of Margaret_, _The White Doe of Rylstone_, the story of +Margaret in _Excursion_, i., half the stories told in _Excursion_, vi. +and vii.--we find ourselves in the presence of poverty, crime, insanity, +ruined innocence, torturing hopes doomed to extinction, solitary +anguish, even despair. Ignore the manner in which Wordsworth treated +his subjects, and you will have to say that his world, so far as +humanity is concerned, is a dark world,--at least as dark as that of +Byron. Unquestionably then he saw the cloud of human destiny, and he did +not avert his eyes from it. Nor did he pretend to understand its +darkness. The world was to him in the end 'this unintelligible world,' +and the only 'adequate support for the calamities of mortal life' was +faith.[15] But he was profoundly impressed, through the experience of +his own years of crisis, alike by the dangers of despondency, and by the +superficiality of the views which it engenders. It was for him (and +here, as in other points, he shows his natural affinity to Spinoza) a +condition in which the soul, concentrated on its own suffering, for that +very reason loses hold both of its own being and of the reality of which +it forms a part. His experience also made it impossible for him to doubt +that what he grasped + + At times when most existence with herself + Is satisfied, + +--and these are the times when existence is most united in love with +other existence--was, in a special sense or degree, the truth, and +therefore that the evils which we suffer, deplore, or condemn, cannot +really be what they seem to us when we merely suffer, deplore, or +condemn them. He set himself to _see_ this, as far as he could, and to +show it. He sang of pleasure, joy, glee, blitheness, love, wherever in +nature or humanity they assert their indisputable power; and turning to +pain and wrong, and gazing at them steadfastly, and setting himself to +present the facts with a quiet but unsparing truthfulness, he yet +endeavoured to show what he had seen, that sometimes pain and wrong are +the conditions of a happiness and good which without them could not +have been, that no limit can be set to the power of the soul to +transmute them into its own substance, and that, in suffering and even +in misery, there may still be such a strength as fills us with awe or +with glory. He did not pretend, I repeat, that what he saw sufficed to +solve the riddle of the painful earth. 'Our being rests' on 'dark +foundations,' and 'our haughty life is crowned with darkness.' But still +what he showed was what he _saw_, and he saw it in the cloud of human +destiny. We are not here concerned with his faith in the sun behind that +cloud; my purpose is only to insist that he 'fronted' it 'fearlessly.' + + + 4. + +After quoting the lines from _A Poet's Epitaph_, and Arnold's lines on +Wordsworth, I asked how the man described in them ever came to write the +_Ode_ on Immortality, or _Yew-trees_, or why he should say, + + For I must tread on shadowy ground, must sink + Deep--and, aloft ascending, breathe in worlds + To which the heaven of heavens is but a veil. + +The aspect of Wordsworth's poetry which answers this question forms my +last subject. + +We may recall this aspect in more than one way. First, not a little of +Wordsworth's poetry either approaches or actually enters the province of +the sublime. His strongest natural inclination tended there. He himself +speaks of his temperament as 'stern,' and tells us that + + to the very going out of youth + [He] too exclusively esteemed _that_ love, + And sought _that_ beauty, which, as Milton says, + Hath terror in it. + +This disposition is easily traced in the imaginative impressions of his +childhood as he describes them in the _Prelude_. His fixed habit of +looking + + with feelings of fraternal love + Upon the unassuming things that hold + A silent station in this beauteous world, + +was only formed, it would seem, under his sister's influence, after his +recovery from the crisis that followed the ruin of his towering hopes in +the French Revolution. It was a part of his endeavour to find something +of the distant ideal in life's familiar face. And though this attitude +of sympathy and humility did become habitual, the first bent towards +grandeur, austerity, sublimity, retained its force. It is evident in the +political poems, and in all those pictures of life which depict the +unconquerable power of affection, passion, resolution, patience, or +faith. It inspires much of his greatest poetry of Nature. It emerges +occasionally with a strange and thrilling effect in the serene, +gracious, but sometimes stagnant atmosphere of the later poems,--for the +last time, perhaps, in that magnificent stanza of the _Extempore +Effusion upon the Death of James Hogg_ (1835), + + Like clouds that rake the mountain-summits, + Or waves that own no curbing hand, + How fast has brother followed brother + From sunshine to the sunless land! + +Wordsworth is indisputably the most sublime of our poets since Milton. + +We may put the matter, secondly, thus. However much Wordsworth was the +poet of small and humble things, and the poet who saw his ideal +realised, not in Utopia, but here and now before his eyes, he was, quite +as much, what some would call a mystic. He saw everything in the light +of 'the visionary power.' He was, for himself, + + The transitory being that beheld + This Vision. + +He apprehended all things, natural or human, as the expression of +something which, while manifested in them, immeasurably transcends them. +And nothing can be more intensely Wordsworthian than the poems and +passages most marked by this visionary power and most directly issuing +from this apprehension. The bearing of these statements on Wordsworth's +inclination to sublimity will be obvious at a glance. + +Now we may prefer the Wordsworth of the daffodils to the Wordsworth of +the yew-trees, and we may even believe the poet's mysticism to be +moonshine; but it is certain that to neglect or throw into the shade +this aspect of his poetry is neither to take Wordsworth as he really was +nor to judge his poetry truly, since this aspect appears in much of it +that we cannot deny to be first-rate. Yet there is, I think, and has +been for some time, a tendency to this mistake. It is exemplified in +Arnold's Introduction and has been increased by it, and it is visible in +some degree even in Pater's essay. Arnold wished to make Wordsworth more +popular; and so he was tempted to represent Wordsworth's poetry as much +more simple and unambitious than it really was, and as much more easily +apprehended than it ever can be. He was also annoyed by attempts to +formulate a systematic Wordsworthian philosophy; partly, doubtless, +because he knew that, however great the philosophical value of a poet's +ideas may be, it cannot by itself determine the value of his poetry; but +partly also because, having himself but little turn for philosophy, he +was disposed to regard it as illusory; and further because, even in the +poetic sphere, he was somewhat deficient in that kind of imagination +which is allied to metaphysical thought. This is one reason of his +curious failure to appreciate Shelley, and of the evident irritation +which Shelley produced in him. And it is also one reason why, both in +his _Memorial Verses_ and in the introduction to his selection from +Wordsworth, he either ignores or depreciates that aspect of the poetry +with which we are just now concerned. It is not true, we must bluntly +say, that the cause of the greatness of this poetry 'is simple and may +be told quite simply.' It is true, and it is admirably said, that this +poetry 'is great because of the extraordinary power with which +Wordsworth feels the joy offered to us in nature, the joy offered to us +in the simple primary affections and duties.' But this is only half the +truth. + +Pater's essay is not thus one-sided. It is, to my mind, an extremely +fine piece of criticism. Yet the tendency to which I am objecting does +appear in it. Pater says, for example, that Wordsworth is the poet of +nature, 'and of nature, after all, in her modesty. The English Lake +country has, of course, its grandeurs. But the peculiar function of +Wordsworth's genius, as carrying in it a power to open out the soul of +apparently little and familiar things, would have found its true test +had he become the poet of Surrey, say! and the prophet of its life.' +This last sentence is, in one sense, doubtless true. The 'function' +referred to could have been exercised in Surrey, and was exercised in +Dorset and Somerset, as well as in the Lake country. And this function +was a 'peculiar function of Wordsworth's genius.' But that it was _the_ +peculiar function of his genius, or more peculiar than that other +function which forms our present subject, I venture to deny; and for the +full exercise of this latter function, it is hardly hazardous to assert, +Wordsworth's childhood in a mountain district, and his subsequent +residence there, were indispensable. This will be doubted for a moment, +I believe, only by those readers (and they are not a few) who ignore the +_Prelude_ and the _Excursion_. But the _Prelude_ and the _Excursion_, +though there are dull pages in both, contain much of Wordsworth's best +and most characteristic poetry. And even in a selection like Arnold's, +which, perhaps wisely, makes hardly any use of them, many famous poems +will be found which deal with nature but not with nature 'in her +modesty.' + +My main object was to insist that the 'mystic,' 'visionary,' 'sublime,' +aspect of Wordsworth's poetry must not be slighted. I wish to add a few +remarks on it, but to consider it fully would carry us far beyond our +bounds; and, even if I attempted the task, I should not formulate its +results in a body of doctrines. Such a formulation is useful, and I see +no objection to it in principle, as one method of exploring Wordsworth's +mind with a view to the better apprehension of his poetry. But the +method has its dangers, and it is another matter to put forward the +results as philosophically adequate, or to take the position that +'Wordsworth was first and foremost a philosophical thinker, a man whose +intention and purpose it was to think out for himself, faithfully and +seriously, the questions concerning man and nature and human life' (Dean +Church). If this were true, he should have given himself to philosophy +and not to poetry; and there is no reason to think that he would have +been eminently successful. Nobody ever was so who was not forced by a +special natural power and an imperious impulsion into the business of +'thinking out,' and who did not develope this power by years of arduous +discipline. Wordsworth does not show it in any marked degree; and, +though he reflected deeply and acutely, he was without philosophical +training. His poetry is immensely interesting as an imaginative +expression of the same mind which, in his day, produced in Germany great +philosophies. His poetic experience, his intuitions, his single +thoughts, even his large views, correspond in a striking way, sometimes +in a startling way, with ideas methodically developed by Kant, +Schelling, Hegel, Schopenhauer. They remain admirable material for +philosophy; and a philosophy which found itself driven to treat them as +moonshine would probably be a very poor affair. But they are like the +experience and the utterances of men of religious genius: great truths +are enshrined in them, but generally the shrine would have to be broken +to liberate these truths in a form which would satisfy the desire to +understand. To claim for them the power to satisfy that desire is an +error, and it tempts those in whom that desire is predominant to treat +them as mere beautiful illusions. + +Setting aside, then, any questions as to the ultimate import of the +'mystic' strain in Wordsworth's poetry, I intend only to call attention +to certain traits in the kind of poetic experience which exhibits it +most plainly. And we may observe at once that in this there is always +traceable a certain hostility to 'sense.' I do not mean that hostility +which is present in _all_ poetic experience, and of which Wordsworth was +very distinctly aware. The regular action of the senses on their +customary material produces, in his view, a 'tyranny' over the soul. It +helps to construct that every-day picture of the world, of sensible +objects and events 'in disconnection dead and spiritless,' which we take +for reality. In relation to this reality we become passive slaves;[16] +it lies on us with a weight 'heavy as frost and deep almost as life.' It +is the origin alike of our torpor and our superficiality. _All_ poetic +experience frees us from it to some extent, or breaks into it, and so +may be called hostile to sense. But this experience is, broadly +speaking, of two different kinds. The perception of the daffodils as +dancing in glee, and in sympathy with other gleeful beings, shows us a +living, joyous, loving world, and so a 'spiritual' world, not a merely +'sensible' one. But the hostility to sense is here no more than a +hostility to _mere_ sense: this 'spiritual' world is itself the sensible +world more fully apprehended: the daffodils do not change or lose their +colour in disclosing their glee. On the other hand, in the kind of +experience which forms our present subject, there is always some feeling +of definite contrast with the limited sensible world. The arresting +feature or object is felt in some way _against_ this background, or even +as in some way a denial of it. Sometimes it is a visionary unearthly +light resting on a scene or on some strange figure. Sometimes it is the +feeling that the scene or figure belongs to the world of dream. +Sometimes it is an intimation of boundlessness, contradicting or +abolishing the fixed limits of our habitual view. Sometimes it is the +obscure sense of 'unknown modes of being,' unlike the familiar modes. +This kind of experience, further, comes often with a distinct shock, +which may bewilder, confuse or trouble the mind. And, lastly, it is +especially, though not invariably, associated with mountains, and again +with solitude. Some of these bald statements I will go on to illustrate, +only remarking that the boundary between these modes of imagination is, +naturally, less marked and more wavering in Wordsworth's poetry than in +my brief analysis. + +We may begin with a poem standing near this boundary, the famous verses +_To the Cuckoo_, 'O blithe new-comer.' It stands near the boundary +because, like the poem on the Daffodils, it is entirely happy. But it +stands unmistakably on the further side of the boundary, and is, in +truth, more nearly allied to the _Ode_ on Immortality than to the poem +on the Daffodils. The sense of sight is baffled, and its tyranny broken. +Only a cry is heard, which makes the listener look a thousand ways, so +shifting is the direction from which it reaches him. It seems to come +from a mere 'voice,' 'an invisible thing,' 'a mystery.' It brings him +'a tale of visionary hours,'--hours of childhood, when he sought this +invisible thing in vain, and the earth appeared to his bewildered but +liberated fancy 'an unsubstantial fairy place.' And still, when he hears +it, the great globe itself, we may say, fades like an unsubstantial +pageant; or, to quote from the Immortality _Ode_, the 'shades of the +prison house' melt into air. These words are much more solemn than the +Cuckoo poem; but the experience is of the same type, and 'the visionary +gleam' of the ode, like the 'wandering voice' of the poem, is the +expression through sense of something beyond sense. + +Take another passage referring to childhood. It is from the _Prelude_, +ii. Here there is something more than perplexity. There is apprehension, +and we are approaching the sublime: + + One summer evening (led by her[17]) I found + A little boat tied to a willow tree + Within a rocky cave, its usual home. + Straight I unloosed her chain, and stepping in + Pushed from the shore. It was an act of stealth + And troubled pleasure, nor without the voice + Of mountain-echoes did my boat move on; + Leaving behind her still, on either side, + Small circles glittering idly in the moon, + Until they melted all into one track + Of sparkling light. But now, like one who rows, + Proud of his skill, to reach a chosen point + With an unswerving line, I fixed my view + Upon the summit of a craggy ridge, + The horizon's utmost boundary; far above + Was nothing but the stars and the grey sky. + She was an elfin pinnace; lustily + I dipped my oars into the silent lake, + And, as I rose upon the stroke, my boat + Went heaving through the water like a swan; + When, from behind that craggy steep till then + The horizon's bound, a huge peak, black and huge, + As if with voluntary power instinct, + Upreared its head. I struck and struck again, + And growing still in stature the grim shape + Towered up between me and the stars, and still, + For so it seemed, with purpose of its own + And measured motion like a living thing, + Strode after me. With trembling oars I turned, + And through the silent water stole my way + Back to the covert of the willow tree; + There in her mooring-place I left my bark,-- + And through the meadows homeward went, in grave + And serious mood; but after I had seen + That spectacle, for many days, my brain + Worked with a dim and undetermined sense + Of unknown modes of being; o'er my thoughts + There hung a darkness, call it solitude + Or blank desertion. No familiar shapes + Remained, no pleasant images of trees, + Of sea or sky, no colours of green fields; + But huge and mighty forms, that do not live + Like living men, moved slowly through the mind + By day, and were a trouble to my dreams. + +The best commentary on a poem is generally to be found in the poet's +other works. And those last dozen lines furnish the best commentary on +that famous passage in the _Ode_, where the poet, looking back to his +childhood, gives thanks for it,--not however for its careless delight +and liberty, + + But for those obstinate questionings + Of sense and outward things, + Fallings from us, vanishings; + Blank misgivings of a Creature + Moving about in worlds not realised, + High instincts before which our mortal Nature + Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised. + +Whether, or how, these experiences afford 'intimations of immortality' +is not in question here; but it will never do to dismiss them so airily +as Arnold did. Without them Wordsworth is not Wordsworth. + +The most striking recollections of his childhood have not in all cases +this manifest affinity to the _Ode_, but wherever the visionary feeling +appears in them (and it appears in many), this affinity is still +traceable. There is, for instance, in _Prelude_, xii., the description +of the crag, from which, on a wild dark day, the boy watched eagerly +the two highways below for the ponies that were coming to take him home +for the holidays. It is too long to quote, but every reader of it will +remember + + the wind and sleety rain, + And all the business of the elements, + The single sheep, and the one blasted tree, + And the bleak music from that old stone wall, + The noise of wood and water, and the mist + That on the line of each of those two roads + Advanced in such indisputable shapes. + +Everything here is natural, but everything is apocalyptic. And we happen +to know why. Wordsworth is describing the scene in the light of memory. +In that eagerly expected holiday his father died; and the scene, as he +recalled it, was charged with the sense of contrast between the narrow +world of common pleasures and blind and easy hopes, and the vast unseen +world which encloses it in beneficent yet dark and inexorable arms. The +visionary feeling has here a peculiar tone; but always, openly or +covertly, it is the intimation of something illimitable, over-arching or +breaking into the customary 'reality.' Its character varies; and so +sometimes at its touch the soul, suddenly conscious of its own infinity, +melts in rapture into that infinite being; while at other times the +'mortal nature' stands dumb, incapable of thought, or shrinking from +some presence + + Not un-informed with Phantasy, and looks + That threaten the profane. + +This feeling is so essential to many of Wordsworth's most characteristic +poems that it may almost be called their soul; and failure to understand +them frequently arises from obtuseness to it. It appears in a mild and +tender form, but quite openly, in the lines _To a Highland Girl_, where +the child, and the rocks and trees and lake and road by her home, seem +to the poet + + Like something fashioned in a dream. + +It gives to _The Solitary Reaper_ its note of remoteness and wonder; and +even the slight shock of bewilderment due to it is felt in the opening +line of the most famous stanza: + + Will no one tell me what she sings? + +Its etherial music accompanies every vision of the White Doe, and sounds +faintly to us from far away through all the tale of failure and anguish. +Without it such shorter narratives as _Hartleap Well_ and _Resolution +and Independence_ would lose the imaginative atmosphere which adds +mystery and grandeur to the apparently simple 'moral.' + +In _Hartleap Well_ it is conveyed at first by slight touches of +contrast. Sir Walter, in his long pursuit of the Hart, has mounted his +third horse. + + Joy sparkled in the prancing courser's eyes; + The horse and horseman are a happy pair; + But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies, + There is a doleful silence in the air. + + A rout this morning left Sir Walter's hall, + That as they galloped made the echoes roar; + But horse and man are vanished, one and all; + Such race, I think, was never seen before. + +At last even the dogs are left behind, stretched one by one among the +mountain fern. + + Where is the throng, the tumult of the race? + The bugles that so joyfully were blown? + --This chase it looks not like an earthly chase; + Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone. + +Thus the poem begins. At the end we have the old shepherd's description +of the utter desolation of the spot where the waters of the little +spring had trembled with the last deep groan of the dying stag, and +where the Knight, to commemorate his exploit, had built a basin for the +spring, three pillars to mark the last three leaps of his victim, and a +pleasure-house, surrounded by trees and trailing plants, for the summer +joy of himself and his paramour. But now 'the pleasure-house is dust,' +and the trees are grey, 'with neither arms nor head': + + Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade; + The sun on drearier hollow never shone; + So will it be, as I have often said, + Till trees, and stones, and fountain all are gone. + +It is only this feeling of the presence of mysterious inviolable Powers, +behind the momentary powers of hard pleasure and empty pride, that +justifies the solemnity of the stanza: + + The Being, that is in the clouds and air, + That is in the green leaves among the groves, + Maintains a deep and reverential care + For the unoffending creatures whom he loves. + +_Hartleap Well_ is a beautiful poem, but whether it is entirely +successful is, perhaps, doubtful. There can be no sort of doubt as to +_Resolution and Independence_, probably, if we must choose, the most +Wordsworthian of Wordsworth's poems, and the best test of ability to +understand him. The story, if given in a brief argument, would sound far +from promising. We should expect for it, too, a ballad form somewhat +like that of _Simon Lee_. When we read it, we find instead lines of +extraordinary grandeur, but, mingled with them, lines more pedestrian +than could be found in an impressive poem from any other hand,--for +instance, + + And, drawing to his side, to him did say, + 'This morning gives us promise of a glorious day.' + +or, + + 'How is it that you live, and what is it you do?' + +We meet also with that perplexed persistence, and that helpless +reiteration of a question (in this case one already clearly answered), +which in other poems threatens to become ludicrous, and on which a +writer with a keener sense of the ludicrous would hardly have ventured. +Yet with all this, and by dint of all this, we read with bated breath, +almost as if we were in the presence of that 'majestical' Spirit in +_Hamlet_, come to 'admonish' from another world, though not this time by +terror. And one source of this effect is the confusion, the almost +hypnotic obliteration of the habitual reasoning mind, that falls on the +poet as he gazes at the leech-gatherer, and hears, without +understanding, his plain reply to the enquiry about himself and the +prosaic 'occupation' he 'pursues': + + The old man still stood talking by my side; + But now his voice to me was like a stream + Scarce heard; nor word from word could I divide; + And the whole body of the man did seem + Like one whom I had met with in a dream; + Or like a man from some far region sent, + To give me human strength, by apt admonishment. + +The same question was asked again, and the answer was repeated. But + + While he was talking thus, the lonely place, + The old man's shape, and speech, all troubled me. + +'Trouble' is a word not seldom employed by the poet to denote the +confusion caused by some visionary experience. Here are, again, the +fallings from us, vanishings, blank misgivings, dim fore-feelings of the +soul's infinity. + +Out of many illustrations I will choose three more. There is in the +_Prelude_, iv., the passage (so strongly resembling _Resolution and +Independence_ that I merely refer to it) where Wordsworth describes an +old soldier suddenly seen, leaning against a milestone on the moon-lit +road, all alone: + + No living thing appeared in earth or air; + And, save the flowing water's peaceful voice, + Sound there was none ... + ... still his form + Kept the same awful steadiness--at his feet + His shadow lay, and moved not. + +His shadow proves he was no ghost; but a ghost was never ghostlier than +he. And by him we may place the London beggar of _Prelude_, vii.: + + How oft, amid those overflowing streets, + Have I gone forward with the crowd, and said + Unto myself, 'The face of every one + That passes by me is a mystery!' + Thus have I looked, nor ceased to look, oppressed + By thoughts of what and whither, when and how, + Until the shapes before my eyes became + A second-sight procession, such as glides + Over still mountains, or appears in dreams; + And once, far-travelled in such mood, beyond + The reach of common indication, lost + Amid the moving pageant, I was smitten + Abruptly, with the view (a sight not rare) + Of a blind Beggar, who, with upright face, + Stood, propped against a wall, upon his chest + Wearing a written paper, to explain + His story, whence he came, and who he was. + Caught by the spectacle my mind turned round + As with the might of waters; an apt type + This label seemed of the utmost we can know, + Both of ourselves and of the universe; + And, on the shape of that unmoving man, + His steadfast face and sightless eyes, I gazed, + As if admonished from another world. + +Still more curious psychologically is the passage, in the preceding book +of the _Prelude_, which tells us of a similar shock and leads to the +description of its effects. The more prosaically I introduce the +passage, the better. Wordsworth and Jones ('Jones, as from Calais +southward you and I') set out to walk over the Simplon, then traversed +only by a rough mule-track. They wandered out of the way, and, meeting a +peasant, discovered from his answers to their questions that, without +knowing it, they '_had crossed the Alps_.' This may not sound important, +and the italics are Wordsworth's, not mine. But the next words are +these: + + Imagination--here the Power so called + Through sad incompetence of human speech, + That awful Power rose from the mind's abyss + Like an unfathered vapour that enwraps, + At once, some lonely traveller. I was lost; + Halted without an effort to break through; + But to my conscious soul I now can say-- + 'I recognise thy glory': in such strength + Of usurpation, when the light of sense + Goes out, but with a flash that has revealed + The invisible world, doth greatness make abode, + There harbours; whether we be young or old, + Our destiny, our being's heart and home, + Is with infinitude, and only there; + With hope it is, hope that can never die, + Effort, and expectation, and desire, + And something evermore about to be. + +And what was the result of this shock? The poet may answer for himself +in some of the greatest lines in English poetry. The travellers +proceeded on their way down the Defile of Gondo. + + Downwards we hurried fast, + And, with the half-shaped road which we had missed, + Entered a narrow chasm. The brook and road + Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy strait, + And with them did we journey several hours + At a slow pace. The immeasurable height + Of woods decaying, never to be decayed, + The stationary blasts of waterfalls, + And in the narrow rent at every turn + Winds thwarting winds, bewildered and forlorn, + The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky, + The rocks that muttered close upon our ears, + Black drizzling crags that spake by the way-side + As if a voice were in them, the sick sight + And giddy prospect of the raving stream, + The unfettered clouds and region of the Heavens, + Tumult and peace, the darkness and the light-- + Were all like workings of one mind, the features + Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree; + Characters of the great Apocalypse, + The types and symbols of Eternity, + Of first, and last, and midst, and without end.[18] + +I hardly think that 'the poet of Surrey, say, and the prophet of its +life' could have written thus. And of all the poems to which I have +lately referred, and all the passages I have quoted, there are but two +or three which do not cry aloud that their birth-place was the moor or +the mountain, and that severed from their birth-place they would perish. +The more sublime they are, or the nearer they approach sublimity, the +more is this true. The cry of the cuckoo in _O blithe new-comer_, though +visionary, is not sublime; but, echoed by the mountain, it is + + Like--but oh, how different![19] + +It was among the mountains that Wordsworth, as he says of his Wanderer, +_felt_ his faith. It was there that all things + + Breathed immortality, revolving life, + And greatness still revolving; infinite. + There littleness was not; the least of things + Seemed infinite; and there his spirit shaped + Her prospects, nor did he believe,--he _saw_. + +And even if we count his vision a mere dream, still he put into words, +as no other poet has, the spirit of the mountains. + + Two voices are there; one is of the sea, + One of the mountains; each a mighty voice. + +And of the second of these we may say that 'few or none hears it right' +now he is gone. + +Partly because he is the poet of mountains he is, even more +pre-eminently, the poet of solitude. For there are tones in the mountain +voice scarcely audible except in solitude, and the reader whom +Wordsworth's greatest poetry baffles could have no better advice offered +him than to do what he has probably never done in his life--to be on a +mountain alone. But for Wordsworth not this solitude only, but all +solitude and all things solitary had an extraordinary fascination. + + The outward shows of sky and earth, + Of hill and valley, he has viewed; + And impulses _of deeper birth_ + Have come to him in solitude. + +The sense of solitude, it will readily be found, is essential to nearly +all the poems and passages we have been considering, and to some of +quite a different character, such as the Daffodil stanzas. And it is not +merely that the poet is alone; what he sees is so too. If the +leech-gatherer and the soldier on the moon-lit road had not been +solitary figures, they would not have awaked 'the visionary power'; and +it is scarcely fanciful to add that if the boy who was watching for his +father's ponies had had beside him any more than + + The _single_ sheep and the _one_ blasted tree, + +the mist would not have advanced along the roads 'in such indisputable +shapes.' With Wordsworth that power seems to have sprung into life at +once on the perception of loneliness. What is lonely is a spirit. To +call a thing lonely or solitary is, with him, to say that it opens a +bright or solemn vista into infinity. He himself 'wanders lonely as a +cloud': he seeks the 'souls of lonely places': he listens in awe to + + One voice, the solitary raven ... + An iron knell, with echoes from afar: + +against the distant sky he descries the shepherd, + + A solitary object and sublime, + Above all height! like an aerial cross + Stationed alone upon a spiry rock + Of the Chartreuse, for worship. + +But this theme might be pursued for hours, and I will refer only to two +poems more. The editor of the _Golden Treasury_, a book never to be +thought of without gratitude, changed the title _The Solitary_ _Reaper_ +into _The Highland Reaper_. He may have had his reasons. Perhaps he had +met some one who thought that the Reaper belonged to Surrey. Still the +change was a mistake: the 'solitary' in Wordsworth's title gave the +keynote. The other poem is _Lucy Gray_. 'When I was little,' a lover of +Wordsworth once said, 'I could hardly bear to read _Lucy Gray_, it made +me feel so lonely.' Wordsworth called it _Lucy Gray, or Solitude_, and +this young reader understood him. But there is too much, reason to fear +that for half his readers his 'solitary child' is generalised into a +mere 'little girl,' and that they never receive the main impression he +wished to produce. Yet his intention is announced in the opening lines, +and as clearly shown in the lovely final stanzas, which give even to +this ballad the visionary touch which distinguishes it from _Alice +Fell_: + + Yet some maintain that to this day + She is a living child; + That you may see sweet Lucy Gray + Upon the lonesome wild. + + O'er rough and smooth she trips along, + And never looks behind; + And sings a solitary song + That whistles in the wind. + +The solitariness which exerted so potent a spell on Wordsworth had in it +nothing 'Byronic.' He preached in the _Excursion_ against the solitude +of 'self-indulging spleen.' He was even aware that he himself, though +free from that weakness, had felt + + perhaps too much + The self-sufficing power of Solitude.[20] + +No poet is more emphatically the poet of community. A great part of his +verse--a part as characteristic and as precious as the part on which I +have been dwelling--is dedicated to the affections of home and +neighbourhood and country, and to that soul of joy and love which links +together all Nature's children, and 'steals from earth to man, from man +to earth.' And this soul is for him as truly the presence of 'the Being +that is in the clouds and air' and in the mind of man as are the power, +the darkness, the silence, the strange gleams and mysterious visitations +which startle and confuse with intimations of infinity. But solitude and +solitariness were to him, in the main, one of these intimations. They +had not for him merely the 'eeriness' which they have at times for +everyone, though that was essential to some of the poems we have +reviewed. They were the symbol of power to stand alone, to be +'self-sufficing,' to dispense with custom and surroundings and aid and +sympathy--a self-dependence at once the image and the communication of +'the soul of all the worlds.' Even when they were full of 'sounds and +sweet airs that give delight and hurt not,' the solitude of the Reaper +or of Lucy, they so appealed to him. But they appealed also to that +austerer strain which led him to love 'bare trees and mountains bare,' +and lonely places, and the bleak music of the old stone wall, and to +dwell with awe, and yet with exultation, on the majesty of that +'unconquerable mind' which through long years holds its solitary +purpose, sustains its solitary passion, feeds upon its solitary anguish. +For this mind, as for the blind beggar or the leech-gatherer, the 'light +of sense' and the sweetness of life have faded or 'gone out'; but in it +'greatness makes abode,' and it 'retains its station proud,' 'by form or +image unprofaned.' Thus, in whatever guise it might present itself, +solitariness 'carried far into his heart' the haunting sense of an +'invisible world'; of some Life beyond this 'transitory being' and +'unapproachable by death'; + + Of Life continuous, Being unimpaired; + That hath been, is, and where it was and is + There shall endure,--existence unexposed + To the blind walk of mortal accident; + From diminution safe and weakening age; + While man grows old, and dwindles, and decays; + And countless generations of mankind + Depart; and leave no vestige where they trod. + +For me, I confess, all this is far from being 'mere poetry'--partly +because I do not believe that any such thing as 'mere poetry' exists. +But whatever kind or degree of truth we may find in all this, everything +in Wordsworth that is sublime or approaches sublimity has, directly or +more remotely, to do with it. And without this part of his poetry +Wordsworth would be 'shorn of his strength,' and would no longer stand, +as he does stand, nearer than any other poet of the Nineteenth Century +to Milton. + + + NOTE. + +I take this opportunity of airing a heresy about _We are Seven_. +Wordsworth's friend, James Tobin, who saw the _Lyrical Ballads_ while +they were going through the press, told him that this poem would make +him everlastingly ridiculous, and entreated him in vain to cancel it. I +have forgotten how it was received in 1798, but it has long been one of +the most popular of the ballad poems, and I do not think I have ever +heard it ridiculed. I wonder, however, what its readers take to be the +'moral' of it, for I have never been able to convince myself that the +'moral' given in the poem itself truly represents the imaginative +impression from which the poem arose. + +The 'moral' is in this instance put at the beginning, in the mutilated +opening stanza: + + --------A simple child, + That lightly draws its breath, + And feels its life in every limb, + What should it know of death? + +Wordsworth, in composing, began his poem with the end; and when it was +all but finished he recited it to Dorothy and Coleridge, and observed +that a prefatory stanza was wanted, and that he should enjoy his tea +better if he could add it first. Coleridge at once threw off the stanza +as we have it, except that the first line ran, 'A simple child, dear +brother Jim,'--this Jim, who rhymes with 'limb,' being the James Tobin +who protested afterwards against the poem. The stanza was printed in the +_Lyrical Ballads_ as Coleridge made it, Wordsworth objecting to the +words 'dear brother Jim' as ludicrous, but (apparently) giving way for +the sake of the joke of introducing Tobin. + +Now the poem gains in one way by this stanza, which has a felicity of +style such as Wordsworth perhaps would not have achieved in expressing +the idea. And the idea was not only accepted by Wordsworth, but, +according to his own account, he had mentioned in substance what he +wished to be expressed. It must seem, therefore, outrageous to hint a +doubt whether the stanza truly represents the imaginative experience +from which the poem arose; and I can only say, in excuse, that this +doubt does not spring from reflection, or from knowledge of Coleridge's +authorship of the stanza, for I do not remember ever having read _We are +Seven_ without feeling it or without saying to myself at the end, 'This +means more than the first stanza says.' And, however improbable, it +cannot be called impossible that even so introspective a poet as +Wordsworth might misconstrue the impression that stirred him to write. I +will take courage, therefore, to confess the belief that what stirred +him was the coincidence of the child's feelings with some of those +feelings of his own childhood which he described in the Immortality +_Ode_, and once or twice in conversation, and which, in a less +individual and peculiar form, he attributes, in the Essay on Epitaphs, +to children in general. But, rather than argue the point, I will refer +to one or two passages. 'At that time I could not believe that I should +lie down quietly in the grave, and that my body would moulder into dust' +(remark recorded by Bishop Wordsworth, _Prose Works_, ed. Grosart, iii. +464). Is not this the condition of the child in _We are Seven_? +'Nothing,' he says to Miss Fenwick, 'was more difficult for me in +childhood than to admit the notion of death as a state applicable to my +own being' (_ib._ iii. 194). He then quotes the first stanza of _We are +Seven_. It is true that thereupon he expressly distinguishes his own +case from the child's, attributing the difficulty in her case to 'animal +vivacity.' But I have already fully admitted that Wordsworth's direct +testimony goes against me; and I have now only to call attention to a +passage in the Essay on Epitaphs. In that essay Wordsworth begins by +saying that the custom of raising monuments to the dead 'proceeded +obviously from a two-fold desire; first, to guard the remains of the +deceased from irreverent approach or from savage violation, and, +secondly, to preserve their memory.' But these desires, in his opinion, +resolve themselves into one, and both proceed from the consciousness or +fore-feeling of immortality, also described as 'an intimation or +assurance within us, that some part of our nature is imperishable.' And +he goes on thus: 'If we look back upon the days of childhood, we shall +find that the time is not in remembrance when, with respect to our own +individual Being, the mind was without this assurance.... Forlorn, and +cut off from communication with the best part of his nature, must that +man be, who should derive the sense of immortality, as it exists in the +mind of a child, from the same unthinking gaiety or liveliness of animal +spirits with which the lamb in the meadow or any other irrational +creature is endowed; to an inability arising from the imperfect state of +his faculties to come, in any point of his being, into contact with a +notion of death; or to an unreflecting acquiescence in what had been +instilled into him!' Now Coleridge's stanza, and Wordsworth's own +distinction between the child and himself, do come at least very near to +attributing the child's inability to realise the fact of death to that +very liveliness of animal spirits which, as a sufficient cause of it, is +here indignantly repudiated. According to the present passage, this +inability ought to have been traced to that 'sense' or 'consciousness' +of immortality which is inherent in human nature. And (whether or no +Wordsworth rightly describes this sense) it was _this_, I suggest, that, +unknown to himself, arrested him in the child's persistent ignoring of +the fact of death. The poem is thus allied to the Immortality _Ode_. The +child is in possession of one of those 'truths that wake to perish +never,' though the tyranny of the senses and the deadening influence of +custom obscure them as childhood passes away. When the conversation took +place (in 1793), and even when the poem was written (1798), Wordsworth +had not yet come to regard the experiences of his own childhood as he +saw them later (_Tintern Abbey_, 1798, shows this), and so he gave to +the poem a moral which is not adequate to it. Or perhaps he accepted +from Coleridge a formulation of his moral which was not quite true even +to his own thoughts at that time. It is just worth observing as possibly +significant that the child in _We are Seven_ is not described as showing +any particular 'animal vivacity': she strikes one as rather a quiet, +though determined, little person. + +These remarks, of course, can have no interest for those readers who +feel no misgivings, such as I have always felt, in reading the poem. But +many, I think, must feel them. + + +FOOTNOTES: + + [1] The following pages reproduce the two concluding lectures of a + short course on the Age of Wordsworth, given at Oxford in April, + 1903, and intended specially for undergraduates in the School of + English Language and Literature. A few passages from the other + lectures appear elsewhere in this volume. On the subject of the + course may I advise any reader who may need the advice to consult + Professor Herford's _The Age of Wordsworth_, a little book which is + familiar to students of the history of English Literature, and the + more admired the more they use it? + + [2] These statements, with the exception of the last, were chosen + partly because they all say, with the most manifest seriousness, much + the same thing that is said, with a touch of playful exaggeration, in + _The Tables Turned_, where occurs that outrageous stanza about 'one + impulse from a vernal wood' which Mr. Raleigh has well defended. When + all fitting allowance has been made for the fact that these + statements, and many like them, are 'poetic,' they ought to remain + startling. Two of them--that from the story of Margaret (_Excursion_, + I.), and that from the _Ode_, 1815--were made less so, to the injury + of the passages, by the Wordsworth of later days, who had forgotten + what he felt, or yielded to the objections of others. + + [3] _Goody Blake_, to my mind, tries vainly to make the kind of + impression overwhelmingly made by Coleridge's _Three Graves_. The + question as to the _Anecdote for Fathers_ is not precisely whether it + makes you laugh, but whether it makes you laugh at the poet, and in + such a way that the end fails to restore your sobriety. The danger is + in the lines, + + And five times to the child I said, + Why, Edward, tell me why? + + The reiteration, with the struggle between the poet and his victim, + is thoroughly Wordsworthian, and there are cases where it is managed + with perfect success, as we shall see; but to me it has here the + effect so delightfully reproduced in _Through the Looking-glass_ + ('I'll tell thee everything I can'). + + [4] Some remarks on _We are seven_ are added in a note at the end of + the lecture. + + [5] The phrases quoted in this paragraph are taken chiefly from + Hazlitt and De Quincey. + + [6] The publication of the _Excursion_ seems to have been postponed + for financial reasons. One edition of a thousand copies sufficed the + world for thirteen years. + + [7] _Evening Voluntaries_, iv. We know that he refers to Byron. + + [8] _Poems on the Naming of Places_, iv. Keats need not have been + ashamed to write the last line. + + [9] ''Tis past, that melancholy dream,'--so he describes his sojourn + in Germany. + + [10] Wordsworth's Letter to Major-General Pasley (_Prose Works_, i.) + contains an excellent statement both of his views on this duty and of + his hostility to mere militarism. + + [11] I am writing of the years of the Napoleonic War. Later, he lost + courage, as he himself said. But it is not true that he ever ceased + to sympathise with the cause of national independence in Europe. + + [12] [This great line, as I am reminded, refers to the Welsh + (_Comus_, 33); but it does not seem necessary to change the + quotation.] + + [13] In saying that what Wordsworth could not bear was torpor, of + course I do not mean that he could bear faithlessness, ingratitude, + cruelty, and the like. He had no tolerance for such things, either in + his poetry or in his life. 'I could kick such a man across England + with my naked foot,' the old poet burst forth when he heard of a base + action. This reminds one of Browning, whose antinomian morality was + not so very unlike Wordsworth's. And neither poet would have found it + difficult to include the worst vices under the head of torpor or 'the + unlit lamp and the ungirt loin.' + + [14] The third quotation is from a speech by the Solitary + (_Excursion_, vi.). + + [15] The second half of this sentence, true of the Wordsworth of the + _Excursion_, is perhaps not quite true of his earlier mind. + + [16] This is just the opposite of the 'wise passiveness' of + imaginative but unreflective feeling. + + [17] Nature. + + [18] I add here some notes which would have disturbed the lecture, + but may be of use to the student of Wordsworth's mind who cares to + return to them. + + The collocation of the last two quotations shows how, for Wordsworth, + 'the visionary power' arises from, and testifies to, the mind's + infinity, and how the feeling of this is, or involves, or is united + with, a feeling or idea of _the_ infinite or 'one mind,' and of union + with it. This connection of ideas (as to which I purposely use vague + alternative terms, because I do not want to theorise the poet's + experience), is frequent or constant in Wordsworth, and it ought + always to be borne in mind in regard to his language about + 'immortality' or 'eternity.' His sense or consciousness of + 'immortality,' that is to say, is at once a consciousness that he (in + some sense of that word) is potentially infinite, and a consciousness + that 'he' belongs to, is part of, is the home of, or is, an 'active + principle' which is eternal, indivisible, and the 'soul of all the + worlds' (cf. opening of _Excursion_, ix.). Whatever we may make of + this connection of ideas, unless we realise it we shall remain + entirely outside Wordsworth's mind in passages like that just + referred to, and in passages where he talks of 'acts of immortality + in Nature's course,' or says that to the Wanderer 'all things among + the mountains breathed immortality,' or says that he has been + unfolding 'far-stretching views of immortality,' though he may not + appear to us to have touched in any way on the subject. Nature and + Man (in one sense) are for Wordsworth 'transitory,' but Nature always + and everywhere _reveals_ 'immortality,' and Man (in another sense) is + 'immortal.' Unquestionably for Wordsworth he is so. In what precise + sense he is so for Wordsworth may not be discoverable, but the only + chance of discovering it is to forget what we or anybody else, except + Wordsworth, may mean by 'man' and 'immortal,' and to try to get into + _his_ mind. + + There is an illuminating passage on 'the visionary power' and the + mind's infinity or immortality, in _Prelude_, ii.: + + and hence, from the same source, + Sublimer joy; for I would walk alone, + Under the quiet stars, and at that time + Have felt whate'er there is of power in sound + To breathe an elevated mood, by form + Or image unprofaned; and I would stand, + If the night blackened with a coming storm, + Beneath some rock, listening to notes that are + The ghostly language of the ancient earth, + Or make their dim abode in distant winds. + Thence did I drink the visionary power; + And deem not profitless those fleeting moods + Of shadowy exultation: not for this, + That they are kindred to our purer mind + And intellectual life; but that the soul, + Remembering how she felt, but what she felt + Remembering not, retains an obscure sense + Of possible sublimity, whereto + With growing faculties she doth aspire, + With faculties still growing, feeling still + That whatsoever point they gain, they yet + Have something to pursue. + + An interesting point, worth fuller treatment, is the connection of + this feeling of infinity and the endless passing of limits with + Wordsworth's love of wandering, wanderers, and high roads. See, for + instance, _Prelude_, xiii., 'Who doth not love to follow with his eye + The windings of a public way?' And compare the enchantment of the + question, _What, are you stepping westward_? + + 'twas a sound + Of something without place or bound. + + [19] _Yes, it was the mountain echo_, placed in Arnold's selection, + with his usual taste, next to the earlier poem _To the Cuckoo_. + + [20] This was Coleridge's opinion. + + + + +SHELLEY'S VIEW OF POETRY + + +SHELLEY'S VIEW OF POETRY + + +The ideas of Wordsworth and of Coleridge about poetry have often been +discussed and are familiar. Those of Shelley are much less so, and in +his eloquent exposition of them there is a radiance which almost +conceals them from many readers. I wish, at the cost of all the +radiance, to try to see them and show them rather more distinctly. Even +if they had little value for the theory of poetry, they would still have +much as material for it, since they allow us to look into a poet's +experience in conceiving and composing. And, in addition, they throw +light on some of the chief characteristics of Shelley's own poetry. + +His poems in their turn form one of the sources from which his ideas on +the subject may be gathered. We have also some remarks in his letters +and in prose pieces dealing with other topics. We have the prefaces to +those of his works which he himself published. And, lastly, there is the +_Defence of Poetry_. This essay was written in reply to an attack made +on contemporary verse by Shelley's friend Peacock,--not a favourable +specimen of Peacock's writing. The _Defence_, we can see, was hurriedly +composed, and it remains a fragment, being only the first of three +projected parts. It contains a good deal of historical matter, highly +interesting, but too extensive to be made use of here. Being polemical, +it no doubt exaggerates such of Shelley's views as collided with those +of his antagonist. But, besides being the only full expression of these +views, it is the most mature, for it was written within eighteen months +of his death. It appears to owe very little either to Wordsworth's +Prefaces or to Coleridge's _Biographia Literaria_; but there are a few +reminiscences of Sidney's _Apology_, which Shelley had read just before +he wrote his own _Defence_; and it shows, like much of his mature +poetry, how deeply he was influenced by the more imaginative dialogues +of Plato. + + + 1. + +Any one familiar with the manner in which Shelley in his verse +habitually represents the world could guess at his general view of +poetry. The world to him is a melancholy place, a 'dim vast vale of +tears,' illuminated in flashes by the light of a hidden but glorious +power. Nor is this power, as that favourite metaphor would imply, wholly +outside the world. It works within it as a soul contending with +obstruction and striving to penetrate and transform the whole mass. And +though the fulness of its glory is concealed, its nature is known in +outline. It is the realised perfection of everything good and beautiful +on earth; or, in other words, all such goodness and beauty is its +partial manifestation. 'All,' I say: for the splendour of nature, the +love of lovers, every affection and virtue, any good action or just law, +the wisdom of philosophy, the creations of art, the truths deformed by +superstitious religion,--all are equally operations or appearances of +the hidden power. It is of the first importance for the understanding of +Shelley to realise how strong in him is the sense and conviction of this +unity in life: it is one of his Platonic traits. The intellectual Beauty +of his _Hymn_ is absolutely the same thing as the Liberty of his _Ode_, +the 'Great Spirit' of Love that he invokes to bring freedom to Naples, +the One which in _Adonaďs_ he contrasts with the Many, the Spirit of +Nature of _Queen Mab_, and the Vision of _Alastor_ and _Epipsychidion_. +The skylark of the famous stanzas is free from our sorrows, not because +it is below them, but because, as an embodiment of that perfection, it +knows the rapture of love without its satiety, and understands death as +we cannot. The voice of the mountain, if a whole nation could hear it +with the poet's ear, would 'repeal large codes of fraud and woe'; it is +the same voice as the reformer's and the martyr's. And in the far-off +day when the 'plastic stress' of this power has mastered the last +resistance and is all in all, outward nature, which now suffers with +man, will be redeemed with him, and man, in becoming politically free, +will become also the perfect lover. Evidently, then, poetry, as the +world now is, must be one of the voices of this power, or one tone of +its voice. To use the language so dear to Shelley, it is the revelation +of those eternal ideas which lie behind the many-coloured, ever-shifting +veil that we call reality or life. Or rather, it is one such revelation +among many. + +When we turn to the _Defence of Poetry_ we meet substantially the same +view. There is indeed a certain change; for Shelley is now +philosophising and writing prose, and he wishes not to sing from the +mid-sky, but, for a while at least, to argue with his friend on the +earth. Hence at first we hear nothing of that perfect power at the heart +of things, and poetry is considered as a creation rather than a +revelation. But for Shelley, we soon discover, this would be a false +antithesis. The poet creates, but this creation is no mere fancy of his; +it represents 'those forms which are common to universal nature and +existence,' and 'a poem is the very image of life expressed in its +eternal truth.' We notice, further, that the more voluntary and +conscious work of invention and execution is regarded as quite +subordinate in the creative process. In that process the mind, obedient +to an influence which it does not understand and cannot control, is +driven to produce images of perfection which rather form themselves in +it than are formed by it. The greatest stress is laid on this influence +or inspiration; and in the end we learn that the origin of the whole +process lies in certain exceptional moments when visitations of thought +and feeling, elevating and delightful beyond all expression, but always +arising unforeseen and departing unbidden, reach the soul; that these +are, as it were, the inter-penetration of a diviner nature through our +own; and that the province of the poet is to arrest these apparitions, +to veil them in language, to colour every other form he touches with +their evanescent hues, and so to 'redeem from decay the visitations of +the divinity in man.' + +Even more decided is the emphasis laid on the unity of all the forms in +which the 'divinity' or ideal power thus attests its presence. Indeed, +throughout a large part of the essay, that 'Poetry' which Shelley is +defending is something very much wider than poetry in the usual sense. +The enemy he has to meet is the contention that poetry and its influence +steadily decline as civilisation advances, and that they are giving +place, and ought to give place, to reasoning and the pursuit of utility. +His answer is that, on the contrary, imagination has been, is, and +always will be, the prime source of everything that has intrinsic value +in life. Reasoning, he declares, cannot create, it can only operate upon +the products of imagination. Further, he holds that the predominance of +mere reasoning and mere utility has become in great part an evil; for +while it has accumulated masses of material goods and moral truths, we +distribute the goods iniquitously and fail to apply the truths, because, +for want of imagination, we have not sympathy in our hearts and do not +feel what we know. The 'Poetry' which he defends, therefore, is the +whole creative imagination with all its products. And these include not +merely literature in verse, but, first, whatever prose writing is allied +to that literature; and, next, all the other fine arts; and, finally, +all actions, inventions, institutions, and even ideas and moral +dispositions, which imagination brings into being in its effort to +satisfy the longing for perfection. Painters and musicians are poets. +Plato and Bacon, even Herodotus and Livy, were poets, though there is +much in their works which is not poetry. So were the men who invented +the arts of life, constructed laws for tribes or cities, disclosed, as +sages or founders of religion, the excellence of justice and love. And +every one, Shelley would say, who, perceiving the beauty of an imagined +virtue or deed, translates the image into a fact, is so far a poet. For +all these things come from imagination. + +Shelley's exposition of this, which is probably the most original part +of his theory, is not very clear; but, if I understand his meaning, that +which he takes to happen in all these cases might be thus described. The +imagination--that is to say, the soul imagining--has before it, or feels +within it, something which, answering perfectly to its nature, fills it +with delight and with a desire to realise what delights it. This +something, for the sake of brevity, we may call an idea, so long as we +remember that it need not be distinctly imagined and that it is always +accompanied by emotion. The reason why such ideas delight the imagining +soul is that they are, in fact, images or forebodings of its own +perfection--of itself become perfect--in one aspect or another. These +aspects are as various as the elements and forms of its own inner life +and outward existence; and so the idea may be that of the perfect +harmony of will and feeling (a virtue), or of the perfect union of soul +with soul (love), or of the perfect order of certain social relations +or forces (a law or institution), or of the perfect adjustment of +intellectual elements (a truth); and so on. The formation and expression +of any such idea is thus the work of Poetry in the widest sense; while +at the same time (as we must add, to complete Shelley's thought) any +such idea is a gleam or apparition of the perfect Intellectual Beauty. + +I choose this particular title of the hidden power or divinity in order +to point out (what the reader is left to observe for himself) that the +imaginative idea is always regarded by Shelley as beautiful. It is, for +example, desirable for itself and not merely as a means to a further +result; and it has the formal characters of beauty. For, as will have +been noticed in the instances given, it is always the image of an order, +or harmony, or unity in variety, of the elements concerned. Shelley +sometimes even speaks of their 'rhythm.' For example, he uses this word +in reference to an action; and I quote the passage because, though it +occurs at some distance from the exposition of his main view, it +illustrates it well. He is saying that the true poetry of Rome, unlike +that of Greece, did not fully express itself in poems. 'The true poetry +of Rome lived in its institutions: for whatever of beautiful, true and +majestic they contained, could have sprung only from the faculty which +creates the order in which they consist. The life of Camillus; the death +of Regulus; the expectation of the senators, in their god-like state, of +the victorious Gauls; the refusal of the Republic to make peace with +Hannibal after the battle of Cannć'--these he describes as 'a rhythm and +order in the shows of life,' an order not arranged with a view to +utility or outward result, but due to the imagination, which, 'beholding +the beauty of this order, created it out of itself according to its own +idea.' + + + 2. + +If this, then, is the nature of Poetry in the widest sense, how does the +poet, in the special sense, differ from other unusually creative souls? +Not essentially in the inspiration and general substance of his poetry, +but in the kind of expression he gives to them. In so far as he is a +poet, his medium of expression, of course, is not virtue, or action, or +law; poetry is one of the acts. And, again, it differs from the rest, +because its particular vehicle is language. We have now to see, +therefore, what Shelley has to say of the form of poetry, and especially +of poetic language. + +First, he claims for language the highest place among the vehicles of +artistic expression, on the ground that it is the most direct and also +the most plastic. It is itself produced by imagination instead of being +simply encountered by it, and it has no relation except to imagination; +whereas any more material medium has a nature of its own, and relations +to other things in the material world, and this nature and these +relations intervene between the artist's conception and his expression +of it in the medium. It is to the superiority of its vehicle that +Shelley attributes the greater fame which poetry has always enjoyed as +compared with other arts. He forgets (if I may interpose a word of +criticism) that the media of the other arts have, on their side, certain +advantages over language, and that these perhaps counterbalance the +inferiority which he notices. He would also have found it difficult to +show that language, on its physical side, is any more a product of +imagination than stone or pigments. And his idea that the medium in the +other arts is an obstacle intervening between conception and expression +is, to say the least, one-sided. A sculptor, painter, or musician, would +probably reply that it is only the qualities of his medium that enable +him to express at all; that what he expresses is inseparable from the +vehicle of expression; and that he has no conceptions which are not from +the beginning sculpturesque, pictorial, or musical. It is true, no +doubt, that his medium is an obstacle as well as a medium; but this is +also true of language. + +But to resume. Language, Shelley goes on to say, receives in poetry a +peculiar form. As it represents in its meaning a perfection which is +always an order, harmony, or rhythm, so it itself, as so much sound, +_is_ an order, harmony, or rhythm. It is measured language, which is not +the proper vehicle for the mere recital of facts or for mere reasoning. +For Shelley, however, this measured language is not of necessity +metrical. The order or measure may remain at the stage which it reaches +in beautiful prose, like that of Plato, the melody of whose language, +Shelley declares, is the most intense it is possible to conceive. It may +again advance to metre; and he admits that metrical form is convenient, +popular, and preferable, especially in poetry containing much action. +But he will not have any new great poet tied down to it. It is not +essential, while measure is absolutely so. For it is no mere accident of +poetry that its language is measured, nor does a delight in this measure +mean little. As sensitiveness to the order of the relations of sounds is +always connected with sensitiveness to the order of the relations of +thoughts, so also the harmony of the words is scarcely less +indispensable than their meaning to the communication of the influence +of poetry. 'Hence,' says Shelley, 'the vanity of translation: it were as +wise to cast a violet into a crucible that you might discover the formal +principle of its colour and odour, as seek to transfuse from one +language into another the creations of a poet.' Strong words to come +from the translator of the _Hymn to Mercury_ and of Agathon's speech in +the _Symposium_![1] And is not all that Shelley says of the difference +between measured and unrhythmical language applicable, at least in some +degree, to the difference between metrical and merely measured language? +Could he really have supposed that metre is no more than a +'convenience,' which contributes nothing of any account to the influence +of poetry? But I will not criticise. Let me rather point out how +surprising, at first sight, and how significant, is Shelley's insistence +on the importance of measure or rhythm. No one could assert more +absolutely than he the identity of the general substance of poetry with +that of moral life and action, of the other arts, and of the higher +kinds of philosophy. And yet it would be difficult to go beyond the +emphasis of his statement that the formal element (as he understood it) +is indispensable to the effect of poetry. + +Shelley, however, nowhere considers this element more at length. He has +no discussions, like those of Wordsworth and Coleridge, on diction. He +never says, with Keats, that he looks on fine phrases like a lover. We +hear of his deep-drawn sigh of satisfaction as he finished reading a +passage of Homer, but not of his shouting his delight, as he ramped +through the meadows of Spenser, at some marvellous flower. When in his +letters he refers to any poem he is reading, he scarcely ever mentions +particular lines or expressions; and we have no evidence that, like +Coleridge and Keats, he was a curious student of metrical effects or the +relations of vowel-sounds. I doubt if all this is wholly accidental. +Poetry was to him so essentially an effusion of aspiration, love and +worship, that we can imagine his feeling it almost an impiety to break +up its unity even for purposes of study, and to give a separate +attention to its means of utterance. And what he does say on the +subject confirms this impression. In the first place, as we have seen, +he lays great stress on inspiration; and his statements, if exaggerated +and misleading, must still reflect in some degree his own experience. No +poem, he asserts, however inspired it may be, is more than a feeble +shadow of the original conception; for when composition begins, +inspiration is already on the decline. And so in a letter he speaks of +the detail of execution destroying all wild and beautiful visions. +Still, inspiration, if diminished by composition, is not wholly +dispelled; and he appeals to the greatest poets of his day whether it is +not an error to assert that the finest passages of poetry are produced +by labour and study. Such toil he would restrict to those parts which +connect the inspired passages, and he speaks with contempt of the +fifty-six various readings of the first line of the _Orlando Furioso_. +He seems to exaggerate on this matter because in the _Defence_ his foe +is cold reason and calculation. Elsewhere he writes more truly of the +original conception as being obscure as well as intense;[2] from which +it would seem to follow that the feeble shadow, if darker, is at least +more distinct than the original. He forgets, too, what is certainly the +fact, that the poet in reshaping and correcting is able to revive in +some degree the fire of the first impulse. And we know from himself that +his greatest works cost him a severe labour not confined to the +execution, while his manuscripts show plenty of various readings, if +never so many as fifty-six in one line. + +Still, what he says is highly characteristic of his own practice in +composition. He allowed the rush of his ideas to have its way, without +pausing to complete a troublesome line or to find a word that did not +come; and the next day (if ever) he filled up the gaps and smoothed the +ragged edges. And the result answers to his theory. Keats was right in +telling him that he might be more of an artist. His language, indeed, +unlike Wordsworth's or Byron's, is, in his mature work, always that of a +poet; we never hear his mere speaking voice; but he is frequently +diffuse and obscure, and even in fine passages his constructions are +sometimes trailing and amorphous. The glowing metal rushes into the +mould so vehemently that it overleaps the bounds and fails to find its +way into all the little crevices. But no poetry is more manifestly +inspired, and even when it is plainly imperfect it is sometimes so +inspired that it is impossible to wish it changed. It has the rapture of +the mystic, and that is too rare to lose. Tennyson quaintly said of the +hymn _Life of Life_: 'He seems to go up into the air and burst.' It is +true: and, if we are to speak of poems as fireworks, I would not compare +_Life of Life_ with a great set piece of Homer or Shakespeare that +illumines the whole sky; but, all the same, there is no more thrilling +sight than the heavenward rush of a rocket, and it bursts at a height no +other fire can reach. + +In addition to his praise of inspiration Shelley has some scattered +remarks on another point which show the same spirit. He could not bear +in poetic language any approach to artifice, or any sign that the writer +had a theory or system of style. He thought Keats's earlier poems faulty +in this respect, and there is perhaps a reference to Wordsworth in the +following sentence from the Preface to the _Revolt of Islam_: 'Nor have +I permitted any system relating to mere words to divert the attention of +the reader, from whatever interest I may have succeeded in creating, to +my own ingenuity in contriving,--to disgust him according to the rules +of criticism. I have simply clothed my thoughts in what appeared to me +the most obvious and appropriate language. A person familiar with +nature, and with the most celebrated productions of the human mind, can +scarcely err in following the instinct, with respect to selection of +language, produced by that familiarity.'[3] His own poetic style +certainly corresponds with his intention. It cannot give the kind of +pleasure afforded by what may be called without disparagement a learned +and artful style, such as Virgil's or Milton's; but, like the best +writing of Shakespeare and Goethe, it is, with all its individuality, +almost entirely free from mannerism and the other vices of +self-consciousness, and appears to flow so directly from the thought +that one is ashamed to admire it for itself. This is equally so whether +the appropriate style is impassioned and highly figurative, or simple +and even plain. It is indeed in the latter case that Shelley wins his +greatest, because most difficult, triumph. In the dialogue part of +_Julian and Maddalo_ he has succeeded remarkably in keeping the style +quite close to that of familiar though serious conversation, while +making it nevertheless unmistakably poetic. And the _Cenci_ is an +example of a success less complete only because the problem was even +harder. The ideal of the style of tragic drama in the nineteenth or +twentieth century should surely be, not to reproduce with modifications +the style of Shakespeare, but to do what Shakespeare did--to idealise, +without deserting, the language of contemporary speech. Shelley in the +_Cenci_ seems to me to have come nearest to this ideal. + + + 3. + +So much for general exposition. If now we consider more closely what +Shelley says of the substance of poetry, a question at once arises. He +may seem to think of poetry solely as the direct expression of +perfection in some form, and accordingly to imagine its effect as simply +joy or delighted aspiration. Much of his own poetry, too, is such an +expression; and we understand when we find him saying that Homer +embodied the ideal perfection of his age in human character, and +unveiled in Achilles, Hector, and Ulysses 'the truth and beauty of +friendship, patriotism, and persevering devotion to an object.' But +poetry, it is obvious, is not wholly, perhaps not even mainly, of this +kind. What is to be said, on Shelley's theory, of his own melancholy +lyrics, those 'sweetest songs' that 'tell of saddest thought'? What of +satire, of the epic of conflict and war, or of tragic exhibitions of +violent and destructive passion? Does not his theory reflect the +weakness of his own practice, his tendency to portray a thin and +abstract ideal instead of interpreting the concrete detail of nature and +life; and ought we not to oppose to it a theory which would consider +poetry simply as a representation of fact? + +To this last question I should answer No. Shelley's theory, rightly +understood, will take in, I think, everything really poetic. And to a +considerable extent he himself shows the way to meet these doubts. He +did not mean that the _immediate_ subject of poetry must be perfection +in some form. The poet, he says, can colour with the hues of the ideal +everything he touches. If so, he may write of absolutely anything so +long as he _can_ so colour it, and nothing would be excluded from his +province except those things (if any such exist) in which no positive +relation to the ideal, however indirect, can be shown or intimated. Thus +to take the instance of Shelley's melancholy lyrics, clearly the lament +which arises from loss of the ideal, and mourns the evanescence of its +visitations or the desolation of its absence, is indirectly an +expression _of_ the ideal; and so on his theory is the simplest song of +unhappy love or the simplest dirge. Further, he himself observes that, +though the joy of poetry is often unalloyed, yet the pleasure of the +'highest portions of our being is frequently connected with the pain of +the inferior,' that 'the pleasure that is in sorrow is sweeter than the +pleasure of pleasure itself,' and that not sorrow only, but 'terror, +anguish, despair itself, are often the chosen expressions of an +approximation to the highest good.' That, then, which appeals poetically +to such painful emotions will again be an indirect portrayal of the +ideal; and it is clear, I think, that this was how Shelley in the +_Defence_ regarded heroic and tragic poetry, whether narrative or +dramatic, with its manifestly imperfect characters and its exhibition of +conflict and wild passion. He had, it is true, another and an +unsatisfactory way of explaining the presence of these things in poetry; +and I will refer to this in a moment. But he tells us that the Athenian +tragedies represent the highest idealisms (his name for ideals) of +passion and of power (not merely of virtue); and that in them we behold +ourselves, 'under a thin disguise of circumstance, stripped of all but +that ideal perfection and energy which every one feels to be the +internal type of all that he loves, admires, and would become.' He +writes of Milton's Satan in somewhat the same strain. The Shakespearean +tragedy from which he most often quotes is one in which evil holds the +stage, _Macbeth_; and he was inclined to think _King Lear_, which +certainly is no direct portrait of perfection, the greatest drama in the +world. Lastly, in the Preface to his own _Cenci_ he truly says that, +while the story is fearful and monstrous, 'the poetry which exists in +these tempestuous sufferings and crimes,' if duly brought out, +'mitigates the pain of the contemplation of moral deformity': so that he +regards Count Cenci himself as a _poetic_ character, and therefore as in +_some_ sense an expression of the ideal. He does not further explain his +meaning. Perhaps it was that the perfection which poetry is to exhibit +includes, together with those qualities which win our immediate and +entire approval or sympathy, others which are capable of becoming the +instruments of evil. For these, the energy, power and passion of the +soul, though they may be perverted, are in themselves elements of +perfection; and so, even in their perversion or their combination with +moral deformity, they retain their value, they are not simply ugly or +horrible, but appeal through emotions predominantly painful to the same +love of the ideal which is directly satisfied by pictures of goodness +and beauty. Now to these various considerations we shall wish to add +others; but if we bear these in mind, I believe we shall find Shelley's +theory wide enough, and must hold that the substance of poetry is never +mere fact, but is always ideal, though its method of representation is +sometimes more direct, sometimes more indirect. + +Nevertheless, he does not seem to have made his view quite clear to +himself, or to hold to it consistently. We are left with the impression, +not merely that he personally preferred the direct method (as he was, of +course, entitled to do), but that his use of it shows a certain +weakness, and also that even in theory he unconsciously tends to regard +it as the primary and proper method, and to admit only by a reluctant +after-thought the representation of imperfection. Let me point out some +signs of this. He considered his own _Cenci_ as a poem inferior in kind +to his other main works, even as a sort of accommodation to the public. +With all his modesty he knew what to think of the neglected +_Prometheus_ and _Adonaďs_, but there is no sign that he, any more than +the world, was aware that the character of Cenci was a creation without +a parallel in our poetry since the seventeenth century. His enthusiasm +for some second-rate and third-rate Italian paintings, and his failure +to understand Michael Angelo, seem to show the same tendency. He could +not enjoy comedy: it seemed to him simply cruel: he did not perceive +that to show the absurdity of the imperfect is to glorify the perfect. +And, as I mentioned just now, he wavers in his view of the +representation of heroic and tragic imperfection. We find in the Preface +to _Prometheus Unbound_ the strange notion that Prometheus is a more +poetic character than Milton's Satan because he is free from Satan's +imperfections, which are said to interfere with the interest. And in the +_Defence_ a similar error appears. Achilles, Hector, Ulysses, though +they exhibit ideal virtues, are, he admits, imperfect. Why, then, did +Homer make them so? Because, he seems to reply, Homer's contemporaries +regarded their vices (_e.g._ revengefulness and deceitfulness) as +virtues. Homer accordingly had to conceal in the costume of these vices +the unspotted beauty that he himself imagined; and, like Homer, 'few +poets of the highest class have chosen to exhibit the beauty of their +conceptions in its naked truth and splendour.' Now, this idea, to say +nothing of its grotesque improbability in reference to Homer, and its +probable baselessness in reference to most other poets, is quite +inconsistent with that truer view of heroic and tragic character which +was explained just now. It is an example of Shelley's tendency to +abstract idealism or spurious Platonism. He is haunted by the fancy that +if he could only get at the One, the eternal Idea, in complete aloofness +from the Many, from life with all its change, decay, struggle, sorrow +and evil, he would have reached the true object of poetry: as if the +whole finite world were a mere mistake or illusion, the sheer opposite +of the infinite One, and in no way or degree its manifestation. Life, he +says-- + + Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass, + Stains the white radiance of eternity; + +but the other side, the fact that the many colours _are_ the white light +broken, he tends to forget, by no means always, but in one, and that not +the least inspired, of his moods. This is the source of that thinness +and shallowness of which his view of the world and of history is justly +accused, a view in which all imperfect being is apt to figure as +absolutely gratuitous, and everything and everybody as pure white or +pitch black. Hence also his ideals of good, whether as a character or as +a mode of life, resting as they do on abstraction from the mass of real +existence, tend to lack body and individuality; and indeed, if the +existence of the many is a mere calamity, clearly the next best thing to +their disappearance is that they should all be exactly alike and have as +little character as possible. But we must remember that Shelley's +strength and weakness are closely allied, and it may be that the very +abstractness of his ideal was a condition of that quivering intensity of +aspiration towards it in which his poetry is unequalled. We must not go +for this to Homer and Shakespeare and Goethe; and if we go for it to +Dante, we shall find, indeed, a mind far vaster than Shelley's, but also +that dualism of which we complain in him, and the description of a +heaven which, equally with Shelley's regenerated earth, is no place for +mere mortality. In any case, as we have seen, the weakness in his +poetical practice, though it occasionally appears also as a defect in +his poetical theory, forms no necessary part of it. + + + 4. + +I pass to his views on a last point. If the business of poetry is +somehow to express ideal perfection, it may seem to follow that the +poet should embody in his poems his beliefs about this perfection and +the way to approach it, and should thus have a moral purpose and aim to +be a teacher. And in regard to Shelley this conclusion seems the more +natural because his own poetry allows us to see clearly some of his +beliefs about morality and moral progress. Yet alike in his Prefaces and +in the _Defence_ he takes up most decidedly the position that the poet +ought neither to affect a moral aim nor to express his own conceptions +of right and wrong. 'Didactic poetry,' he declares, 'is my abhorrence: +nothing can be equally well expressed in prose that is not tedious and +supererogatory in verse.'[4] 'There was little danger,' he tells us in +the _Defence_, 'that Homer or any of the eternal poets' should make a +mistake in this matter; but 'those in whom the poetical faculty, though +great, is less intense, as Euripides, Lucan, Tasso, Spenser, have +frequently affected a moral aim, and the effect of their poetry is +diminished in exact proportion to the degree in which they compel us to +advert to this purpose.' These statements may appeal to us, but are they +consistent with Shelley's main views of poetry? To answer this question +we must observe what exactly it is that he means to condemn. + +Shelley was one of the few persons who can literally be said to _love_ +their kind. He held most strongly, too, that poetry does benefit men, +and benefits them morally. The moral purpose, then, to which he objects +cannot well be a poet's general purpose of doing moral as well as other +good through his poetry--such a purpose, I mean, as he may cherish when +he contemplates his life and his life's work. And, indeed, it seems +obvious that nobody with any humanity or any sense can object to that, +except through some intellectual confusion. Nor, secondly, does Shelley +mean, I think, to condemn even the writing of a particular poem with a +view to a particular moral or practical effect; certainly, at least, if +this was his meaning he was condemning some of his own poetry. Nor, +thirdly, can he be referring to the portrayal of moral ideals; for that +he regarded as one of the main functions of poetry, and in the very +place where he says that didactic poetry is his abhorrence he also says, +by way of contrast, that he has tried to familiarise the minds of his +readers with beautiful idealisms of moral excellence. It appears, +therefore, that what he is really attacking is the attempt to give, in +the strict sense, moral _instruction_, to communicate doctrines, to +offer argumentative statements of opinion on right and wrong, and more +especially, I think, on controversial questions of the day. An example +would be Wordsworth's discourse on education at the end of the +_Excursion_, a discourse of which Shelley, we know, had a very low +opinion. In short, his enemy is not the purpose of producing a moral +effect, it is the appeal made for this purpose to the reasoning +intellect. He says to the poet: By all means aim at bettering men; you +are a man, and are bound to do so; but you are also a poet, and +therefore your proper way of doing so is not by reasoning and preaching. +His idea is of a piece with his general championship of imagination, and +it is quite consistent with his main view of poetry.[5] + +What, then, are the _grounds_ of this position? They are not clearly set +out, but we can trace several, and they are all solid. Reasoning on +moral subjects, moral philosophy, was by no means 'tedious' to Shelley; +it seldom is to real poets. He loved it, and (outside his _Defence_) he +rated its value very high.[6] But he thought it tedious and out of place +in poetry, because it can be equally well expressed in 'unmeasured' +language--much better expressed, one may venture to add. You invent an +art in order to effect by it a particular purpose which nothing else can +effect as well. How foolish, then, to use this art for a purpose better +served by something else! I know no answer to this argument, and its +application is far wider than that given to it by Shelley. Secondly, +Shelley remarks that a poet's own conceptions on moral subjects are +usually those of his place and time, while the matter of his poem ought +to be eternal, or, as we say, of permanent and universal interest. This, +again, seems true, and has a wide application; and it holds good even +when the poet, like Shelley himself, is in rebellion against orthodox +moral opinion; for his heterodox opinions will equally show the marks of +his place and time, and constitute a perishable element in his work. +Doubtless no poetry can be without a perishable element; but that poetry +has least of it which interprets life least through the medium of +systematic and doctrinal ideas. The veil which time and place have hung +between Homer or Shakespeare and the general reader of to-day is almost +transparent, while even a poetry so intense as that of Dante and Milton +is impeded in its passage to him by systems which may be unfamiliar, +and, if familiar, may be distasteful. + +Lastly--and this is Shelley's central argument--as poetry itself is +directly due to imaginative inspiration and not to reasoning, so its +true moral effect is produced through imagination and not through +doctrine. Imagination is, for Shelley, 'the great instrument of moral +good.' The 'secret of morals is love.' It is not 'for want of admirable +doctrines that men hate and despise and censure and deceive and +subjugate one another': it is for want of love. And love is 'a going out +of our own nature, and an identification of ourselves with the beautiful +which exists in thought, action or person not our own.' 'A man,' +therefore, 'to be greatly good must imagine intensely and +comprehensively.' And poetry ministers to moral good, the effect, by +acting on its cause, imagination. It strengthens imagination as exercise +strengthens a limb, and so it indirectly promotes morality. It also +fills the imagination with beautiful impersonations of all that we +should wish to be. But moral reasoning does not act upon the cause, it +only analyses the effect; and the poet has no right to be content to +analyse what he ought indirectly to create. Here, again, in his +eagerness, Shelley cuts his antitheses too clean, but the defect is +easily made good, and the main argument is sound. + +Limits of time will compel me to be guilty of the same fault in adding a +consideration which is in the spirit of Shelley's. The chief moral +effect claimed for poetry by Shelley is exerted, primarily, by +imagination on the emotions; but there is another influence, exerted +primarily through imagination on the understanding. Poetry is largely an +interpretation of life; and, considering what life is, that must mean a +moral interpretation. This, to have poetic value, must satisfy +imagination; but we value it also because it gives us knowledge, a wider +comprehension, a new insight into ourselves and the world.[7] Now, it +may be held--and this view answers to a very general feeling among +lovers of poetry now--that the most deep and original moral +interpretation is not likely to be that which most shows a moral purpose +or is most governed by reflective beliefs and opinions, and that as a +rule we learn most from those who do not try to teach us, and whose +opinions may even remain unknown to us: so that there is this weighty +objection to the appearance of such purpose and opinions, that it tends +to defeat its own intention. And the reason that I wish to suggest is +this, that always we get most from the _genius_ in a man of genius and +not from the rest of him. Now, although poets often have unusual powers +of reflective thought, the specific genius of a poet does not lie there, +but in imagination. Therefore his deepest and most original +interpretation is likely to come by the way of imagination. And the +specific way of imagination is not to clothe in imagery consciously held +ideas; it is to produce half-consciously a matter from which, when +produced, the reader may, if he chooses, extract ideas. Poetry (I must +exaggerate to be clear), psychologically considered, is not the +_expression_ of ideas or of a view of life; it is their discovery or +creation, or rather both discovery and creation in one. The +interpretation contained in _Hamlet_ or _King Lear_ was not brought +ready-made to the old stories. What was brought to them was the huge +substance of Shakespeare's imagination, in which all his experience and +thought was latent; and this, dwelling and working on the stories with +nothing but a dramatic purpose, and kindling into heat and motion, +gradually discovered or created in them a meaning and a mass of truth +about life, which was brought to birth by the process of composition, +but never preceded it in the shape of ideas, and probably never, even +after it, took that shape to the poet's mind. And _this_ is the +interpretation which we find inexhaustibly instructive, because +Shakespeare's _genius_ is in it. On the other hand, however much from +curiosity and personal feeling towards him we may wish to know his +opinions and beliefs about morals or religion or his own poems or Queen +Elizabeth, we have not really any reason to suppose that their value +would prove extraordinary. And so, to apply this generally, the +opinions, reasonings and beliefs of poets are seldom of the same quality +as their purely imaginative product. Occasionally, as with Goethe, they +are not far off it; but sometimes they are intense without being +profound, and more eccentric than original; and often they are very sane +and sound, but not very different from those of wise men without genius. +And therefore poetry is not the place for them. For we want in poetry a +moral interpretation, but not the interpretation we have already. As a +rule the genuine artist's quarrel with 'morality' in art is not really +with morality, it is with a stereotyped or narrow morality; and when he +refuses in his art to consider things from what he calls the moral point +of view, his reasons are usually wrong, but his instinct is right. + +Poetry itself confirms on the whole this contention, though doubtless in +these last centuries a great poet's work will usually reveal more of +conscious reflection than once it did. Homer and Shakespeare show no +moral aim and no system of opinion. Milton was far from justifying the +ways of God to men by the argumentation he put into divine and angelic +lips; his truer moral insight is in the creations of his genius; for +instance, in the character of Satan or the picture of the glorious +humanity of Adam and Eve. Goethe himself could never have told the world +what he was going to express in the First Part of _Faust_: the poem told +_him_, and it is one of the world's greatest. He knew too well what he +was going to express in the Second Part, and with all its wisdom and +beauty it is scarcely a great poem. Wordsworth's original message was +delivered, not when he was a Godwinian semi-atheist, nor when he had +subsided upon orthodoxy, but when his imagination, with a few hints from +Coleridge, was creating a kind of natural religion; and this religion +itself is more profoundly expressed in his descriptions of his +experience than in his attempts to formulate it. The moral virtue of +Tennyson is in poems like _Ulysses_ and parts of _In Memoriam_, where +sorrow and the consciousness of a deathless affection or an unquenchable +desire for experience forced an utterance; but when in the _Idylls_ he +tried to found a great poem on explicit ideas about the soul and the +ravages wrought in it by lawless passion, he succeeded but partially, +because these ideas, however sound, were no product of his genius. And +so the moral virtue of Shelley's poetry lay, not in his doctrines about +the past and future of man, but in an intuition, which was the substance +of his soul, of the unique value of love. In the end, for him, the +truest name of that perfection called Intellectual Beauty, Liberty, +Spirit of Nature, is Love. Whatever in the world has any worth is an +expression of Love. Love sometimes talks. Love talking musically is +Poetry. + +1904. + + +FOOTNOTES: + + [1] Statements equally emphatic on this subject may be found in a + passage quoted by Mrs. Shelley in a footnote to Shelley's letter to + John Gisborne, Nov. 16, 1819 (Letter XXX. in Mrs. Shelley's edition). + Cf. also Letter XXXIII. to Leigh Hunt, Nov. 1819. + + [2] I cannot find the passage or passages to which I referred in + making this statement, and therefore I do not vouch for its accuracy. + Cf. from the fragment _Fiordispina_, + + The ardours of a vision which obscure + The very idol of its portraiture. + + [3] Cf. from the Preface to the _Cenci_: 'I entirely agree with those + modern critics who assert that, in order to move men to true + sympathy, we must use the familiar language of men.... But it must be + the real language of men in general, and not that of any particular + class to whose society the writer happens to belong.' + + [4] Preface to _Prometheus Unbound_. + + [5] I do not discuss the adequacy of Shelley's position, or assert + that he held it quite clearly or consistently. In support of my + interpretation, of it I may refer to the Preface to the _Cenci_. + There he repudiates the idea of making the dramatic exhibition of the + story 'subservient to what is vulgarly called a moral purpose,' and, + as the context shows, he identifies such a treatment of the story + with the 'enforcement' of a 'dogma.' + + This passage has a further interest. The dogma which Shelley would + not enforce in his tragedy was that 'no person can truly be + dishonoured by the act of another, and the fit return to make to the + most enormous injuries is kindness and forbearance, and a resolution + to convert the injurer from his dark passions by peace and love'; and + accordingly he held that 'if Beatrice had thought in this manner, she + would have been wiser and better.' How inexcusable then is the not + uncommon criticism on the _Cenci_ that he represents Beatrice as a + perfect character and justifies her murder of 'the injurer.' + + Shelley's position in the _Defence_, it may be added, is in total + disagreement with his youthful doctrine and practice. In 1811 he + wrote to Miss Hitchener, 'My opinion is that all poetical beauty + ought to be subordinate to the inculcated moral,' and a large part of + _Queen Mab_ is frankly didactic. Even there, however, he reserved + most of the formal instruction for the Notes, perceiving that 'a poem + very didactic is ... very stupid.' + + [6] 'I consider poetry very subordinate to moral and political + science,' he says in a letter to Peacock, Jan. 1819. + + [7] And, I may add, the more it does this, so long as it does it + imaginatively, the more does it satisfy imagination, and the greater + is its _poetic_ value. + + + + +THE LONG POEM IN THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH + + +THE LONG POEM IN THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH[1] + + +The poetry of the age of Wordsworth, we are all agreed, is one of the +glories of our literature. It is surpassed, many would add, by the +poetry of no other period except the Elizabethan. But it has obvious +flaws, of which perhaps we are becoming more and more distinctly +conscious now; and, apart from these definite defects, it also leaves +with us, when we review it, a certain feeling of disappointment. It is +great, we say to ourselves, but why is it not greater still? It shows a +wonderful abundance of genius: why does it not show an equal +accomplishment? + + + 1. + +Matthew Arnold, in his essay on _The Function of Criticism at the +Present Time_, gave an answer to this question. 'It has long seemed to +me,' he wrote, 'that the burst of creative activity in our literature, +through the first quarter of this century, had about it, in fact, +something premature.... And this prematureness comes from its having +proceeded without having its proper data, without sufficient materials +to work with. In other words, the English poetry of the first quarter of +this century, with plenty of energy, plenty of creative force, did not +know enough. This makes Byron so empty of matter, Shelley so incoherent, +Wordsworth even, profound as he is, yet so wanting in completeness and +in variety.' The statement that this poetry 'did not know enough' means, +of course, for Arnold, not that it lacked information, reading, ideas of +a kind, but that it lacked 'criticism.' And this means that it did not +live and move freely in an atmosphere of the best available ideas, of +ideas gained by a free, sincere, and continued effort, in theology, +philosophy, history, science, to see things as they are. In such an +atmosphere Goethe lived. There was not indeed in Goethe's Germany, nor +was there in the England of our poets, the 'national glow of life and +thought' that prevailed in the Athens of Pericles or the England of +Elizabeth. That happiest atmosphere for poetry was wanting in both +countries. But there was for Goethe 'a sort of equivalent for it in the +complete culture and unfettered thinking of a large body of Germans,' a +culture produced by a many-sided learning and a long and widely-combined +critical effort. It was this that our poets lacked. + +Now, if this want existed, as Arnold affirms, it may not have had all +the importance he ascribes to it, but considerable importance it must +have had. And as to its existence there can hardly be a doubt. One of +the most striking characteristics of Wordsworth's age is the very +unusual superiority of the imaginative literature to the scientific. I +mean by the 'scientific' literature that of philosophy, theology, +history, politics, economics, not only that of the sciences of Nature, +which for our present purpose are perhaps the least important. In this +kind of literature Wordsworth's age has hardly an author to show who +could for a moment be placed on a level with some five of the poets, +with the novelists Scott and Jane Austen, or with the poetic critics +Lamb, Hazlitt, and Coleridge. It has no writers to compare with Bacon, +Newton, Hume, Gibbon, Johnson, or Burke. It is the time of Paley, +Godwin, Stewart, Bentham, Mitford, Lingard, Coleridge the philosopher +and theologian. These are names worthy of all respect, but they +represent a literature quite definitely of the second rank. And this +great disproportion between the two kinds of literature, we must +observe, is a peculiar phenomenon. If we go back as far as the +Elizabethan age we shall find no parallel to it. The one kind was +doubtless superior to the other in Shakespeare's time, possibly even in +Milton's; but Hooker and Bacon and Taylor and Clarendon and Hobbes are +not separated from the best poets of their day by any startling +difference of quality;[2] while in the later periods, right down to the +age of Wordsworth, the scientific literature quite holds its own, to say +no more, with the imaginative. Nor in the Germany of Wordsworth's own +time is there that gap between the two that we find in England. In +respect of genius the philosophers, for example, though none of them was +the equal of Goethe, were as a body not at all inferior to the poets. +The case of England in Wordsworth's age is anomalous. + +This peculiarity must be symptomatic, and it must have been influential. +It confirms Arnold's view that the intellectual atmosphere of the time +was not of the best. If we think of the periodical literature--of the +_Quarterly_ and _Edinburgh_ and _Blackwood_--we shall be still more +inclined to assent to that view. And when we turn to the poets +themselves, and especially to their prose writings, letters, and +recorded conversation, and even to the critiques of Hazlitt, of Lamb, +and of Coleridge, we cannot reject it. Assuredly we read with +admiration, and the signs of native genius we meet with in abundance--in +greater abundance, I think, than in the poetry and criticism of Germany, +if Goethe is excepted. But the freedom of spirit, the knowledge, the +superiority to prejudice and caprice and fanaticism, the openness to +ideas, the atmosphere that is all about us when we read Lessing, Goethe, +Schiller, Heine, we do not find. Can we imagine any one of those four +either inspired or imprisoned as Shelley was by the doctrines of Godwin? +Could any of them have seen in the French Revolution no more +significance than Scott appears to have detected? How cramped are the +attitudes, sympathetic or antipathetic, of nearly all our poets towards +the Christian religion! Could anything be more _borné_ than Coleridge's +professed reason for not translating _Faust_?[3] Is it possible that a +German poet with the genius of Byron or Wordsworth could have inhabited +a mental world so small and so tainted with vulgarity as is opened to us +by the brilliant letters of the former, or could have sunk, like the +latter, to suggesting that the cholera was a divine condemnation of +Catholic Emancipation and the Reform Bill? + +But if we accept Arnold's statement as to the intellectual atmosphere of +the poetry of Wordsworth's time, a question will remain. Was he right in +regarding this atmosphere as the sole, or even as the chief, cause of +the fact (if it is one) that the poetry does not fully correspond in +greatness with the genius of the poets? And before we come to this +question we must put another. Is the fact really as it has just been +stated? I do not think so. The disappointment that we feel attends, it +seems to me, mainly our reading of the long poems. Reviewing these in +memory, and asking ourselves how many we can unreservedly call 'great,' +we hesitate. Beyond doubt there is great poetry in some of them, fine +poetry in many; but that does not make a great whole. Which of them is +great as a whole? Not the _Prelude_ or the _Excursion_, still less +_Endymion_ or _The Revolt of Islam_ or _Childe Harold_, which hardly +pretends to unity. _Christabel_, the wonderful fragment, is a fragment; +so is _Hyperion_; _Don Juan_, also unfinished, becomes more discursive +the further it proceeds, and in spirit is nowhere great. All the +principal poets wrote dramas, or at least dramatic pieces; and some +readers think that in _Manfred_, and still more certainly in _Cain_, we +have great poems, while others think this of _Prometheus Unbound_ and +_The Cenci_. But if as to one or more of these we assent, is our +judgment quite confident, and can we say that any of them _satisfy_ us, +like some works of earlier times? We are thus satisfied, it seems to me, +only when we come to poems of smaller dimensions, like _The Ancient +Mariner_, or _The Eve of Saint Agnes_, or _Adonaďs_, or _The Vision of +Judgment_, or when we read the lyrics. To save time I will confine +myself to the latter. + +Within this sphere we have no longer that impression of genius which +fails to reach full accomplishment. I would go further. No poet, of +course, of Wordsworth's age is the equal of Shakespeare or of Milton; +and there are certain qualities, too, of lyrical verse in which the +times of Shakespeare and of Milton are superior to that of Wordsworth. +But if we take the better part of the lyrical poetry of these three +periods in the mass, or again in a representative selection, it will not +be the latest period, I think, that need fear the comparison. In the +original edition of the _Golden Treasury_, Book I. (Wyatt to +Shakespeare) occupies forty pages; Book II. (the rest of the seventeenth +century) sixty-five; Book IV., which covers the very much shorter +period from Wordsworth to Hood, close on a hundred and forty. 'Book +I.,' perhaps most of us would say, 'should be longer, and Book IV. a +good deal shorter: some third-rate pieces are included in it, and +Wordsworth is over-represented. And the Elizabethan poems are mostly +quite short, while the Nineteenth Century poets shine equally in the +longer kinds of lyric. And Mr. Palgrave excluded the old ballads, but +admitted poems like Coleridge's _Love_ and Wordsworth's _Ruth_ (seven +whole pages). And in any case we cannot judge by mere quantity.' No; but +still quantity must count for something, and the _Golden Treasury_ is a +volume excellent in selection, arrangement, and taste. It does, I think, +leave the impression that the age of Wordsworth was our greatest period +in lyrical poetry. And if Book I. were swelled to the dimensions of Book +IV., this impression would not be materially altered; it might even be +deepened. For the change would force into notice the comparative +monotony of the themes of the earlier poetry, and the immensely wider +range of the thought and emotion that attain expression in the later. It +might also convince us that, on the whole, this more varied material is +treated with a greater intensity of feeling, though on this point it is +difficult to be sure, since we recognise what may be called the +conventions of an earlier age, and are perhaps a little blind to those +of a time near our own. + +Now the eminence of Wordsworth's age in lyrical poetry, even if it is +not also a pre-eminence, is a significant fact. It may mean that the +whole poetic spirit of the time was lyrical in tendency; and this may +indirectly be a cause of that sense of disappointment which mingles with +our admiration of the long poems. I will call attention, therefore, to +two or three allied facts. (1) The longer poems of Campbell are already +dead; he survives only in lyrics. This is also true of Moore. In spite +of fine passages (and the battle in _Marmion_ is in certain qualities +superior to anything else of the time) Scott's longer poems cannot be +classed with the best contemporary poetry; but in some of his ballads +and songs he attains that rank. (2) Again, much of the most famous +narrative poetry is semi-lyrical in form, as a moment's thought of +Scott, Byron, and Coleridge will show. Some of it (for instance, several +of Byron's tales, or Wordsworth's _White Doe of Rylstone_) is strongly +tinged with the lyrical spirit. The centre of interest is inward. It is +an interest in emotion, thought, will, rather than in scenes, events, +actions, which express and re-act on emotions, thoughts, will. It would +hardly be going too far to say that in the most characteristic narrative +poetry the balance of outward and inward is rarely attained.[4] (3) The +same tendencies are visible in much of the dramatic writing. Byron's +regular dramas, for instance, if they ever lived, are almost forgotten; +but _Heaven and Earth_, which is still alive, is largely composed of +lyrics, and the first two acts of _Manfred_ are full of them. +_Prometheus Unbound_ is called 'a lyrical drama.' Though it has some +very fine and some very beautiful blank verse passages (usually +undramatic), its lyrics are its glory; and this is even more the case +with _Hellas_. It would be untrue to say that the comparative failure of +most of the dramas of the time is principally due to the lyrical spirit, +but many of them show it. (4) The strength of this spirit may be +illustrated lastly by a curious fact. The ode is one of the longest and +most ambitious forms of lyric, and some of the most famous poems of +Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Keats are odes. But the greatest of the +lyrists, who wrote the Odes to Liberty and Naples and the West Wind, +found the limits even of the ode too narrow for his 'flight of fire.' If +_Lycidas_ and _L'Allegro_ and Spenser's _Epithalamion_ are lyrical +poems, and if we are not arbitrarily to determine that nothing shall be +called lyrical which exceeds a certain length, _Adonaďs_ will be a +lyrical elegy in fifty-five Spenserian stanzas, and the _Lines written +among the Euganean Hills_ and _Epipsychidion_ will be lyrics consisting +respectively of 370 and 600 lines. + +It will however be agreed that in general a lyrical poem may be called +short as compared with a narrative or drama. It is usual, further, to +say that lyrical poetry is 'subjective,' since, instead of telling or +representing a story of people, actions, and events, it expresses the +thoughts and feelings of the poet himself. This statement is ambiguous +and in other ways defective; but it will be admitted to have a basis in +fact. It may be suggested, then, that the excellence of the lyrical +poetry of Wordsworth's time, and the imperfection of the long narratives +and dramas, may have a common origin. Just as it was most natural to +Homer or to Shakespeare to express the imaginative substance of his mind +in the 'objective' shape of a world of persons and actions ostensibly +severed from his own thoughts and feelings, so, perhaps, for some reason +or reasons, it was most natural to the best poets of this later time to +express that substance in the shape of impassioned reflections, +aspirations, prophecies, laments, outcries of joy, murmurings of peace. +The matter of these might, in another sense of the word, be 'objective' +enough, a matter of general human interest, not personal in any +exclusive way; but it appeared in the form of the poet's thought and +feeling. Just because he most easily expressed it thus, he succeeded +less completely when he attempted the more objective form of utterance; +and for the same reason it was especially important that he should be +surrounded and penetrated by an atmosphere of wide, deep, and liberal +'criticism.' For he not only lived among ideas; he expressed ideas, and +expressed them _as_ ideas. + +These suggestions seem to be supported by other phenomena of the poetry. +The 'subjective' spirit extends, we saw, into many of the longer poems. +This is obvious when it can plausibly be said, as in Byron's case, that +the poet's one hero is himself. It appears in another way when the poem, +through its story or stories, displays the poet's favourite ideas and +beliefs. The _Excursion_ does this; most of Shelley's longer poems do +it. And the strength of this tendency may be seen in an apparent +contradiction. One of the marks of the Romantic Revival is a disposition +to substitute the more concrete and vivid forms of narrative and drama +for the eighteenth century form of satiric or so-called didactic +reflection. Yet most of the greater poets, especially in their +characteristic beginnings, show a strong tendency to reflective verse; +Coleridge, for example, in _Religious Musings_, Byron in the first two +cantos of _Childe Harold_, Shelley in _Queen Mab_, and Keats in _Sleep +and Poetry_. These are not, like the _Pleasures of Memory_ and +_Pleasures of Hope_, continuations of the traditional style; they are +thoroughly Romantic; and yet they are reflective. Scott, indeed, goes +straight to the objective forms; but then Scott, for good and evil, was +little affected by the spiritual upheaval of his time. Those who were +deeply affected by it, directly or indirectly, had their minds full of +theoretic ideas. They were groping after, or were already inflamed by, +some explicit view of life, and of life seen in relation to an ideal +which it revealed or contradicted. And this view of life, at least at +first, pressed for utterance in a more or less abstract shape, or +became a sort of soul or second meaning within those appearances of +nature, or actions of men, or figures and fantasies of youthful +imagination, which formed the ostensible subject of the poetry. + +Considered in this light, the following facts become very significant. +Wordsworth, now about thirty, and the author of many characteristic +lyrics, on returning from Germany and settling at Grasmere, begins to +meditate a long poem. He tells us in the _Prelude_ of the subjects he +thought of. They are good subjects, legendary and historical, stories of +action, not at all theoretical.[5] But it will not do: his mind 'turns +recreant to her task.' He has another hope, a 'favourite aspiration' +towards 'a philosophic song of Truth.' But even this will not do; it is +premature; even Truth (I venture to suggest) is not inward enough. He +must first tell the story of his own mind: the subject of his long poem +must be Poetry itself. He tells this story, to our great gain, in the +_Prelude_; and it is the story of the steps by which he came to see +reality, Nature and Man, as the partial expression of the ideal, of an +all-embracing and perfect spiritual life or Being. Not till this is done +can he proceed to the _Excursion_, which, together with much reflection +and even argumentation, contains pictures of particular men. + +'This for our greatest'; but it is not his history alone. The first +longer poem of Shelley which can be called mature was _Alastor_. And +what is its subject? The subject of the _Prelude_; the story of a Poet's +soul, and of the effect on it of the revelation of its ideal. The first +long poem of Keats was _Endymion_. The tendency to the concrete was +strong in Keats; he has been called, I think, an Elizabethan born out of +due time; and _Endymion_, like _Venus and Adonis_, is a mythological +story. But it is by no means that alone. The infection of his time was +in him. The further subject of _Endymion_ is again the subject of the +_Prelude_, the story of a poet's soul smitten by love of its ideal, the +Principle of Beauty, and striving for union with it, for the 'wedding' +of the mind of man 'with this goodly universe in love and holy passion.' +What, again, is the subject of _Epipsychidion_? The same. + + There was a Being whom my spirit oft + Met on its visioned wanderings, far aloft + In the clear golden prime of my youth's dawn. + +The poem is all about the search of the poet's soul for this ideal +Being. And the _Sensitive Plant_ is this soul, and the Lady of the +Garden this Being, And _Prince Athanase_ is the same soul, and if the +poem had been continued the Being would soon have appeared. Is it not an +astonishing proof of Shelley's powers that the _Cenci_ was ever written? +Shelley, when he died, had half escaped--Keats, some time before he +died, had quite escaped--from that bewitching inward world of the poet's +soul and its shadowy adventures. Could that well be the world of what we +call emphatically a 'great poem'? + + + 2. + +Let us review for a moment the course of our discussion. I have been +suggesting that, if our pleasure and glory in the poetry of Wordsworth's +age is tinged with disappointment, this does not extend to the lyrical +poetry; that the lyrical spirit, or, more generally, an inward or +subjective tendency, shows itself in many of the longer works; and that +their imperfection is partly due to it. Now, let me suggest that the +atmosphere of adequate 'criticism' which Arnold misses in the age and +its poetry, while doubtless it would have influenced favourably even the +lyrics, and much more the larger works, could hardly have diminished the +force of that tendency, and that the main difficulty lay _there_. But, +before developing this idea further, I propose to leave for a time the +English poetry of Wordsworth's age, to look beyond it, and to ask +certain questions. + +First, granted that in that age the atmosphere of 'criticism' was more +favourable in Germany than in England, how many long poems were produced +in Germany that we can call without hesitation or qualification 'great'? +Were _any_ produced except by Goethe? And, if we admit (as I gladly do) +that he produced several, was not the _main_ reason simply that he was +born with more poetic genius than any of his contemporaries, just as +Dante and Shakespeare and Milton were? And again, with this native +genius and his long laborious life, did he produce anything like as many +great poems as might have been expected? And, if not, why not? I do not +suggest that his general culture, so superior to that of his English +contemporaries, did not help him; but are we sure that it did not also +hinder him? And is it not also significant that, in spite of his love of +new ideas, he felt an instinctive dread of the influence of philosophy, +in the strict sense, as of something dangerous to the poetic modes of +vision and creation? + +Secondly, if we look beyond the first quarter of the century to the +second and third, do we find in Europe a large number of those +emphatically great poems, solid coherent structures of concrete +imagination? It seems more than doubtful. To confine ourselves to +English examples, is it not the case that Tennyson is primarily a +lyrical poet, that the best of his longer poems, _Maud_ and _In +Memoriam_, are lyrical, and that the most ambitious, the narrative +_Idylls of the King_, is, as a whole, not great? Is the _Ring and the +Book_, however fine in parts, a great whole, or comparable as a whole +with _Andrea del Sarto_ or _Rabbi ben Ezra_? And is any one of +Browning's dramas a great play? What these questions suggest is that, +while the difficulty about the long poem affects in an extreme degree +the age of Wordsworth, it affects in some degree the time that follows. +Its beginnings, too, are traceable before the nineteenth century. In +fact it is connected with essential characteristics of modern poetry and +art; and these characteristics are connected with the nature of modern +life, and the position of the artist within that life. I wish to touch +on this huge subject before returning to the age of Wordsworth. + +Art, we may say, has become free, and, in a sense, universal. The poet +is no longer the minstrel of king or nobles, nor even of a city or +country. Literature, as Goethe foretold, becomes increasingly European, +and more than European; and the poet, however national, is a citizen of +the Republic of Letters. No class of subject, again, has any prerogative +claim on him. Whatever, in any time or place, is human, whatever has +been conceived as divine, whatever belongs even to external nature, he +may choose, as it suits his bent or offers a promising material. The +world is all before him; and it is a world which the increase of +knowledge has made immensely wide and rich. His art, further, has +asserted its independence. Its public exhibition must conform to the +law; but otherwise it neither asks the approval nor submits to the +control of any outward authority; and it is the handmaid of nothing. It +claims a value for itself, as an expression of mind co-ordinate with +other expressions, theoretic and practical; satisfying a need and +serving a purpose that none of them can fulfil; subject only, as they +too are subject, to the unity of human nature and human good. Finally, +in respect of the methods of his art the poet claims and enjoys the same +freedom. The practice of the past, the 'rules' of the past (if they +existed or exist), are without authority for him. It is improbable +beforehand that a violent breach with them will lead him to a real +advance, just as it is improbable that such a breach with the morals or +the science of his day will do so. But there is no certainty beforehand; +and if he fails, he expects blame not because he innovates, but because +he has failed by innovating. + +The freedom of modern art, and the universality of its field, are great +things, and the value of the second is easily seen in the extraordinary +variety of subject-matter in the longer poems of the nineteenth century. +But in candid minds most recitals of our modern advantages are followed +by a melancholy sense of our feebleness in using them. And so in some +degree it is here. The unrivalled opportunities fail to produce +unrivalled works. And we can see that the deepest cause of this is not a +want of native genius or of acquired skill or even of conscientious +labour, but the fact that the opportunities themselves bring danger and +difficulty. The poet who knows everything and may write about anything +has, after all, a hard task. Things must have been easier, it seems to +us, for an artist whose choice, if his aim was high, was restricted to a +cycle of ideas and stories, mythological, legendary, or historical, or +all together, concerning beings divine, daemonic, angelic, or heroic. +His matter, as it existed in the general imagination, was already highly +poetical. If not created by imagination, it was shaped or coloured by +it; a world not of bodiless thoughts and emotions, but of scenes, +figures, actions, and events. For the most part he lived in unity with +it; it appealed to his own religious and moral feelings and beliefs, +sometimes to his patriotic feelings; and he wrote, painted, or carved, +for people who shared with him both his material and his attitude +towards it. It belonged usually to the past, but he did not view it over +a great gulf of time with the eye of a scientific historian. If he +wished to robe it in the vesture of the life around him, he was checked +by no scruples as to truth; and the life around him can seldom, we +think, have appeared to him repulsively prosaic. Broad statements like +these require much qualification; but, when it is supplied, they may +still describe periods in which perhaps most of the greatest +architecture, sculpture, painting, and poetry has come into being. + +How different the position of the artist has now become we see at a +glance, and I confine myself to some points which specially concern the +difficulty of the long poem. If a poem is to be anything like great it +must, in one sense, be concerned with the present. Whatever its +'subject' may be, it must express something living in the mind from +which it comes and the minds to which it goes. Wherever its body is, its +soul must be here and now. What subject, then, in the measureless field +of choice, is the poet to select and fashion into a body? The outward +life around him, as he and his critics so often lament, appears uniform, +ugly, and rationally regulated, a world of trousers, machinery and +policemen. Law--the rule, however imperfect, of the general reasonable +will--is a vast achievement and priceless possession; but it is not +favourable to striking events or individual actions on the grand scale. +Beneath the surface, and breaking through it, there is doubtless an +infinity of poetic matter; but this is inward, or it fails to appear in +impressive forms; and therefore it may suit the lyric or idyll, the +monologue or short story, the prose drama or novel, but hardly the long +poem or high tragedy. Even war, for reasons not hard to find, is no +longer the subject that it was. + +But when the poet turns to a subject distant in place or time or both, +new troubles await him. If he aims at complete truth to time and place +the soul of the present will hardly come into his work. Yet he lives in +an age of history and science, and these hamper as well as help him. The +difficulty is not that he is bound to historical or scientific truth, +for in principle, I venture to say, he is free. If he _can_ satisfy +imagination by violating them he is justified. It is no function of his +to attain or propagate them; and a critic who objected, say, to the +First Part of _Faust_ on the ground that it puts a modern spirit into +the legend, would rightly be laughed at. It is its triumph to do so and +yet to succeed. But then success is exceedingly difficult. For the poet +lives in a time when the violation of truth is _prima facie_ felt to be +a fault, something that does require justification by the result. +Further, he has himself to start from a clear consciousness of +difference between the present and the past, the spirit and the story, +and has to produce on this basis a harmony of spirit and story. And +again, living in an age of analytical thought, he is likely--all the +more likely, if he has much greatness of mind--to be keenly interested +in ideas; and so he is exposed to the temptation of using as the spirit +of the old story some highly reflective idea--an idea not only +historically alien to his material, but perhaps not very poetical, or +again not very deep, because it belongs to him rather as philosopher +than poet, while his genius is that of a poet. + +The influence of some of these difficulties might readily be shown in +the Second Part of _Faust_ or in _Prometheus Unbound_, especially where +we perceive in a figure or action some symbolical meaning, but find this +meaning deficient in interest or poetic truth, or are vexed by the doubt +how far it ought to be pursued.[6] But the matter is more easily +illustrated by the partial failure of the _Idylls of the King_. We have +no right to condemn beforehand an attempt to modernise the Arthurian +legends. Tennyson's treatment of them, even his outrage on the story of +Tristram, might conceivably have been justified by the result. And, +indeed, in the _Holy Grail_ and the _Passing of Arthur_ his treatment, +to my mind, was more than justified. But, in spite of countless +beauties, the total result of the _Idylls_ was disappointing, not merely +from the defects of this or that poem, but because the old unity of +spirit and story was broken up, and the new was neither equal to the old +nor complete in itself. For the main semi-allegorical idea, having +already the disadvantage of not being poetic in its origin, was, as a +reflective idea, by no means profound, and it led to such inconsistency +in the very centre of the story as the imagination refuses to accept. +Tennyson's Lancelot might have wronged the Arthur who is merely a +blameless king and represents Conscience; but Tennyson's Lancelot would +much rather have killed himself than be systematically treacherous to +the friend and lover-husband who appears in _Guinevere_.[7] + +These difficulties belong in some measure to the whole modern time--the +whole time that begins with the Renaissance; but they become so much +clearer and so much more serious with the advance of knowledge and +criticism, that in speaking of them I have been referring specially to +the last century. There are other difficulties not so closely connected +with that advance, and I will venture some very tentative remarks on +one of these, which also has increased with time. It has to do with the +kind of life commonly lived by our poets. Is there not some significance +in the fact that the most famous of our narrative poets were all three, +in their various ways and degrees, public men, or in contact with great +affairs; and that poets in earlier times no less must usually have seen +something at first hand of adventure, political struggles, or war; +whereas poets now, for the most part, live wholly private lives, and, +like the majority of their readers, are acquainted only by report with +anything of the kind? If Chaucer had never been at Court, or seen +service in the French war, or gone on embassies abroad; if Spenser had +not known Sidney and Raleigh and been secretary to Lord Grey in Ireland; +if Milton had spent his whole life at Horton; would it have made no +difference to their poetry? Again, if we turn to the drama and ask why +the numerous tragedies of the nineteenth century poets so rarely +satisfy, what is the answer? There are many reasons, and among them the +poet's ignorance of the stage will doubtless count for much; but must we +not also consider that he scarcely ever saw anything resembling the +things he tried to portray? When we study the history of the time in +which the Elizabethan dramas were composed, when we examine the +portraits of the famous men, or read such a book as the autobiography of +Lord Herbert of Cherbury, we realise that the violent actions and +passions which the dramatist depicted were like the things he saw. +Whatever Shakespeare's own disposition was, he lived among these men, +jested with the fellow-actor who had borne arms abroad and killed his +man in a duel at home, conversed with nobles whose heads perhaps were no +great way from the block. But the poet who strolls about the lanes or +plods the London streets with an umbrella for a sword, and who has +probably never seen a violent deed in his life, or for a moment really +longed to kill so much as a critic, how is he to paint the vengeance of +Hamlet or the frenzy of Macbeth, and not merely to thrill you with the +emotions of his actors but to make them _do_ things that take your +imagination by the throat? + + + 3. + +Assuming, now, that (even if this last idea is doubtful or unimportant) +there is some truth in the suggestion that the difficulties of the long +poem arise largely from the conditions described, and especially from +the nature of the intellectual atmosphere which the modern poet +breathes, let us return to Wordsworth's age in particular. In that age +these difficulties were aggravated in a quite exceptional way by special +causes, causes responsible also in part for the unusual originality and +intensity of the poetry. In it we find conditions removed to the +extremest distance from those of the poet who wrote, in the midst of a +generally accepted social order, for an audience with which he shared +traditional ideas and beliefs and a more or less traditional imaginative +material. It was, in a word, a revolutionary age, in the electric +atmosphere of which the most potent intellectual influences were those +of Rousseau and (for the English poets) of Godwin. Milton's time was not +in the same sense revolutionary, much less Shakespeare's. The forces of +the great movement of mind in Shakespeare's day _we_ may formulate as +'ideas,' but they were not the abstractly conceived ideas of +Wordsworth's day. Such theoretical ideas were potent in Milton's time, +but they were not ideas that made a total breach with the past, +rejecting as worthless, or worse, the institutions, beliefs, and modes +of life in which human nature had endeavoured to realise itself, and +drawing airy pictures of a different human nature on a new earth. Nor +was the poetic mind of those ages enraptured or dejected by the haunting +many-featured contrast of real and ideal. But the poetic mind in +Wordsworth's age breathed this atmosphere of revolution, though it was +not always sensitive to the influence. Nor is it a question of the +acceptance or rejection of the 'ideas of the Revolution.' That influence +is clearly traceable in all the greater writers except Scott and Jane +Austen. It is equally obvious in Wordsworth, who hungered for realities, +recovered from his theoretic malady, sought for good in life's familiar +face, yet remained a preacher; in Byron, who was too shrewd, sceptical, +and selfish to contract that particular malady, but who suffered from +the sickness from which Goethe freed himself by writing _Werther_,[8] +and who punctuates his story in _Don Juan_ with bursts of laughter and +tears; and in Shelley, whose 'rapid spirit' was quickened, and then +clogged, by the abstractions of revolutionary theory. + +But doubtless Shelley is, in a sense, the typical example of this +influence and of its effects. From the world of his imagination the +shapes of the old world had disappeared, and their place was taken by a +stream of radiant vapours, incessantly forming, shifting, and dissolving +in the 'clear golden dawn,' and hymning with the voices of seraphs, to +the music of the stars and the 'singing rain,' the sublime ridiculous +formulas of Godwin. In his heart were emotions that responded to the +vision,--an aspiration or ecstasy, a dejection or despair, like those of +spirits rapt into Paradise or mourning over its ruin. And he wrote, not, +like Shakespeare or Pope, for Londoners sitting in a theatre or a +coffee-house, intelligences vivid enough but definitely embodied in a +definite society; he wrote, or rather he sang, to his own soul, to +other spirit-sparks of the fire of Liberty scattered over the dark +earth, to spirits in the air, to the boundless spirit of Nature or +Freedom or Love, his one place of rest and the one source of his vision, +ecstasy, and sorrow. He sang _to_ this, and he sang _of_ it, and of the +emotions it inspired, and of its world-wide contest with such shapes of +darkness as Faith and Custom. And he made immortal music; now in +melodies as exquisite and varied as the songs of Schubert, and now in +symphonies where the crudest of Philosophies of History melted into +golden harmony. But the songs were more perfect than the symphonies; and +they could hardly fail to be so. For a single thought and mood, +expressive of one aspect of things, suffices, with its melody, for a +lyric, but not for a long poem. That requires a substance which +implicitly contains a whole 'criticism' or interpretation of life. And +although there was something always working in Shelley's mind, and +issuing in those radiant vapours, that was far deeper and truer than his +philosophic creed, its expression and even its development were +constantly checked or distorted by the hard and narrow framework of that +creed. And it was one which in effect condemned nine-tenths of the human +nature that has formed the material of the world's great poems.[9] + +The second and third quarters of the century were not in the same degree +as the first a revolutionary time, and we feel this change in the +poetry. The fever-heat is gone, the rapture and the dejection moderate, +the culture is wider, the thought more staid and considerate, the +fascination of abstractions less potent, and the formative or plastic +impulse, if not stronger, less impeded. Late in the period, with Morris, +the born teller of tales re-appears. If, as we saw, the lyrical spirit +continues to prevail, no one would deny to Browning the full and robust +sympathy of the dramatist with all the variety of character and passion. +Yet these changes and others are far from obliterating those features of +the earlier generation on which we have dwelt. To describe the +atmosphere of 'criticism' as that of a common faith or view of the world +would be laughable. If not revolutionary, it was agitated, restless, and +distressed by the conflict of theoretic ideas. To Arnold's mind it was +indeed a most unhappy time for poetry, though the poetic impulse +remained as yet, and even later, powerful. The past was dead, but he +could share neither the soaring hope nor the passionate melancholy of +the opening century. He was + + Wandering between two worlds, one dead, + The other powerless to be born, + With nowhere yet to rest his head. + +And the two greatest poets, as well as he, still offer not only, as +poets always must, an interpretation, but a definite theory of life, +and, more insistently than ever before, of death. Confidence in the +detail, at least, of such theories has diminished, and with the rapid +advance of the critical sciences the poets may prophesy less than their +predecessors; but they probe, and weigh, and deliberate more. And the +strength of the 'inward' tendency, obvious in Tennyson and Arnold, may +be clearly seen even in Browning, and not alone in such works as +_Christmas Eve and Easter Day_ or _La Saisiaz_. + +Objective and dramatic as Browning is called and by comparison is, he is +surely most at home, and succeeds most completely, in lyrics, and in +monologues divested of action and merely suggestive of a story or +suggested by one. He too must begin, in _Pauline_, with the picture of a +youthful poet's soul. Dramatic the drama of _Paracelsus_ neither is nor +tries to be: it consists of scenes in the history of souls. Of the +narrative _Sordello_ its author wrote: 'The historical decoration was +purposely of no more importance than a background requires; and my +stress lay on the incidents in the development of a soul: little else is +worth study.' Even if that is so, great narrative poems are not written +thus. And what Browning says here applies more or less fully to most of +his works. In the end, if we set aside the short lyrics, his best poems +are all 'studies' of souls. 'Well,' it may be answered, 'so are +Shakespeare's tragedies and tragi-comedies.' But the difference is +great. Shakespeare, doubtless, is little concerned with the accuracy of +the historical background,--much less concerned than Browning. But his +subject is not a soul, nor even souls: it is the actions of souls, or +souls coming into action. It is more. It is that clash of souls which +exhibits not them alone, but a whole of spiritual forces, appearing in +them, but spreading beyond them into the visible society to which they +essentially belong, and into invisible regions which enclose it. The +thing shown, therefore, is huge, multiform, ponderous, yet quivering +with an inward agitation which explodes into violent bodily expression +and speaks to the _eye_ of imagination. What specially interests +Browning is not this. It is the soul moving in itself, often in its most +secret windings and recesses; before action or after it, where there is +action at all; and this soul not essentially as in its society (that is +'background' or 'decoration'), but alone, or in relation to another +soul, or to God. He exhibits it best, therefore, in monologue, musing, +explaining, debating, pleading, overflowing into the expression of +feeling or passion, but not acting. The 'men and women' that haunt the +reader's imagination are not so much men of action as lovers, artists, +men of religion. And when they act (as for example in _The Ring and the +Book_, or the dramas) what rivets attention, and is first recalled to +memory by their names, is not the action, but its reflection in the soul +of the doer or spectator. Such, at least, is my experience; and in the +end a critic can only offer to others his considered experience. But +with Homer and Shakespeare and Milton it is otherwise. Even with Dante +it is otherwise. I see not souls alone, but souls in visible attitudes, +in outward movement, often in action. I see Paolo and Francesca drifting +on the wind: I see them sitting and reading: I see them kiss: I _see_ +Dante's pity: + + E caddi come corpo morto cade. + + + 4. + +I spoke of Tennyson and Browning in order to point out that, although in +their day the intellectual atmosphere was no longer 'revolutionary,' it +remained an atmosphere of highly reflective ideas representing no common +'faith' or way of envisaging the world, and that the inward tendency +still asserts itself in their poetry. We cannot pursue the history +further, but it does not appear that in the last forty years culture has +advanced much, or at all, towards such a faith or way, or shows the +working of new semi-conscious creative ideas beneath the surface of +warring theories and opinions. Only the younger among us can hope to see +what Arnold descried in the distance, + + One mighty wave of thought and joy + Lifting mankind again. + +And even when, for them or their descendants, that hope is realised, and +with it the hope of a new great poetry, the atmosphere must assuredly +still be one of 'criticism,' and Arnold's insistence on the necessity of +the best criticism will still be as urgently required. It must indeed be +more and more needed as the power of half-educated journalism grows. How +poetry then will overcome the obstacles which, therefore, must in some +measure still beset it, is a question for it, a question answerable not +by the reflections of critics, but by the creative deeds of poets +themselves. Accordingly, while one may safely prophesy that their long +poems will differ from those of any past age, I have no idea of +predicting the nature of this difference, and will refer in conclusion +only to certain views which seem to me delusive. + +It must surely be vain for the poet to seek an escape from modern +difficulties by any attempt to withdraw himself from the atmosphere of +free and scientific culture, to maintain by force simplicity of view and +concreteness of imagination, to live in a past century or a sanctuary of +esoteric art, whether secular or religious. Whatever of value such an +attempt may yield--and that it may yield much I do not deny--it will +never yield poems at once long and great. + +Such poems, we may allow ourselves to hope, will sometimes deal with +much of the common and painful and ugly stuff of life, and be in that +sense more 'democratic' or universal than any poetry of the past. But it +is vain to imagine that this can be done by a refusal to 'interpret' and +an endeavour to photograph. Even in the most thorough-going prose +'realism' there is selection; and, to go no further, selection itself is +interpretation. And, as for poetry, the mirror which the least +theoretical of great poets holds up to nature is his soul. And that, +whether he likes it or not, is an activity which divides, and sifts, +and recombines into a unity of its own, and by a method of its own, the +crude material which experience thrusts upon it. This must be so; the +only question is of the choice of matter and the method of treatment. +Nor can the end to be achieved be anything but beauty, though the +meaning of that word may be extended and deepened. And beauty in its +essence is something that gives satisfaction, however much of pain, +repulsion, or horror that satisfaction may contain and overcome. + +'But, even so,' it may be said, 'why should the poet trouble himself +about figures, events, and actions? That inward tendency in which you +see danger and difficulty is, on the contrary, simply and solely what on +one side you admit it to be, the sign of our advance. What we really +need is to make our long poems _entirely_ interior. We only want to know +how Dante felt; we do not _wish_ to see his pity felling him to the +ground; and much less do we wish to hear Othello say "and smote him +thus," or even to imagine the blow. We are not children or savages.' We +do not want, I agree, attempts to repeat the Elizabethan drama. But +those who speak thus forget, perhaps, in how many kinds of poem this +inward tendency can display its power without any injury or drawback. +They fail to ask themselves, perhaps, whether a _long_ poem so entirely +'interior' can possibly have the clearness, variety, and solidity of +effect that the best long poems have possessed; whether it can produce +the same impression of a massive, building, organising, 'architectonic' +power of imagination; and whether all this and much else is of little +value. They can hardly have realised, one must suspect, how much of life +they wish to leave unrepresented. They fail to consider, too, that +perhaps the business of art is not to ignore, but at once to satisfy and +to purify, the primitive instincts from which it arises; and that, in +the case of poetic art, the love of a story, and of exceptional figures, +scenes, events, and actions, is one of those instincts, and one that in +the immense majority of men shows no sign of decay. And finally, if they +suppose that the desire to see or imagine action, in particular, is a +symptom of mere sensationalism or a relic of semi-barbarism, I am sure +they are woefully mistaken. There is more virtue than their philosophy +dreams of in deeds, in 'the motion of a muscle this way or that.' +Doubtless it is the soul that matters; but the soul that remains +interior is not the whole soul. If I suppose that mere self-scrutiny can +show me that, I deceive myself; and my deeds, good and evil, will +undeceive me. + +A last delusion remains. 'There is,' we may be told, 'a simple, final, +and comfortable answer to all these doubts and fears. The long poem is +not merely difficult, it is impossible. It is dead, and should be +publicly buried, and there is not the least occasion to mourn it. It has +become impossible not because we cannot write it, but because we see +that we ought not. And, in truth, it never was written. The thing called +a long poem was really, as any long poem must be, a number of short +ones, linked together by passages of prose. And these passages _could_ +be nothing except prose; for poetry is the language of a state of +crisis, and a crisis is brief. The long poem is an offence to art.' I +believe I have stated this theory fairly. It was, unless I mistake, the +invention of Poe, and it is about as true as I conceive his story of the +composition of _The Raven_ to be. It became a gospel with some +representatives of the Symbolist movement in France; and in fact it +would condemn not only the long poem, but the middle-sized one, and +indeed all sizes but the smallest. To reject this theory is to imply no +want of gratitude for the lyrics of some of its adherents; but the +theory itself seems strangely thoughtless. Naturally, in any poem not +quite short, there must be many variations and grades of poetic +intensity; but to represent the differences of these numerous grades as +a simple antithesis between pure poetry and mere prose is like saying +that, because the eyes are the most expressive part of the face, the +rest of the face expresses nothing. To hold, again, that this variation +of intensity is a defect is like holding that a face would be more +beautiful if it were all eyes, a picture better if the illumination were +equally intense all over it, a symphony better if it consisted of one +movement, and if that were all crisis. And to speak as if a small poem +could do all that a long one does, and do it much more completely, is to +speak as though a humming-bird could have the same kind of beauty as an +eagle, the rainbow in a fountain produce the same effect as the rainbow +in the sky, or a moorland stream thunder like Niagara. A long poem, as +we have seen, requires imaginative powers superfluous in a short one; +and it would be easy to show that it admits of strictly poetic effects +of the highest value which the mere brevity of a short one excludes. +That the long poem is doomed is a possible, however groundless, belief; +but it is futile to deny that, if it dies, something of inestimable +worth will perish.[10] + + +FOOTNOTES: + + [1] The material of these pages belongs in part to the course + mentioned on p. 99, and in part to a lecture given in November, 1905. + They have in consequence defects which I have not found it possible + to remove; and they also open questions too large and difficult for a + single lecture. This is one reason why I have not referred to the + prevalence of the novel in the nineteenth century, a prevalence which + doubtless influenced both the character and the popularity of the + long poems. I hope the reader will not gain from the lecture the + false impression that the writer's admiration for those poems is + lukewarm, or that he has any tendency to reaction against the + Romantic Revival of Wordsworth's time. + + [2] This, and not the permanent value of the scientific product, is + the point. + + [3] _Table-talk_, Feb. 16, 1833. + + [4] The narrative poems that satisfy most, because in their way they + come nearest to perfection, will be found, I believe, to show this + balance. Such, for instance, are _The Eve of St. Agnes_, _Lamia_, + _Michael_, _The Vision of Judgment_, some of Crabbe's tales. It does + not follow, of course, that such poems must contain the greatest + poetry. Crabbe, for example, was probably the best artist of the day + in narrative; but he does not represent the full ideal spirit of the + time. + + [5] See p. 110. + + [6] Demogorgon is an instance of such a figure. + + [7] This incongruity is not the only cause of the discomfort with + which many lovers of Tennyson read parts of Arthur's speech in that + Idyll; but it is the main cause, and, unlike other defects, it lies + in the plan of the story. It may be brought out further thus. So far + as Arthur is merely the blameless king and representative of + Conscience, the attitude of a judge which he assumes in the speech is + appropriate, and, again, Lancelot's treachery to him is intelligible + and, however wrong, forgivable. But then this Arthur or Conscience + could never be a satisfactory husband, and ought not to astound or + shock us by uttering his recollections of past caresses. If, on the + other hand, these utterances are appropriate, and if all along + Lancelot and Guinevere have had no reason to regard Arthur as cold + and wholly absorbed in his public duties, Lancelot has behaved not + merely wrongly but abominably, and as the Lancelot of the _Idylls_ + could not have behaved. The truth is that Tennyson's design requires + Arthur to be at once perfectly ideal and completely human. And this + is not imaginable. + + Having written this criticism, I cannot refrain from adding that I + think the depreciation of Tennyson's genius now somewhat prevalent a + mistake. I admire and love his poetry with all my heart, and regard + him as considerably our greatest poet since the time of Wordsworth. + + [8] It is never to be forgotten, in comparing Goethe with the English + poets, that he was twenty years older than Wordsworth and Coleridge, + and forty years older than Byron and Shelley. + + [9] The reader will remember that he must take these paragraphs as an + exaggerated presentment of a single, though essential, aspect of the + poetry of the time, and of Shelley's poetry in particular, and must + supply the corrections and additions for himself. But I may beg him + to observe that Godwin's formulas are called sublime as well as + ridiculous. _Political Justice_ would never have fascinated such + young men as Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Shelley, unless a great truth + had been falsified in it; and the inspiration of this truth can be + felt all through the preposterous logical structure reared on its + misapprehension. + + [10] The theory criticised in this paragraph arises, I think, from a + misapplication of the truth that the content of a genuine poem is + fully expressible only in the words of that poem. It is seen that + this is so in a lyric, and then it is assumed that it is _not_ so in + a narrative or drama. But the assumption is false. At first sight we + may seem able to give a more adequate account of the long poem than + of the short one; but in reality you can no more convey the whole + poetic content of the _Divine Comedy_ in a form not its own than you + can the content of a song. + + The theory is connected in some minds with the view that 'music is + the true type or measure of perfected art.' That view again rests on + the idea that 'it is the art of music which most completely realises + [the] artistic ideal, [the] perfect identification of form and + matter,' and that accordingly 'the arts may be represented as + continually struggling after the law or principle of music, to a + condition which music alone completely realises' (Pater, _The + Renaissance_, pp. 144, 145). I have by implication expressed dissent + from this idea (p. 25); but, even if its truth is granted, what + follows is that poetry should endeavour _in its own way_ to achieve + that perfect identification; but it does not in the least follow that + it should endeavour to do so by reducing itself as nearly as possible + to mere sound. Nor did Pater affirm this, or (so far as I see) imply + it. But others have. + + + + +THE LETTERS OF KEATS + + +THE LETTERS OF KEATS + + +There is no lack of good criticism on the poetry of Keats. It has been +discussed by the leading poets of three generations or semi-generations; +by Matthew Arnold, by Mr. Swinburne, and, much more fully, by Mr. +Bridges. Lord Houghton's _Life and Letters_ and Mr. Colvin's biography +both contain excellent criticisms or studies of the poems. And (to go no +further) they have lately been edited by Mr. de Sélincourt in a volume +invaluable to students of Keats, and reflecting honour not only on its +author but on the Oxford School of English, to the strength of which he +has contributed so much. My principal object is to consider Keats's +attitude to poetry and his views about it, in connection with the ideas +set forth in previous lectures on Shelley's views and on the age of +Wordsworth. But I wish to preface my remarks on this subject, and to +prepare for them, by an urgent appeal, addressed to any reader of the +poems who may need it, to study the letters of Keats. If I may judge +from my experience, such readers are still far too numerous; and I am +sure that no one already familiar with the letters will be sorry to +listen to quotations from them.[1] + + +The best of Keats's poems, of course, can be fully appreciated without +extraneous help; but the letters throw light on all, and they are almost +necessary to the understanding of _Endymion_ and of some of the earlier +or contemporaneous pieces. They clearly reveal those changes in his mind +and temper which appear in his poetry. They dispose for ever of the +fictions once current of a puny Keats who was 'snuffed out by an +article,' a sensual Keats who found his ideal in claret and 'slippery +blisses,' and a mere artist Keats who cared nothing for his country and +his fellow-creatures. Written in his last four years by a man who died +at twenty-five, they contain abundant evidence of his immaturity and his +faults, but they disclose a nature and character which command on the +whole not less respect than affection, and they show not a little of +that general intellectual power which rarely fails to accompany poetic +genius. + +Of Keats's character, as the letters manifest it, Arnold has written. +While speaking plainly and decidedly of the weakness visible in those to +Miss Brawne, Arnold brought together the evidence which proves that +Keats 'had flint and iron in him,' 'had virtue in the true and large +sense of the word.' And he selected passages, too, which illustrate the +'admirable wisdom and temper' and the 'strength and clearness of +judgment' shown by Keats, alike in matters of friendship and in his +criticisms of his own productions, of the public, and of the literary +circles,--the 'jabberers about pictures and books,' as Keats in a bitter +mood once called them. We may notice, in addition, two characteristics. +In spite of occasional despondency, and of feelings of awe at the +magnitude of his ambition, Keats, it is tolerably plain from these +letters, had a clear and habitual consciousness of his genius. He never +dreamed of being a minor poet. He knew that he was a poet; sometimes he +hoped to be a great one. I remember no sign that he felt himself the +inferior of any living poet except Wordsworth. How he thought of Byron, +whom in boyhood he had admired, is obvious. When Shelley wrote, hinting +a criticism, but referring to himself as excelled by Keats in genius, he +returned the criticism without the compliment. His few references to +Coleridge are critical, and his amusing description of Coleridge's talk +is not more reverential than Carlyle's. Something, indeed, of the native +pugnacity which his friends ascribe to him seems to show itself in his +allusions to contemporaries, including even Wordsworth. Yet with all +this, and with all his pride and his desire of fame, no letters extant +breathe a more simple and natural modesty than these; and from end to +end they exhibit hardly a trace, if any trace, either of the irritable +vanity attributed to poets or of the sublime egotism of Milton and +Wordsworth. He was of Shakespeare's tribe. + +The other trait that I wish to refer to appears in a particular series +of letters--sometimes mere notes--scattered through the collection. They +are addressed to Keats's school-girl sister Fanny, who was eight years +younger than he, and who died in the same year as Browning.[2] Keats, as +we see him in 1817 and 1818, in the first half of Mr. Colvin's +collection, was absorbed by an enthusiasm and ambition which his sister +was too young to understand. During his last two years he was, besides, +passionately and miserably in love, and, latterly, ill and threatened +with death. His soul was full of bitterness. He shrank into himself, +avoided society, and rarely sought even intimate friends. Yet, until he +left England, he never ceased to visit his sister when he could; and, +when he could not, he continued to write letters to her, full of amusing +nonsense, full of brotherly care for her, and of excellent advice +offered as by an equal who happened to be her senior; letters quite free +from thoughts of himself, and from the forced gaiety and the resentment +against fate which in parts of his later correspondence with others +betray his suffering. These letters to his sister are, in one sense, the +least remarkable in the collection, yet it would lose much by their +omission. They tell us next to nothing of his genius, but as we come +upon them the light in our picture of him, if it had grown for a moment +hard or troubled, becomes once more soft and bright. + +To turn (with apologies for the distinction) from the character to the +mind of Keats, if the reader has formed a notion of him as a youth with +a genius for poetry and an exclusive interest in poetry, but otherwise +not intellectually remarkable, this error will soon be dispelled by the +letters. With Keats, no doubt, poetry and the hope of success in it were +passions more glowing than we have reason to attribute to his +contemporaries at the same time of life.[3] The letters remind us also +that, compared with them, he was at a disadvantage in intellectual +training and acquisitions, like the young Shakespeare among the +University wits. They show, too--the earlier far more than the later--in +certain literary mannerisms the unwholesome influence of Leigh Hunt and +his circle. But everywhere we feel in them the presence of an +intellectual nature, not merely sensitive and delicate, but open, +daring, rich, and strong; exceedingly poetic and romantic, yet +observant, acute, humorous, and sensible; intense without narrowness, +and quite as various both in its interests and its capacities as the +mind of Wordsworth or of Shelley. Fundamentally, and in spite of +abundant high spirits and a love of nonsense, the mind of Keats was very +serious and thoughtful. It was original, and not more imitative than an +original mind should be in youth; an intelligence which now startles by +flashes of sudden beauty, and now is seen struggling with new and deep +thoughts, which labour into shape, with scanty aid from theories, out of +personal experience. In quality--and I speak of nothing else--the mind +of Shakespeare at three and twenty may not have been very different. + +Short extracts can give but little idea of all this; but they may at +least illustrate the variety of Keats's mind, and the passages I am +about to read have been chosen mainly with this intention, and not +because the majority are among the most striking that might be found. +The earliest belong to the September of 1817, and I take them partly for +their local interest. Keats spent most of that month here in Oxford, +staying in the Magdalen Hall of those days with his friend Bailey, a man +whose gentle and disinterested character he warmly admired. 'We lead,' +he writes to his sister, 'very industrious lives--he in general studies, +and I in proceeding at a pretty good pace with a Poem which I hope you +will see early in the next year.' It was _Endymion_: he wrote, it seems, +the whole of the Third Book in Bailey's rooms. Unluckily the hero in +that Book is wandering at the bottom of the sea; but even in those +regions, as Keats imagined them, a diligent student may perhaps find +some traces of Oxford. In the letters we hear of towers and quadrangles, +cloisters and groves; of the deer in Magdalen Park; and how + + The mouldering arch, + Shaded o'er by a larch, + Lives next door to Wilson the hosier + +(that should be discoverable). But we hear most of the clear +streams--'more clear streams than ever I saw together.' 'I take a walk +by the side of one of them every evening.' 'For these last five or six +days,' he writes to Reynolds, 'we have had regularly a boat on the Isis, +and explored all the streams about, which are more in number than your +eyelashes. We sometimes skim into a bed of rushes, and there become +naturalised river-folks. There is one particularly nice nest, which we +have christened "Reynolds's Cove," in which we have read Wordsworth and +talked as may be.' Of those talks over Wordsworth with the grave +religious Bailey came perhaps the thoughts expressed later in the +best-known of all the letters (it is too well known to quote), thoughts +which take their origin from the _Lines written near Tintern Abbey_.[4] + +About a year after this, Keats went with his friend Brown on a +walking-tour to the Highlands; and I will quote two passages from the +letters written during this tour, for the sake of the contrast they +exhibit between the two strains in Keats's mind. The first is the later. +The letter is dated 'Cairn-something July 17th': + + Steam-boats on Loch Lomond, and Barouches on its sides, take a little + from the pleasure of such romantic chaps as Brown and I. The banks of + the Clyde are extremely beautiful--the north end of Loch Lomond grand + in excess--the entrance at the lower end to the narrow part is + precious good--the evening was beautiful--nothing could surpass our + fortune in the weather. Yet was I worldly enough to wish for a fleet + of chivalry Barges with trumpets and banners, just to die away before + me into that blue place among the mountains.[5] + +Keats all over! Yes; but so is this, which was written a fortnight +earlier from Carlisle: + + After Skiddaw, we walked to Ireby, the oldest market town in + Cumberland, where we were greatly amused by a country dancing-school + holden at the Tun. It was indeed 'no new cotillion fresh from + France.' No, they kickit and jumpit with mettle extraordinary, and + whiskit, and friskit, and toed it and go'd it, and twirl'd it and + whirl'd it, and stamped it, and sweated it, tattooing the floor like + mad. The difference between our country dances and these Scottish + figures is about the same as leisurely stirring a cup o' tea and + beating up a batter-pudding. I was extremely gratified to think that, + if I had pleasures they knew nothing of, they had also some into which + I could not possibly enter. I hope I shall not return without having + got the Highland fling. There was as fine a row of boys and girls as + you ever saw; some beautiful faces, and one exquisite mouth. I never + felt so near the glory of Patriotism, the glory of making by any means + a country happier. This is what I like better than scenery.[6] + +There is little enough here of the young poet who believes himself to +care for nothing but 'Art'; and as little of the theoretic +cosmopolitanism of some of Keats's friends. + +Some three months later we find Keats writing from London to his brother +and his sister-in-law in America; and he tells them of a young lady from +India whom he has just met: + + She is not a Cleopatra, but she is at least a Charmian. She has a rich + Eastern look. When she comes into a room she makes an impression the + same as the beauty of a leopardess.... You will by this time think I + am in love with her; so before I go any further I will tell you I am + not--she kept me awake one night as a tune of Mozart's might do. I + speak of the thing as a pastime and an amusement, than which I can + feel none deeper than a conversation with an imperial woman, the very + 'yes' and 'no' of whose lips is to me a banquet.... I believe, though, + she has faults--the same as Charmian and Cleopatra might have had. Yet + she is a fine thing, speaking in a worldly way: for there are two + distinct tempers of mind in which we judge of things,--the worldly, + theatrical and pantomimical; and the unearthly, spiritual and + ethereal. In the former, Buonaparte, Lord Byron, and this Charmian, + hold the first place in our minds; in the latter, John Howard, Bishop + Hooker rocking his child's cradle, and you, my dear sister, are the + conquering feelings.[7] + +I do not read this passage merely for its biographical interest, but a +word may be ventured on that. The lady was not Miss Brawne; but less +than a month later, on meeting Miss Brawne, he immediately became her +slave. When we observe the fact, and consider how very unlike the words +I have quoted are to anything in Keats's previous letters, we can hardly +help suspecting that he was at this time in a peculiar condition and +ripe for his fate. Then we remember that he had lately returned from his +Scotch tour, which was broken off because the Inverness doctor used the +most menacing language about the state of his throat; and further, that +he was now, in the late autumn, nursing his brother Tom, who died of +consumption before the year was out. And an idea suggests itself which, +if exceedingly prosaic, has yet some comfort in it. How often have +readers of Keats's life cried out that, if only he had never met Miss +Brawne, he might have lived and prospered! Does it not seem at least as +probable that, if Miss Brawne had never existed, what happened would +still have happened, and even that the fever of passion which helped to +destroy him was itself a token of incipient disease? + +I turn the leaf and come, in the same letter, to a passage on politics. +The friends of Keats were, for the most part, advanced liberals. His own +sympathies went that way. A number of lines in the poems of his boyhood +show this, and so do many remarks in the letters. And his sympathies +were not mere sentiments. 'I hope sincerely,' he wrote in September, +1819, 'I shall be able to put a mite of help to the liberal side of the +question before I die'; and a few days later, when he tells Brown of his +wish to act instead of dreaming, and to work for his livelihood, +composing deliberate poems only when he can afford to, he says that he +will write as a journalist for whoever will pay him, but he makes it a +condition that he is to write 'on the liberal side of the question.' It +is a mistake to suppose that he had no political interests. But he +cared nothing for the mere quarrels of Whig and Tory; a 'Radical' was +for him the type of an 'obstinate and heady' man; and the perfectibility +theories of friends like Shelley and Dilke slipped from his mind like +water from a duck's back. We have seen the concrete shape his patriotism +took. He always saw ideas embodied, and was 'convinced that small causes +make great alterations.' I could easily find passages more +characteristic than the following; but it is short, it shows that Keats +thought for himself, and it has a curious interest just now (1905):[8] + + Notwithstanding the part which the Liberals take in the cause of + Napoleon, I cannot but think he has done more harm to the life of + Liberty than anyone else could have done. Not that the divine right + gentlemen have done, or intend to do, any good. No, they have taken a + lesson of him, and will do all the further harm he would have done, + without any of the good. The worst thing he has done is that he has + taught them how to organise their monstrous armies. The Emperor + Alexander, it is said, intends to divide his Empire as did Diocletian, + creating two Czars beside himself, and continuing the supreme monarch + of the whole. Should he do this, and they for a series of years keep + peaceable among themselves, Russia may spread her conquest even to + China. I think it a very likely thing that China itself may fall; + Turkey certainly will. Meanwhile European North Russia will hold its + horns against the rest of Europe, intriguing constantly with France. + +Still aiming chiefly to show the variety there is in these letters, I +may take next one or two passages which have an interest also from their +bearing on Keats's poems. Here we have, for example, the unmistakable +origin of the _Ode on Indolence_: + + This morning I am in a sort of temper indolent and supremely careless. + I long after a stanza or two of Thomson's _Castle of Indolence_. My + passions are all asleep, from my having slumbered till nearly eleven + and weakened the animal fibre all over me to a delightful sensation, + about three degrees on this side of faintness. If I had teeth of pearl + and the breath of lilies, I should call it languor, but as I am* I + must call it laziness. In this state of effeminacy the fibres of the + brain are relaxed in common with the rest of the body, and to such a + happy degree that pleasure has no show of enticement, and pain no + unbearable power.[9] Neither Poetry nor Ambition nor Love have any + alertness of countenance as they pass by me. They seem rather like + figures on a Greek vase--a man and two women whom no one but myself + could distinguish in their disguisement. This is the only happiness, + and is a rare instance of the advantage of the body overpowering the + mind.[10] + + * Especially as I have a black eye. + +'This is the only happiness'--the sentence will surprise no one who has +even dipped into Keats's letters. It expresses a settled conviction. +Happiness, he feels, belongs only to childhood and early youth. A young +man thinks he can keep it, but a little experience shows him he must do +without it. The mere growth of the mind, if nothing else, is fatal to +it. To think is to be full of sorrow, because it is to realise the +sorrow of the world and to feel the burden of the mystery. 'Health and +spirits,' he says, 'can only belong unalloyed to the selfish man.'[11] +Shelley might be speaking. 'To see an entirely disinterested girl quite +happy is the most pleasant and extraordinary thing in the world. It +depends upon a thousand circumstances. On my word it is extraordinary. +Women must want Imagination, and they may thank God for it: and so may +we, that a delicate being can feel happy without any sense of +crime.'[12] These passages, taken alone, even when we observe his +qualifications, would give a false impression of Keats; but they supply +a curious commentary on the legend of the sensuous Keats. We may connect +with them his feeling of the inferiority of poets (or rather of such +'dreaming' poets as himself) to men of action. + +In this same letter he copies out for his correspondents several +recently written poems, and among them the ballad _La Belle Dame Sans +Merci_. He copies it without a word of introduction. He could not say, +'Here is the record of my love and my despair,' for on this one subject +he never opened his heart to his brother. But when he has finished the +copy he adds a few lines referring to the stanza (afterwards altered): + + She took me to her elfin grot, + And there she wept and sighed full sore, + And there I shut her wild wild eyes + With kisses four. + +'Why four kisses, you will say, why four? Because I wish to restrain the +headlong impetuosity of my Muse. She would have fain said "score" +without hurting the rhyme: but we must temper the Imagination, as the +Critics say, with Judgment. I was obliged to choose an even number that +both eyes might have fair play; and, to speak truly, I think two apiece +quite sufficient. Suppose I had said seven, there would have been three +and a half apiece--a very awkward affair, and well got out of on my +side.' This is not very like the comments of Wordsworth on his best +poems, but I dare say the author of _Hamlet_ made such jests about it. +Is it not strange, let me add, to think that Keats and his friends were +probably unconscious of the extraordinary merit of this poem? It was not +published with the Odes in the volume of 1820. + +I will quote, finally, three passages to illustrate in different ways +Keats's insight into human nature. It appears, on the whole, more +decidedly in the letters than in the poems, and it helps us to believe +that, so far as his gifts were concerned, his hope of ultimate success +in dramatic poetry was well founded. The first is a piece of 'nonsense,' +rattled off on the spur of the moment to amuse his correspondents, and +worth quoting only for its last sentence. He has been describing 'three +witty people, all distinct in their excellence'; and he goes on: + + I know three people of no wit at all, each distinct in his + excellence--A, B, and C. A is the foolishest, B the sulkiest, C is a + negative. A makes you yawn, B makes you hate, as for C you never see + him at all though he were six feet high. I bear the first, I forbear + the second, I am not certain that the third is. The first is gruel, + the second ditch-water, the third is spilt--he ought to be wiped up. + +C, who is spilt and ought to be wiped up, how often we have met and +still shall meet him! Shakespeare, I think, would gladly have fathered +the phrase that describes him, and the words that follow are not much +out of the tune of Falstaff: 'C, they say, is not his mother's true +child, but she bought him of the man who cries, Young lambs to +sell.'[13] + +In the second passage Keats is describing one of his friends: + + Dilke is a man who cannot feel he has a personal identity unless he + has made up his mind about everything. The only means of strengthening + one's intellect is to make up one's mind about nothing--to let the + mind be a thoroughfare for all thoughts, not a select party. The genus + is not scarce in population: all the stubborn arguers you meet are of + the same brood. They never begin on a subject they have not + pre-resolved on. They want to hammer their nail into you, and if you + turn the point, still they think you wrong. Dilke will never come at a + truth so long as he lives, because he is always trying at it. He is a + Godwin Methodist.[14] + +These lines illustrate the instinctive feeling of Keats that it is +essential to the growth of the poetic mind to preserve its natural +receptiveness and to welcome all the influences that stream in upon it. +They illustrate also his dislike of the fixed theories held and preached +by some members of his circle. We shall have to consider later the +meaning of his occasional outbreaks against 'thought,' 'knowledge,' +'philosophy.' It is important not to be misled by them, and not to +forget the frequent expressions of his feeling that what he lacks and +must strive to gain is this very 'knowledge' and 'philosophy.' Here I +will only observe that his polemics against them, though coloured by his +temperament, coincide to a large extent with Wordsworth's dislike of 'a +reasoning self-sufficing thing,' his depreciation of mere +book-knowledge, and his praise of a wise passiveness. And, further, what +he objects to here is not the pursuit of truth, it is the 'Methodism,' +the stubborn argument, and the habit of bringing to the argument and +maintaining throughout it a ready-made theory. He offers his own +thoughts and speculations freely enough to Bailey and to his +brother--men willing to probe with him any serious idea--but not to +Dilke. It is clear that he neither liked nor rated high the confident +assertions and negations of Shelley and his other Godwinian friends and +acquaintances. Probably from his ignorance of theories he felt at a +disadvantage in talking with them. But he did not dismiss their theories +as something of no interest to a poet. He thought about them, convinced +himself that they were fundamentally unsound, and himself philosophises +in criticising them. The following passage, from a letter to George and +Georgiana Keats, is the nearest approach to be found in his writings to +a theory of the world, a theology as he jestingly calls it; and although +it is long, I make no apology for quoting it. He has been reading, he +says, Robertson's _History of America_ and Voltaire's _Sičcle de Louis +XIV._, and he observes that, though the two civilisations described are +so different, the case of the great body of the people is equally +lamentable in both. And he goes on thus: + + The whole appears to resolve into this--that man is originally a poor + forked creature, subject to the same mischances as the beasts of the + forest, destined to hardships and disquietude of some kind or other. + If he improves by degrees his bodily accommodations and comforts, at + each stage, at each ascent, there are waiting for him a fresh set of + annoyances--he is mortal, and there is still a heaven with its stars + above his head. The most interesting question that can come before us + is, How far by the persevering endeavours of a seldom-appearing + Socrates mankind may be made happy. I can imagine such happiness + carried to an extreme, but what must it end in? Death--and who could + in such a case bear with death? The whole troubles of life, which are + now frittered away in a series of years, would then be accumulated for + the last days of a being who, instead of hailing its approach, would + leave this world as Eve left Paradise. But in truth I do not at all + believe in this sort of perfectibility. The nature of the world will + not admit of it--the inhabitants of the world will correspond to + itself. Let the fish philosophise the ice away from the rivers in + winter time, and they shall be at continual play in the tepid delight + of summer. Look at the Poles, and at the sands of Africa--whirlpools + and volcanoes. Let men exterminate them, and I will say that they may + arrive at earthly happiness. The point at which man may arrive is as + far as the parallel state in inanimate nature, and no further. For + instance, suppose a rose to have sensation; it blooms on a beautiful + morning; it enjoys itself; but then comes a cold wind, a hot sun. It + cannot escape it, it cannot destroy its annoyances--they are as native + to the world as itself. No more can man be happy in spite [?], the + worldly elements will prey upon his nature. + + The common cognomen of this world among the misguided and + superstitious is 'a vale of tears,' from which we are to be redeemed + by a certain arbitrary interposition of God and taken to Heaven. What + a little circumscribed straitened notion! Call the world if you please + 'The vale of Soul-making.' Then you will find out the use of the world + (I am speaking now in the highest terms for human nature, admitting it + to be immortal, which I will here take for granted for the purpose of + showing a thought which has struck me concerning it). I say + '_Soul-making_'--Soul as distinguished from an Intelligence.[15] There + may be intelligences or sparks of the divinity in millions, but they + are not Souls till they acquire identities, till each one is + personally itself. Intelligences are atoms of perception--they know + and they see and they are pure; in short they are God. How then are + souls to be made? How then are these sparks which are God to have + identity given them--so as ever to possess a bliss peculiar to each + one's individual existence? How but by the medium of a world like + this? This point I sincerely wish to consider, because I think it a + grander system of salvation than the Christian religion--or rather it + is a system of Spirit-creation. This is effected by three grand + materials acting the one upon the other for a series of years. These + three materials are the _Intelligence_, the _human heart_ (as + distinguished from intelligence or mind), and the World or elemental + space suited for the proper action of _Mind_ and _Heart_ on each other + for the purpose of forming the _Soul_ or _Intelligence destined to + possess the sense of Identity_. I can scarcely express what I but + dimly perceive--and yet I think I perceive it. That you may judge the + more clearly I will put it in the most homely form possible. I will + call the _world_ a School instituted for the purpose of teaching + little children to read. I will call the _human heart_ the horn-book + read in that School. And I will call the _Child able to read_, the + _Soul_ made from that School and its horn-book. Do you not see how + necessary a world of pains and troubles is to school an Intelligence + and make it a Soul? A place where the heart must feel and suffer in a + thousand diverse ways. Not merely is the Heart a horn-book, it is the + Mind's Bible, it is the mind's experience, it is the text from which + the Mind or Intelligence sucks its identity. As various as the lives + of men are, so various become their Souls; and thus does God make + individual beings, Souls, identical Souls, of the sparks of his own + essence. This appears to me a faint sketch of a system of Salvation + which does not offend our reason and humanity.[16] + +Surely, when Keats's education is considered, this, with all its +crudity, is not a little remarkable. It would not be easy to find +anything written at the same age by another poet of the time which shows +more openness of mind, more knowledge of human nature, or more original +power of thought. + +About a fortnight after Keats wrote that description of A, B, and C, he +received what he recognised at once for his death-warrant. He had yet +fourteen months to endure, but at this point the development of his mind +was arrested. During the three preceding years it had been very rapid, +and is easy to trace; and it is all the more interesting because, in +spite of its continuity, we are aware of a decided difference between +the Keats of the earlier letters and the Keats of the later. The tour in +Scotland in the summer of 1818 may be taken with sufficient accuracy as +a dividing-line. The earlier Keats is the youth who had written the +_Sonnet on first_ _looking into Chapman's Homer_, and _Sleep and +Poetry_, and who was writing _Endymion_. He is thoughtful, often grave, +sometimes despondent; but he is full of the enthusiasm of beauty, and of +the joy and fear, the hope and the awe, that accompanied the sense of +poetic power. He is the poet who looked, we are told, as though he had +been gazing on some glorious sight; whose eyes shone and whose face +worked with pleasure as he walked in the fields about Hampstead; who is +described watching with rapture the billowing of the wind through the +trees and over meadow-grasses and corn, and looking sometimes like a +young eagle and sometimes like a wild fawn waiting for some cry from the +forest depths. This is the Keats who wrote 'A thing of beauty is a joy +for ever'; who found 'the Religion of Joy' in the monuments of the Greek +spirit, in sculpture and vases, and mere translations and mere handbooks +of mythology; who never ceased, he said, to wonder at all that incarnate +delight, and would point out to Severn how essentially modern, how +imperishable, the Greek spirit is--a joy for ever. + +Yet, as we have seen already, he was aware, and we find him becoming +more and more aware, that joy is not the only word. He had not read for +nothing Wordsworth's great Ode, and _Tintern Abbey_, and the +_Excursion_. We know it from _Endymion_, and the letter about the +'burden of the mystery' was written before the tour in Scotland. But +after this we feel a more decided change, doubtless hastened by outward +events. The Blackwood and Quarterly reviews of _Endymion_ +appeared--reviews not less inexcusable because we understand their +origin. Then came his brother's death. A few weeks later he met Miss +Brawne. Henceforth his youth has vanished. There are traces of morbid +feeling in the change, painful traces; but they are connected, I think, +solely with his passion. His brother's death deepened his sympathies. +The reviews, so long as health remained to him, did him nothing but +good. He rated them at their true value, but they gave him a salutary +shock. They quickened his perception, already growing keen, of the +weaknesses and mannerism of Hunt's verse and his own. Through them he +saw a false but useful picture of himself, as a silly boy, dandled into +self-worship by foolish friends, and posturing as a man of genius. He +kept his faith in his genius, but he felt that he must prove it. He +became impatient of dreaming. Poetry, he felt, is not mere luxury and +rapture, it is a deed. We trace at times a kind of fierceness. He turns +against his old self harshly. Some of his friends, he says, think he has +lost his old poetic ardour, and perhaps they are right. He speaks +slightingly of wonders, even of scenery: the human heart is something +finer,--not its dreams, but its actions and its anguish. His gaze is as +intent as ever,--more intent; but the glory he would see walks in a +fiery furnace, and to see it he must think and learn. He is young, he +says, writing at random, straining his eyes at particles of light in the +midst of a great darkness. He knows at times the 'agony' of ignorance. +In one year he writes six or seven of the best poems in the language, +but he is little satisfied. 'Thus far,' he says, 'I have a consciousness +of having been pretty dull and heavy, both in subject and phrase.' Two +months later he ends a note to Haydon with the words, 'I am afraid I +shall pop off just when my mind is able to run alone.' And so it was. + +It is important to remember this change in Keats in considering his +ideas about poetry; but we have first to look at them in a more general +way. Many of the most interesting occur in detached remarks or +aphorisms, and these I must pass by. The others I intended at first to +deal with in connection with Shelley's view of poetry; and, although +that plan proved to be too large for a single lecture, I do not wish +altogether to abandon it, because in the extracts which I have been +reading the difference between the minds of the two poets has already +appeared, and because it re-appears both in their poetic practice and in +their opinions about their art. Indeed, with so much difference, it +might be thought unlikely that these opinions would show also a marked +resemblance. For Keats, it may be said, was of all the great poets then +alive the one least affected by the spirit of the time, or by that +'revolutionary' atmosphere of which I spoke in a previous lecture. He +did not concern himself, we may be told, with the progress of humanity, +or with Manchester Massacres or risings in Naples. He cared nothing for +theories, abstractions, or ideals. He worshipped Beauty, not Liberty; +and the beauty he worshipped was not 'intellectual,' but visible, +audible, tangible. 'O for a life of sensations,' he cried, 'rather than +of thoughts.' He was an artist, intent upon fashioning his material +until the outward sensible form is perfectly expressive and delightful. +In all this he was at the opposite pole to Shelley; and he himself felt +it. He refused to visit Shelley, in order that he might keep his own +unfettered scope; and he never speaks of Shelley cordially. He told him, +too, that he might be more of an artist and load every rift of his +subject with ore; and that, while many people regard the purpose of a +work as the God, and the poetry as the Mammon, an artist must serve +Mammon. And his practice, like his opinions, proves that, both in his +strength and his limitations, he belongs to quite a different type. + +In such a plea there would certainly be much truth; and yet it is not +_the_ truth, for it ignores other truths which must somehow be combined +with it. There are great differences between the two poets, but then in +Keats himself there are contending strains. Along with the differences, +too, we find very close affinities. And these affinities with Shelley +also show that Keats was deeply influenced by the spirit of his time. +Let me illustrate these statements. + +The poet who cried, 'O for a life of sensations,' was consoled, as his +life withered away, by the remembrance that he 'had loved the principle +of beauty in all things.' And this is not a chance expression; it +repeats, for instance, a phrase used two years before, 'the mighty +abstract idea I have of Beauty in all things.' If Shelley had used this +language, it would be taken to prove his love of abstractions. How does +it differ from the language of the _Hymn to Intellectual Beauty_?[17] + +Again, we noticed in a previous lecture the likeness between _Alastor_ +and _Endymion_, each the first poem of any length in which the writer's +genius decisively declared itself. Both tell the story of a young poet; +of a dream in which his ideal appears in human form, and he knows the +rapture of union with it; of the passion thus enkindled, and the search +for its complete satisfaction. We may prefer to read _Endymion_ simply +as we read _Isabella_; but the question here is not of our preferences. +If we examine the poem without regard to them, we shall be unable to +doubt that to some extent the story symbolises or allegorises this +pursuit of the principle of beauty by the poetic soul. This is one of +the causes of its failure as a narrative. Keats had not in himself the +experience required by parts of his design, and hence in them he had to +write from mere imagination. And the poem, besides, shows in a flagrant +degree the defect felt here and there in _Prometheus Unbound_. If we +wish to read it as the author meant it, we must ask for the significance +of the figures, events, and actions. Yet it is clear that not all of +them are intended to have this further significance, and we are +perplexed by the question where, and how far, we are to look for it.[18] + +Take, again, some of the most famous of the lyrical poems. Is it true +that Keats was untroubled by that sense of contrast between ideal and +real which haunted Shelley and was so characteristic of the time? So far +is this from being the case that a critic might more plausibly object to +his monotonous insistence on that contrast. Probably the best-known +lyrics of the two poets are the stanzas _To a Skylark_ and the _Ode to a +Nightingale_. Well, if we summarise prosaically the subject of the one +poem we have summarised that of the other. 'Our human life is all unrest +and sorrow, an oscillation between longing and satiety, a looking before +and after. We are aware of a perfection that we cannot attain, and that +leaves us dissatisfied by everything attainable. And we die, and do not +understand death. But the bird is beyond this division and dissonance; +it attains the ideal; + + Das Unzulängliche, + Hier wird's Ereigniss.' + +This is the burden of both poems. In style, metre, tone, atmosphere, +they are far apart; the 'idea' is identical. And what else is the idea +of the _Ode_ _on a Grecian Urn_, where a moment, arrested in its +ideality by art and made eternal, is opposed to the change and decay of +reality? And what else is the idea of the playful lines _To +Fancy_,--Fancy who brings together the joys which in life are parted by +distances of time and place, and who holds in sure possession what life +wins only to lose? Even a poem so pictorial and narrative and free from +symbolism as the _The Eve of St. Agnes_ rests on the same feeling. The +contrast, so exquisitely imagined and conveyed, between the cold, the +storm, the old age, the empty pleasure and noisy enmity of the world +outside Madeline's chamber, and the glow, the hush, the rich and dreamy +bliss within it, is in effect the contrast which inspired the _Ode to a +Nightingale_. + +It would be easy to pursue this subject. It would be easy, too, to show +that Keats was far from indifferent to the 'progress of humanity.' He +conceived it in his own way, but it is as much the theme of _Hyperion_ +as of _Prometheus Unbound_. We are concerned however here not with the +interpretation of his poems, but with his view of poetry, and especially +with certain real or apparent inconsistencies in it. For in the letters +he now praises 'sensation' and decries thought or knowledge, and now +cries out for 'knowledge' as his greatest need; in one place declares +that an artist must have self-concentration, perhaps selfishness, and in +others insists that what he desires is to be of use to his fellow-men. +We shall gain light on these matters and on his relation to Shelley if I +try to reduce his general view to a precise and prosaic form. + +That which the poet seeks is Beauty. Beauty is a 'principle'; it is One. +All things beautiful manifest it, and so far therefore are one and the +same. This idea of the unity of all beauty comes out in many crucial +passages in the poems and letters. I take a single example. The goddess +Cynthia in _Endymion_ is the Principle of Beauty. In this story she is +also identified with the Moon. Accordingly the hero, gazing at the moon, +declares that in all that he ever loved he loved _her_: + + thou wast the deep glen-- + Thou wast the mountain-top--the sage's pen-- + The poet's harp--the voice of friends--the sun; + Thou wast the river--thou wast glory won; + Thou wast my clarion's blast--thou wast my steed-- + My goblet full of wine--my topmost deed:-- + Thou wast the charm of women, lovely Moon! + O what a wild and harmonised tune + My spirit struck from all the beautiful! + +When he says this he does not yet understand that the Moon and his +strange visitant are one; he thinks they are rivals. So later, when he +loves the Indian maid, and is in despair because he fancies himself +therefore false to his goddess, he is in error; for she is only his +goddess veiled, the shaded half of the moon. + +Still the mountain-top and the voice of friends differ. Indeed, the one +Beauty is infinitely various. But its manifestations, for Keats, tend to +fall into two main classes. On the one hand there is the kind of beauty +that comes easily and is all sweetness and pleasure. In receiving it we +seem to suppress nothing in our nature. Though it is not merely +sensuous, for the Principle of Beauty is in it, it speaks to sense and +delights us. It is 'luxury.' But the other kind is won through thought, +and also through pain. And this second and more difficult kind is also +the higher, the fuller, the nearer to the Principle. That it is won +through pain is doubly true. First, because the poet cannot reach it +unless he consents to suffer painful sympathies, which disturb his +enjoyment of the simpler and sweeter beauty, and may even seem to lead +him away from beauty altogether. Thus Endymion can attain union with his +goddess only by leaving the green hill-sides where he met her first, and +by wandering unhappily in cold moonless regions inside the earth and +under the sea. Here he feels for the woes of other lovers, and to help +them undertakes tasks which seem to interrupt his search for Cynthia. +Returning to earth he becomes enamoured of a maiden devoted to sorrow, +and gains his goddess just when he thinks he has resigned her. The +highest beauty, then, is reached through the poet's pain; and, in the +second place, it has pain in itself, or at least appears in objects that +are painful. In his early poem _Sleep and Poetry_ Keats asks himself the +question, + + And can I ever bid these joys farewell? + +And he answers: + + Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life, + Where I may find the agonies, the strife + Of human hearts. + +He felt himself as yet unequal to this task. He never became equal to +it, but the idea was realised to some extent in _Isabella_ and _Lamia_ +and _Hyperion_. The first two of these are tales of passion, 'agony,' +and death. The third, obviously, is on one side a story of 'strife.' + +Such, in its bare outline, is Keats's habitual view of poetry. What, +then, are the points where, in spite of its evident resemblance to +Shelley's, we feel a marked difference? The most important seem to be +two. In the first place Keats lays far the heavier stress on the idea +that beauty is manifested in suffering and conflict. The idea itself is +to be found in Shelley, but (as we saw in another lecture) it is not +congenial to him; it appears almost incidentally and is stated +half-heartedly; and of the further idea that beauty is not only +manifested in this sphere, but is there manifested most fully, we find, +I believe, no trace. And this was inevitable; for the whole tendency of +Shelley's mind was to regard suffering and conflict with mere distress +and horror as something senseless and purely evil, and to look on the +world as naturally a paradise entirely free from them, but ruined by an +inexplicable failure on the part of man. To this world of woe his +Intellectual Beauty does not really belong; it appears there only in +flashes; its true home is a place where no contradictions, not even +reconciled contradictions, exist. The idealism of Keats is much more +concrete. He has no belief either in this natural paradise or in +'Godwinian perfectibility.' Pain and conflict have a meaning to him. +Without them souls could not be made; and the business of the world, he +conjectures, is the making of souls. They are not therefore simply +obstacles to the ideal. On the contrary, in this world it manifests +itself most fully in and through them. For 'scenery is fine, but human +nature is finer';[19] and the passions and actions of man are finer than +his enjoyments and dreams. In the same way, the conflict in _Hyperion_ +is not one between light and darkness, the ideal and mere might, as in +_Prometheus Unbound_. The Titans must yield to the Olympians because, in +a word, they are less beautiful, and + + 'tis the eternal law + That first in beauty should be first in might. + +But the Titans, though less beautiful, _are_ beautiful; it is one and +the same 'principle' that manifests itself in them and more fully in +their victors. Their defeat therefore is not, in the end, defeat, but +the completion of their own being. This, it seems probable, the hero in +_Hyperion_ would have come to recognise, so that the poem, at least so +far as he is concerned, would have ended with a reconciliation born of +strife. + +Man is 'finer,' Keats says, and the Titans must submit because they are +less 'beautiful.' The second point of difference between him and +Shelley lies in this emphasis on beauty. The ideal with Shelley has many +names, and one of them is beauty, but we hardly feel it to be the name +nearest to his heart. The spirit of his worship is rather + + that sustaining Love + Which, through the web of being blindly wove + By man and beast and earth and air and sea, + Burns bright or dim, as each are mirrors of + The fire for which all thirst; + +and 'love' is a word less distinctively aesthetic, if the term must be +used, than 'beauty.' But the ideal for Keats is always and emphatically +beauty or the 'principle of beauty.' When he sets the agonies and +strifes of human hearts above a painless or luxurious loveliness, it is +because they are the more beautiful. He would not have said that the +_Midsummer Night's Dream_ is superior to _King Lear_ in beauty, but +inferior to it in some other respect; it is inferior in _beauty_ to +_King Lear_. Let art only be 'intense' enough, let the poet only look +hard enough and feel with force enough, so that the pain in his object +is seen truly as the vesture of great passion and action, and all +'disagreeables' will 'evaporate,' and nothing will remain but +beauty.[20] Hence, though well aware how little he has as yet of the +great poet's power of vision, he is still content when he can feel that +a poem of his has intensity, has (as he says of _Lamia_) 'that sort of +fire in it that must take hold of people some way.'[21] And an earlier +and inferior poem, _Isabella_, may show his mind. The mere subject is +exceedingly painful, and Keats by no means suppresses the painful +incidents and details; but the poem can hardly be called painful at all; +for the final impression is that of beauty, almost as decidedly so as +the final impression left by the blissful story of _St. Agnes' Eve_. And +this is most characteristic of Keats. If the word beauty is used in his +sense, and not in the common contracted sense, we may truly say that he +was, and must have remained, more than any other poet of his time, a +worshipper of Beauty. + +When, then--to come to his apparent inconsistencies--he exalts sensation +and decries thought or knowledge, what he is crying out for is beauty. +The word 'sensation,' as a comparison of passages would readily show, +has not in his letters its usual meaning. It stands for _poetic_ +sensation, and, indeed, for much more. It is, to speak broadly, a name +for _all_ poetic or imaginative experience; and the contents of the +speech of Oceanus are, in kind, just as much 'sensation' as the eating +of nectarines (which may well be poetic to the poetic). This is, I +repeat, to speak broadly. For it is true that sometimes in the earlier +letters we find Keats false to his better mind. Knowing that the more +difficult beauty is the fuller, he is yet, to our great advantage, so +entranced by the delight or glory of the easier, that he rebels against +everything that would disturb its magic or trouble his 'exquisite sense +of the luxurious.' And then he is tempted to see in thought only that +vexatious questioning that 'spoils the singing of the nightingale,' and +to forget that it is necessary to the fuller and more difficult kind of +beauty. But these moods are occasional. He knew that there was something +wilful and weak about them; and they gradually disappear. On the whole, +the gist of his attitude to 'thought' or 'philosophy' may be stated as +follows. + +He was far from being indifferent to truth, or from considering it +unimportant for poetry. In an early letter, when he criticises a poem of +Wordsworth's, he ventures to say that 'if Wordsworth had thought a +little deeper at that moment he would not have written it,' and that 'it +is a kind of sketchy intellectual landscape, not a search after +truth.'[22] He writes of a passage in _Endymion_: 'The whole thing +must, I think, have appeared to you, who are a consecutive man, as a +thing almost of mere words, but I assure you that, when I wrote it, it +was the regular stepping of Imagination towards a truth.'[23] And many +passages show his conviction that for his progress towards this truth +'thought,' 'knowledge,' 'philosophy,' are indispensable;[24] that he +must submit to the toil and the solitude that they involve, just as he +must undergo the pains of sympathy; that 'there is but one way for him,' +and that this one 'road lies through application, study, and +thought.'[25] On the other hand he had, in the first place, as we saw, a +strong feeling that a man, and especially a poet, must not be in a hurry +to arrive at results, and must not shut up his mind in the box of his +supposed results, but must be content with half-knowledge, and capable +of 'living in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable +reaching after fact and reason.' And, in the second place, a poet, he +felt, will never be able to rest in thoughts and reasonings which do not +also satisfy imagination and give a truth which is also beauty; and in +so far as they fail to do this, in so far as they are _mere_ thoughts +and reasonings, they are no more than a means, though a necessary means, +to an end, which end is beauty,--that beauty which is also truth. This +alone is the poet's end, and therefore his law. 'With a great poet the +sense of beauty overcomes every other consideration, or rather +obliterates all consideration.'[26] Thought, knowledge, philosophy, if +they fall short of this, are nothing but a 'road' to his goal. They +bring matter for him to mould to his purpose of beauty; but he must not +allow them to impose _their_ purpose on him, or to ask that it shall +appear in his product. These statements formulate Keats's position more +than he formulates it, but I believe that they represent it truly. He +was led to it mainly by the poetic instinct in him, or because, while +his mind had much general power, he was, more than Wordsworth or +Coleridge or Shelley, a poet pure and simple.[27] + +We can now deal more briefly with another apparent inconsistency. Keats +says again and again that the poet must not live for himself, but must +feel for others and try to help them; that 'there is no worthy pursuit +but the idea of doing some good for the world'; that he is ambitious to +do some good or to serve his country. Yet he writes to Shelley about the +_Cenci_: 'There is only one part of it I am judge of--the poetry and +dramatic effect, which by many spirits nowadays is considered the Mammon. +A modern work, it is said, must have a purpose, which may be the God. An +artist must serve Mammon; he must have "self-concentration"--selfishness, +perhaps.'[28] These are ungracious sentences, especially when we remember +the letter to which Keats is replying; and they are also unfair to +Shelley, whose tragedy cannot justly be accused of having an ultra-poetic +purpose, and whose Count Cenci shows much more dramatic imagination than +any figure drawn by Keats. But it is ungracious too to criticise the +irritability of a man condemned to death; and in any case these sentences +are perfectly consistent with Keats's expressed desire to do good. The +poet is to do good; yes, but by being a poet. He is to have a purpose of +doing good by his poetry; yes, but he is not to obtrude it in his +poetry, or to show that he has a design upon us.[29] To make beauty is +_his_ philanthropy. He will not succeed in it best by making what is only +in part beauty,--something like the _Excursion_, half poem and half +lecture. He must be unselfish, no doubt, but perhaps by being selfish; by +refusing, that is, to be diverted from his poetic way of helping by the +desire to help in another way. This is the drift of Keats's thought. If +we remember what he means by 'beauty' and 'poet,' and how he +distinguishes the poet from the 'dreamer,'[30] we shall think it sound +doctrine. + +Keats was by nature both dreamer and poet, and his ambition was to +become poet pure and simple. There was, in a further sense, a double +strain in his nature. He had in him the poetic temper of his time, the +ever-present sense of an infinite, the tendency to think of this as an +ideal perfection manifesting itself in reality, and yet surpassing +reality, and so capable of being contrasted with it. He was allied here +especially to Wordsworth and to Shelley, by the former of whom he was +greatly influenced. But there was also in him another tendency; and +this, it would seem, was strengthening at the expense of the first, and +would in time have dominated it. It was perhaps the deeper and more +individual. It may be called the Shakespearean strain, and it works +against any inclination to erect walls between ideal and real, or to +magnify differences of grade into oppositions of kind. Keats had the +impulse to interest himself in everything he saw or heard of, to be +curious about a thing, accept it, identify himself with it, without +first asking whether it is better or worse than another, or how far it +is from the ideal principle. It is this impulse that speaks in the +words, 'If a sparrow come before my window, I take part in its existence +and pick about the gravel';[31] and in the words, 'When she comes into a +room she makes an impression the same as the beauty of a leopardess'; +and in the feeling that she is fine, though Bishop Hooker is finer. It +too is the source of his complaint that he has no personal identity, and +of his description of the poetical character; 'It has no self; it is +everything and nothing.... It enjoys light and shade; it lives in gusto, +be it foul or fair, high or low, rich or poor, mean or elevated. It has +as much delight in conceiving an Iago as an Imogen. What shocks the +virtuous philosopher delights the chameleon poet. It does no harm from +its relish of the dark side of things, any more than from its taste for +the bright one, because they both end in speculation.[32] A poet is the +most unpoetical of anything in existence, because he has no identity. He +is continually in, for, and filling some other body.'[33] That is not a +description of Milton or Wordsworth or Shelley; neither does it apply +very fully to Keats; but it describes something at least of the spirit +of Shakespeare. + +Now this spirit, it is obvious, tends in poetry, I do not say to a +realistic, but to what may be called a concrete method of treatment; to +the vivid presentment of scenes, individualities, actions, in preference +to the expression of unembodied thoughts and feelings. The atmosphere of +Wordsworth's age, as we have seen, was not, on the whole, favourable to +it, and in various degrees it failed in strength, or it suffered, in all +the greater poets. Scott had it in splendid abundance and vigour; but +he had too little of the idealism or the metaphysical imagination which +was common to those poets, and which Shakespeare united with his +universal comprehension; nor was he, like Shakespeare and like some of +them, a master of magic in language. But Keats had that magic in fuller +measure, perhaps, than any of our poets since Milton; and, sharing the +idealism of Wordsworth and Shelley, he possessed also wider sympathies, +and, if not a more plastic or pictorial imagination than the latter, at +least a greater freedom from the attraction of theoretic ideas. To what +results might not this combination have led if his life had been as long +as Wordsworth's or even as Byron's? It would be more than hazardous, I +think, to say that he was the most highly endowed of all our poets in +the nineteenth century, but he might well have written its greatest long +poems. + +1905. + + + NOTE + +I have pointed out certain marked resemblances between _Alastor_ and +_Endymion_, and it would be easy to extend the list. These resemblances +are largely due to similarities in the minds of the two poets, and to +the action of a common influence on both. But I believe that, in +addition, Keats was affected by the reading of _Alastor_, which appeared +in 1816, while his own poem was begun in the spring of 1817. + +The common influence to which I refer was that of Wordsworth, and +especially of the _Excursion_, published in 1814. There is a quotation, +or rather a misquotation, from it in the Preface to _Alastor_. The +_Excursion_ is concerned in part with the danger of inactive and +unsympathetic solitude; and this, treated of course in Shelley's own +way, is the subject of _Alastor_, which also contains phrases +reminiscent of Wordsworth's poem. Its Preface too reminds one +immediately of the _Elegiac Stanzas on a Picture of Peele Castle_; of +the main idea, and of the lines, + + Farewell, farewell, the heart that lives alone, + Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind. + +As for Keats, the reader of his letters knows how much he was occupied +in 1817 and 1818 with thoughts due to the reading of Wordsworth, and how +great, though qualified, was his admiration of the _Excursion_. These +thoughts concerned chiefly the poetic nature, its tendency to 'dream,' +and the necessity that it should go beyond itself and feel for the +sorrows of others. They may have been suggested _only_ by Wordsworth; +but we must remember that _Alastor_ had been published, and that Keats +would naturally read it. In comparing that poem with _Endymion_ I am +obliged to repeat remarks already made in the lecture. + +_Alastor_, composed under the influence described, tells of the fate of +a young poet, who is 'pure and tender-hearted,' but who, in his search +for communion with the ideal influences of nature and of knowledge, +keeps aloof from sympathies with his kind. 'So long as it is possible +for his desires to point towards objects thus infinite and unmeasured, +he is joyous and tranquil and self-possessed.' But a time comes when he +thirsts for intercourse with an intelligence like himself. His ideal +requirements are embodied in the form of a being who appears to him in a +dream, and to whom he is united in passionate love. But his +'self-centred seclusion' now avenges itself. The 'spirit of sweet human +love' vanishes as he wakes, and he wanders over the earth, vainly +seeking the 'prototype' of the vision until he dies. + +In _Endymion_ the story of a dream-vision, of rapturous union with it, +and of the consequent pursuit of it, re-appears, though the beginning +and the end are different. The hero, before the coming of the vision, +has of course a poetic soul, but he is not self-secluded, or inactive, +or fragile, or philosophic; and his pursuit of the goddess leads not to +extinction but to immortal union with her. It does lead, however, to +adventures of which the main idea evidently is that the poetic soul can +only reach complete union with the ideal (which union is immortality) by +wandering in a world which seems to deprive him of it; by trying to +mitigate the woes of others instead of seeking the ideal for himself; +and by giving himself up to love for what seems to be a mere woman, but +is found to be the goddess herself. It seems almost beyond doubt that +the story of Cynthia and Endymion would not have taken this shape but +for _Alastor_. + +The reader will find this impression confirmed if he compares the +descriptions in _Alastor_ and _Endymion_, Book I., of the dreamer's +feelings on awakening from his dream, of the disenchantment that has +fallen on the landscape, and of his 'eager' pursuit of the lost vision. +Everything is, in one sense, different, for the two poets differ +greatly, and Keats, of course, was writing without any conscious +recollection of the passage in _Alastor_; but the conception is the +same.[34] + +Consider, again, the passage (near the beginning of _Endymion_, Book +III.) quoted on p. 230 of the lecture. The hero is addressing the moon; +and he says, to put it baldly, that from his boyhood everything that was +beautiful to him was associated with his love of the moon's beauty. The +passage continues thus: + + On some bright essence could I lean, and lull + Myself to immortality: I prest + Nature's soft pillow in a wakeful rest. + But, gentle Orb! there came a nearer bliss-- + My strange love came--Felicity's abyss! + She came, and thou didst fade, and fade away. + +In spite of the dissimilarities, surely the 'wakeful rest' here +corresponds to the condition of the poet in _Alastor_ prior to the +dream. 'So long as it is possible for his desires to point towards +objects thus infinite and unmeasured, he is joyous and tranquil and +self-possessed'; but when his 'strange love' comes these objects, like +the objects of Endymion's earlier desires, no longer suffice him. + +There is, however, further evidence, indeed positive proof, of the +effect of _Alastor_, and especially of its Preface, on Keats's mind. In +the revised version of _Hyperion_, Book I., the dreamer in the Temple +wonders why he has been preserved from death. The Prophetess tells him +the reason (I italicise certain words): + + 'None can usurp this height,' returned that shade, + 'But those to whom the _miseries of the world_ + Are misery, and will not let them rest. + _All else_ who find a haven in the world, + Where they may thoughtless sleep away their days, + If by a chance into this fane they come, + Rot on the pavement where thou rottedst half.' + 'Are there not thousands in the world,' said I, + Encouraged by the sooth voice of the shade, + 'Who _love their fellows_ even to the death, + Who feel the giant agony of the world, + And more, like slaves to poor humanity, + Labour for mortal good?' + +If the reader compares with this the following passage from the Preface +to _Alastor_, and if he observes the words I have italicised in it, he +will hardly doubt that some unconscious recollection of the Preface was +at work in Keats's mind. Shelley is distinguishing the self-centred +seclusion of his poet from that of common selfish souls: + +'The picture is not barren of instruction to actual men. The Poet's +self-centred seclusion was avenged by the furies of an irresistible +passion pursuing him to speedy ruin. But that Power which strikes the +luminaries of the world with sudden darkness and extinction, by +awakening them to too exquisite a perception of its influences, dooms to +a slow and poisonous decay those meaner spirits that dare to abjure its +dominion. Their destiny is more abject and inglorious as their +delinquency is more contemptible and pernicious. They who, deluded by no +generous error, instigated by no sacred thirst of doubtful knowledge, +duped by no illustrious superstition, loving nothing on this earth, and +cherishing no hopes beyond, yet keep aloof from sympathies with their +kind, rejoicing neither in human joy nor mourning with human grief; +these, and such as they, have their apportioned curse. They languish, +because none feel with them their common nature. They are morally dead. +They are neither friends, nor lovers, nor fathers, nor citizens of the +world, nor benefactors of their country. Among those who attempt to +exist without human sympathy, the pure and tender-hearted perish through +the intensity and passion of their search after its communities, when +the vacancy of their spirit suddenly makes itself felt. _All else_, +selfish, blind, and torpid, are those unforeseeing multitudes who +constitute, together with their own, the lasting _misery_ and loneliness +_of the world_. Those who _love not their fellow-beings_, live +unfruitful lives, and prepare for their old age a miserable grave.'[35] + +I have still a passage to refer to. Let the reader turn to the quotation +on p. 236 from Keats's reply to Shelley's letter of invitation to his +home in Italy; and let him ask himself why Keats puts the word +"self-concentration" in inverted commas. He is not referring to anything +in Shelley's letter, and he is not in the habit in the letters of using +inverted commas except to mark a quotation. Without doubt, I think, he +is referring from memory to the Preface to _Alastor_ and the phrase +'self-centred seclusion.' He has come to feel that this self-centred +seclusion is _right_ for a poet like himself, and that the direct +pursuit of philanthropy in poetry (which he supposes Shelley to +advocate) is wrong. But this is another proof how much he had been +influenced by Shelley's poem; and it is perhaps not too rash to +conjecture that his consciousness of this influence was one reason why +he had earlier refused to visit Shelley, in order that he might 'have +his own unfettered scope.'[36] + +If it seems to anyone that these conclusions are derogatory to Keats, +either as a man or a poet, I can only say that I differ from him +entirely. But I will add that there seems to me some reason to +conjecture that Shelley had read the _Ode to a Nightingale_ before he +wrote the stanzas _To a Skylark_. + + +FOOTNOTES: + + [1] The Letters (except those to Miss Brawne, and a few others) have + been edited by Colvin, and (without exception) by Forman (pub. Gowans + & Gray). I refer to them by their numbers, followed by the initial of + the editor's name. Both editions reproduce peculiarities of + punctuation, etc.; but for my present purpose these are usually + without interest, and I have consulted the convenience of the reader + in making changes. + + [2] Keats himself, it is strange to think, was born in the same year + as Carlyle. + + [3] These passions were in his last two years overclouded at times, + but they remained to the end. When, in the bitterness of his soul, he + begged Severn to put on his tombstone no name, but only 'Here lies + one whose name was writ in water,' he was thinking not merely of the + reviewers who had robbed him of fame in his short life, but also of + those unwritten poems, of which 'the faint conceptions' in happier + days used to 'bring the blood into his forehead.' + + [4] LII, C., LV, F. The quotations above are from XIV, XVI, C., XV, + XVII, XVIII, F. The verses are a parody of Wordsworth's lines, 'The + cock is crowing.' + + [5] LXI, C., LXVI, F. + + [6] LVI, C., LXI, F. + + [7] LXXIII, C., LXXXI, F. Mr. Hooker, I may remark, would not have + thanked Keats for his bishopric. + + [8] From the letter last quoted. See also CXVI, CXVIII, CXIX, C., + CXXXVII, CXXXIV, CXXXV, F. + + [9] 'Pain had no sting and pleasure's wreath no flower.' + + [10] XCII, C., CVI, F. + + [11] XIX, C., XXI, F. + + [12] LIV, C., LIX, F. + + [13] CXXXI, C., CLII, F. + + [14] CXVI, C., CXXXVII, F. The word 'turn' in the last sentence but + two seems to be doubtful. Mr. Colvin reads 'have.' + + [15] Keats's use of the word is suggested, probably, by Milton's + 'pure intelligence of heaven.' + + [16] XCII, C., CVI, F. + + [17] CLXVI, F., LXXIII, C., LXXXI, F. In XLI, C., XLIV, F., occurs a + passage ending with the words, 'they are able to "_consecrate + whate'er they look upon_."' Is not this a quotation from the _Hymn_: + + Spirit of BEAUTY that dost consecrate + With thine own hues all thou dost shine upon? + + If so, and if my memory serves me, this is the only quotation from + Shelley's poetry in the letters of Keats. The _Hymn_ had been + published in Hunt's _Examiner_, Jan., 1817. + + [18] The first critic, I believe, who seriously attempted to + investigate Keats's mind, and the ideas that were trying to take + shape in some of his poems, was F. M. Owen, whose _John Keats, a + Study_ (1880) never attracted in her too brief life-time the + attention it deserved. Mr. Bridges's treatment of these ideas is + masterly. To what is said above may be added that, although Keats was + dissatisfied with _Endymion_ even before he had finished it, he did + not at any time criticise it on the ground that it tried to put too + much meaning into the myth. On _Alastor_ and _Endymion_ see further + the Note appended to this lecture. + + [19] A notable (but not isolated) remark, seeing that the poetic + genius of Keats showed itself soonest and perhaps most completely in + the rendering of Nature. + + [20] XXIV, C., XXVI, F. + + [21] CXVI, C., CXXXVII, F. + + [22] XIX, C., XXI, F. + + [23] XXXII, C., XXXIV, F. + + [24] He contemplates even the study of metaphysics, LI, C., LIV, F. + + [25] L, C., LIII, F. + + [26] XXIV, C., XXVI, F. + + [27] Cf. in addition to the letters already referred to, the obscure + letter to Bailey, XXII, C., XXIV, F., which, however, is early, and + not quite in agreement with later thoughts. I should observe perhaps + that if Keats's position, as formulated above, is accepted, the + question still remains whether a truth which is also beauty, or a + beauty which is also truth, can be found by man; and, if so, whether + it can, in strictness, be called by either of those names. + + [28] CLV, C., CCVI, F. See on these sentences the Note at the end of + the lecture. + + [29] An expression used in reference to Wordsworth, XXXIV, C., XXXVI, + F. + + [30] I have not space to dwell on this distinction, but I must warn + the reader that he will probably misunderstand the important passage + in the revised _Hyperion_, 161 ff., unless he consults Mr. de + Sélincourt's edition. + + [31] XXII, C., XXV, F. + + [32] That is, in 'half-knowledge,' 'doubts,' 'mysteries' (see p. + 235), while the philosopher is sometimes supposed by Keats to have a + reasoned certainty about everything. It is curious to reflect that + great metaphysicians, like Spinoza and Hegel, are often accused of + the un-moral impartiality which Keats attributes to the poet. + + [33] LXXVI, C., LXXX, F. + + [34] The ultimate origin of the dream-passage in both poems may well + be Adam's dream in _Paradise Lost_, Book viii.: + + She disappear'd, and left me dark: I waked + To find her, or for ever to deplore + Her loss, and other pleasures all abjure. + + Keats alludes to this in XXII, C., XXIV, F. + + [35] It is tempting to conjecture with Mr. Forman that the full-stop + before the last sentence is a misprint, and that we should read 'the + world,--those who,' etc., so that the last two clauses would be + relative clauses co-ordinate with 'who love not their fellow-beings.' + Not to speak of the run of the sentences, this conjecture is tempting + because of the comma after 'fellow-beings,' and because the paragraph + is followed by the quotation ('those' should be 'they'), + + The good die first, + And those whose hearts are dry as summer's dust + Burn to the socket. + + The good who die first correspond with the 'pure and tender-hearted' + who perish and, as we naturally suppose, perish young, like the poet + in _Alastor_. But, as the last sentence stands, these, as well as the + torpid, live to old age. It is hard to believe that Shelley meant + this; but as he was in England when _Alastor_ was printed, he + probably revised the proofs, and it is perhaps easier to suppose that + he wrote what is printed than that he passed unobserved the serious + misprint supposed by Mr. Forman. + + [36] XVIII, C., XX, F. + + + + +THE REJECTION OF FALSTAFF + + +THE REJECTION OF FALSTAFF[1] + + +Of the two persons principally concerned in the rejection of Falstaff, +Henry, both as Prince and as King, has received, on the whole, full +justice from readers and critics. Falstaff, on the other hand, has been +in one respect the most unfortunate of Shakespeare's famous characters. +All of them, in passing from the mind of their creator into other minds, +suffer change; they tend to lose their harmony through the +disproportionate attention bestowed on some one feature, or to lose +their uniqueness by being conventionalised into types already familiar. +But Falstaff was degraded by Shakespeare himself. The original character +is to be found alive in the two parts of _Henry IV._, dead in _Henry +V._, and nowhere else. But not very long after these plays were +composed, Shakespeare wrote, and he afterwards revised, the very +entertaining piece called _The Merry Wives of Windsor_. Perhaps his +company wanted a new play on a sudden; or perhaps, as one would rather +believe, the tradition may be true that Queen Elizabeth, delighted with +the Falstaff scenes of _Henry IV._, expressed a wish to see the hero of +them again, and to see him in love. Now it was no more possible for +Shakespeare to show his own Falstaff in love than to turn twice two +into five. But he could write in haste--the tradition says, in a +fortnight--a comedy or farce differing from all his other plays in this, +that its scene is laid in English middle-class life, and that it is +prosaic almost to the end. And among the characters he could introduce a +disreputable fat old knight with attendants, and could call them +Falstaff, Bardolph, Pistol, and Nym. And he could represent this knight +assailing, for financial purposes, the virtue of two matrons, and in the +event baffled, duped, treated like dirty linen, beaten, burnt, pricked, +mocked, insulted, and, worst of all, repentant and didactic. It is +horrible. It is almost enough to convince one that Shakespeare himself +could sanction the parody of Ophelia in the _Two Noble Kinsmen_. But it +no more touches the real Falstaff than Ophelia is degraded by that +parody. To picture the real Falstaff befooled like the Falstaff of the +_Merry Wives_ is like imagining Iago the gull of Roderigo, or Becky +Sharp the dupe of Amelia Osborne. Before he had been served the least of +these tricks he would have had his brains taken out and buttered, and +have given them to a dog for a New Year's gift. I quote the words of the +impostor, for after all Shakespeare made him and gave to him a few +sentences worthy of Falstaff himself. But they are only a few--one side +of a sheet of notepaper would contain them. And yet critics have +solemnly debated at what period in his life Sir John endured the gibes +of Master Ford, and whether we should put this comedy between the two +parts of _Henry IV._, or between the second of them and _Henry V._ And +the Falstaff of the general reader, it is to be feared, is an impossible +conglomerate of two distinct characters, while the Falstaff of the mere +play-goer is certainly much more like the impostor than the true man. + +The separation of these two has long ago been effected by criticism, and +is insisted on in almost all competent estimates of the character of +Falstaff. I do not propose to attempt a full account either of this +character or of that of Prince Henry, but shall connect the remarks I +have to make on them with a question which does not appear to have been +satisfactorily discussed--the question of the rejection of Falstaff by +the Prince on his accession to the throne. What do we feel, and what are +we meant to feel, as we witness this rejection? And what does our +feeling imply as to the characters of Falstaff and the new King? + + + 1. + +Sir John, you remember, is in Gloucestershire, engaged in borrowing a +thousand pounds from Justice Shallow; and here Pistol, riding +helter-skelter from London, brings him the great news that the old King +is as dead as nail in door, and that Harry the Fifth is the man. Sir +John, in wild excitement, taking any man's horses, rushes to London; and +he carries Shallow with him, for he longs to reward all his friends. We +find him standing with his companions just outside Westminster Abbey, in +the crowd that is waiting for the King to come out after his coronation. +He himself is stained with travel, and has had no time to spend any of +the thousand pounds in buying new liveries for his men. But what of +that? This poor show only proves his earnestness of affection, his +devotion, how he could not deliberate or remember or have patience to +shift himself, but rode day and night, thought of nothing else but to +see Henry, and put all affairs else in oblivion, as if there were +nothing else to be done but to see him. And now he stands sweating with +desire to see him, and repeating and repeating this one desire of his +heart--'to see him.' The moment comes. There is a shout within the Abbey +like the roaring of the sea, and a clangour of trumpets, and the doors +open and the procession streams out. + + FAL. God save thy grace, King Hal! my royal Hal! + + PIST. The heavens thee guard and keep, most royal imp of fame! + + FAL. God save thee, my sweet boy! + + KING. My Lord Chief Justice, speak to that vain man. + + CH. JUST. Have you your wits? Know you what 'tis you speak? + + FAL. My King! my Jove! I speak to thee, my heart! + + KING. I know thee not, old man: fall to thy prayers. + How ill white hairs become a fool and jester! + I have long dream'd of such a kind of man, + So surfeit-swell'd, so old and so profane; + But being awaked I do despise my dream. + Make less thy body hence, and more thy grace; + Leave gormandizing; know the grave doth gape + For thee thrice wider than for other men. + Reply not to me with a fool-born jest: + Presume not that I am the thing I was; + For God doth know, so shall the world perceive, + That I have turn'd away my former self; + So will I those that kept me company. + When thou dost hear I am as I have been, + Approach me, and thou shalt be as thou wast, + The tutor and the feeder of my riots: + Till then, I banish thee, on pain of death, + As I have done the rest of my misleaders, + Not to come near our person by ten mile. + For competence of life I will allow you, + That lack of means enforce you not to evil: + And, as we hear you do reform yourselves, + We will, according to your strengths and qualities, + Give you advancement. Be it your charge, my lord, + To see perform'd the tenour of our word. + Set on. + +The procession passes out of sight, but Falstaff and his friends remain. +He shows no resentment. He comforts himself, or tries to comfort +himself--first, with the thought that he has Shallow's thousand pounds, +and then, more seriously, I believe, with another thought. The King, he +sees, must look thus to the world; but he will be sent for in private +when night comes, and will yet make the fortunes of his friends. But +even as he speaks, the Chief Justice, accompanied by Prince John, +returns, and gives the order to his officers: + + Go, carry Sir John Falstaff to the Fleet; + Take all his company along with him. + +Falstaff breaks out, 'My lord, my lord,' but he is cut short and hurried +away; and after a few words between the Prince and the Chief Justice the +scene closes, and with it the drama. + +What are our feelings during this scene? They will depend on our +feelings about Falstaff. If we have not keenly enjoyed the Falstaff +scenes of the two plays, if we regard Sir John chiefly as an old +reprobate, not only a sensualist, a liar, and a coward, but a cruel and +dangerous ruffian, I suppose we enjoy his discomfiture and consider that +the King has behaved magnificently. But if we _have_ keenly enjoyed the +Falstaff scenes, if we have enjoyed them as Shakespeare surely meant +them to be enjoyed, and if, accordingly, Falstaff is not to us solely or +even chiefly a reprobate and ruffian, we feel, I think, during the +King's speech, a good deal of pain and some resentment; and when, +without any further offence on Sir John's part, the Chief Justice +returns and sends him to prison, we stare in astonishment. These, I +believe, are, in greater or less degree, the feelings of most of those +who really enjoy the Falstaff scenes (as many readers do not). Nor are +these feelings diminished when we remember the end of the whole story, +as we find it in _Henry V._, where we learn that Falstaff quickly died, +and, according to the testimony of persons not very sentimental, died of +a broken heart.[2] Suppose this merely to mean that he sank under the +shame of his public disgrace, and it is pitiful enough: but the words of +Mrs. Quickly, 'The king has killed his heart'; of Nym, 'The king hath +run bad humours on the knight; that's the even of it'; of Pistol, + + Nym, thou hast spoke the right, + His heart is fracted and corroborate, + +assuredly point to something more than wounded pride; they point to +wounded affection, and remind us of Falstaff's own answer to Prince +Hal's question, 'Sirrah, do I owe you a thousand pound?' 'A thousand +pound, Hal? a million: thy love is worth a million: thou owest me thy +love.' + +Now why did Shakespeare end his drama with a scene which, though +undoubtedly striking, leaves an impression so unpleasant? I will venture +to put aside without discussion the idea that he meant us throughout the +two plays to regard Falstaff with disgust or indignation, so that we +naturally feel nothing but pleasure at his fall; for this idea implies +that kind of inability to understand Shakespeare with which it is idle +to argue. And there is another and a much more ingenious suggestion +which must equally be rejected as impossible. According to it, Falstaff, +having listened to the King's speech, did not seriously hope to be sent +for by him in private; he fully realised the situation at once, and was +only making game of Shallow; and in his immediate turn upon Shallow when +the King goes out, 'Master Shallow, I owe you a thousand pound,' we are +meant to see his humorous superiority to any rebuff, so that we end the +play with the delightful feeling that, while Henry has done the right +thing, Falstaff, in his outward overthrow, has still proved himself +inwardly invincible. This suggestion comes from a critic who understands +Falstaff, and in the suggestion itself shows that he understands him.[3] +But it provides no solution, because it wholly ignores, and could not +account for, that which follows the short conversation with Shallow. +Falstaff's dismissal to the Fleet, and his subsequent death, prove +beyond doubt that his rejection was meant by Shakespeare to be taken as +a catastrophe which not even his humour could enable him to surmount. + +Moreover, these interpretations, even if otherwise admissible, would +still leave our problem only partly solved. For what troubles us is not +only the disappointment of Falstaff, it is the conduct of Henry. It was +inevitable that on his accession he should separate himself from Sir +John, and we wish nothing else. It is satisfactory that Sir John should +have a competence, with the hope of promotion in the highly improbable +case of his reforming himself. And if Henry could not trust himself +within ten miles of so fascinating a companion, by all means let him be +banished that distance: we do not complain. These arrangements would not +have prevented a satisfactory ending: the King could have communicated +his decision, and Falstaff could have accepted it, in a private +interview rich in humour and merely touched with pathos. But Shakespeare +has so contrived matters that Henry could not send a private warning to +Falstaff even if he wished to, and in their public meeting Falstaff is +made to behave in so infatuated and outrageous a manner that great +sternness on the King's part was unavoidable. And the curious thing is +that Shakespeare did not stop here. If this had been all we should have +felt pain for Falstaff, but not, perhaps, resentment against Henry. But +two things we do resent. Why, when this painful incident seems to be +over, should the Chief Justice return and send Falstaff to prison? Can +this possibly be meant for an act of private vengeance on the part of +the Chief Justice, unknown to the King? No; for in that case Shakespeare +would have shown at once that the King disapproved and cancelled it. It +must have been the King's own act. This is one thing we resent; the +other is the King's sermon. He had a right to turn away his former +self, and his old companions with it, but he had no right to talk all of +a sudden like a clergyman; and surely it was both ungenerous and +insincere to speak of them as his 'misleaders,' as though in the days of +Eastcheap and Gadshill he had been a weak and silly lad. We have seen +his former self, and we know that it was nothing of the kind. He had +shown himself, for all his follies, a very strong and independent young +man, deliberately amusing himself among men over whom he had just as +much ascendency as he chose to exert. Nay, he amused himself not only +among them, but at their expense. In his first soliloquy--and first +soliloquies are usually significant--he declares that he associates with +them in order that, when at some future time he shows his true +character, he may be the more wondered at for his previous aberrations. +You may think he deceives himself here; you may believe that he +frequented Sir John's company out of delight in it and not merely with +this cold-blooded design; but at any rate he _thought_ the design was +his one motive. And, that being so, two results follow. He ought in +honour long ago to have given Sir John clearly to understand that they +must say good-bye on the day of his accession. And, having neglected to +do this, he ought not to have lectured him as his misleader. It was not +only ungenerous, it was dishonest. It looks disagreeably like an attempt +to buy the praise of the respectable at the cost of honour and truth. +And it succeeded. Henry _always_ succeeded. + +You will see what I am suggesting, for the moment, as a solution of our +problem. I am suggesting that our fault lies not in our resentment at +Henry's conduct, but in our surprise at it; that if we had read his +character truly in the light that Shakespeare gave us, we should have +been prepared for a display both of hardness and of policy at this point +in his career, And although this suggestion does not suffice to solve +the problem before us, I am convinced that in itself it is true. Nor is +it rendered at all improbable by the fact that Shakespeare has made +Henry, on the whole, a fine and very attractive character, and that here +he makes no one express any disapprobation of the treatment of Falstaff. +For in similar cases Shakespeare is constantly misunderstood. His +readers expect him to mark in some distinct way his approval or +disapproval of that which he represents; and hence where _they_ +disapprove and _he_ says nothing, they fancy that he does _not_ +disapprove, and they blame his indifference, like Dr. Johnson, or at the +least are puzzled. But the truth is that he shows the fact and leaves +the judgment to them. And again, when he makes us like a character we +expect the character to have no faults that are not expressly pointed +out, and when other faults appear we either ignore them or try to +explain them away. This is one of our methods of conventionalising +Shakespeare. We want the world's population to be neatly divided into +sheep and goats, and we want an angel by us to say, 'Look, that is a +goat and this is a sheep,' and we try to turn Shakespeare into this +angel. His impartiality makes us uncomfortable: we cannot bear to see +him, like the sun, lighting up everything and judging nothing. And this +is perhaps especially the case in his historical plays, where we are +always trying to turn him into a partisan. He shows us that Richard II. +was unworthy to be king, and we at once conclude that he thought +Bolingbroke's usurpation justified; whereas he shows merely, what under +the conditions was bound to exist, an inextricable tangle of right and +unright. Or, Bolingbroke being evidently wronged, we suppose +Bolingbroke's statements to be true, and are quite surprised when, after +attaining his end through them, he mentions casually on his death-bed +that they were lies. Shakespeare makes us admire Hotspur heartily; and +accordingly, when we see Hotspur discussing with others how large his +particular slice of his mother-country is to be, we either fail to +recognise the monstrosity of the proceeding, or, recognising it, we +complain that Shakespeare is inconsistent. Prince John breaks a +tottering rebellion by practising a detestable fraud on the rebels. We +are against the rebels, and have heard high praise of Prince John, but +we cannot help seeing that his fraud is detestable; so we say +indignantly to Shakespeare, 'Why, you told us he was a sheep'; whereas, +in fact, if we had used our eyes we should have known beforehand that he +was the brave, determined, loyal, cold-blooded, pitiless, unscrupulous +son of a usurper whose throne was in danger. + +To come, then, to Henry. Both as prince and as king he is deservedly a +favourite, and particularly so with English readers, being, as he is, +perhaps the most distinctively English of all Shakespeare's men. In +_Henry V._ he is treated as a national hero. In this play he has lost +much of the wit which in him seems to have depended on contact with +Falstaff, but he has also laid aside the most serious faults of his +youth. He inspires in a high degree fear, enthusiasm, and affection; +thanks to his beautiful modesty he has the charm which is lacking to +another mighty warrior, Coriolanus; his youthful escapades have given +him an understanding of simple folk, and sympathy with them; he is the +author of the saying, 'There is some soul of goodness in things evil'; +and he is much more obviously religious than most of Shakespeare's +heroes. Having these and other fine qualities, and being without certain +dangerous tendencies which mark the tragic heroes, he is, perhaps, the +most _efficient_ character drawn by Shakespeare, unless Ulysses, in +_Troilus and Cressida_, is his equal. And so he has been described as +Shakespeare's ideal man of action; nay, it has even been declared that +here for once Shakespeare plainly disclosed his own ethical creed, and +showed us his ideal, not simply of a man of action, but of a man. + +But Henry is neither of these. The poet who drew Hamlet and Othello can +never have thought that even the ideal man of action would lack that +light upon the brow which at once transfigures them and marks their +doom. It is as easy to believe that, because the lunatic, the lover, and +the poet are not far apart, Shakespeare would have chosen never to have +loved and sung. Even poor Timon, the most inefficient of the tragic +heroes, has something in him that Henry never shows. Nor is it merely +that his nature is limited: if we follow Shakespeare and look closely at +Henry, we shall discover with the many fine traits a few less pleasing. +Henry IV. describes him as the noble image of his own youth; and, for +all his superiority to his father, he is still his father's son, the son +of the man whom Hotspur called a 'vile politician.' Henry's religion, +for example, is genuine, it is rooted in his modesty; but it is also +superstitious--an attempt to buy off supernatural vengeance for +Richard's blood; and it is also in part political, like his father's +projected crusade. Just as he went to war chiefly because, as his father +told him, it was the way to keep factious nobles quiet and unite the +nation, so when he adjures the Archbishop to satisfy him as to his right +to the French throne, he knows very well that the Archbishop _wants_ the +war, because it will defer and perhaps prevent what he considers the +spoliation of the Church. This same strain of policy is what Shakespeare +marks in the first soliloquy in _Henry IV._, where the prince describes +his riotous life as a mere scheme to win him glory later. It implies +that readiness to use other people as means to his own ends which is a +conspicuous feature in his father; and it reminds us of his father's +plan of keeping himself out of the people's sight while Richard was +making himself cheap by his incessant public appearances. And if I am +not mistaken there is a further likeness. Henry is kindly and pleasant +to every one as Prince, to every one deserving as King; and he is so not +merely out of policy: but there is no sign in him of a strong affection +for any one, such an affection as we recognise at a glance in Hamlet and +Horatio, Brutus and Cassius, and many more. We do not find this in +_Henry V._, not even in the noble address to Lord Scroop, and in _Henry +IV._ we find, I think, a liking for Falstaff and Poins, but no more: +there is no more than a liking, for instance, in his soliloquy over the +supposed corpse of his fat friend, and he never speaks of Falstaff to +Poins with any affection. The truth is, that the members of the family +of Henry IV. have love for one another, but they cannot spare love for +any one outside their family, which stands firmly united, defending its +royal position against attack and instinctively isolating itself from +outside influence. + +Thus I would suggest that Henry's conduct in his rejection of Falstaff +is in perfect keeping with his character on its unpleasant side as well +as on its finer; and that, so far as Henry is concerned, we ought not to +feel surprise at it. And on this view we may even explain the strange +incident of the Chief Justice being sent back to order Falstaff to +prison (for there is no sign of any such uncertainty in the text as +might suggest an interpolation by the players). Remembering his father's +words about Henry, 'Being incensed, he's flint,' and remembering in +_Henry V._ his ruthlessness about killing the prisoners when he is +incensed, we may imagine that, after he had left Falstaff and was no +longer influenced by the face of his old companion, he gave way to anger +at the indecent familiarity which had provoked a compromising scene on +the most ceremonial of occasions and in the presence alike of court and +crowd, and that he sent the Chief Justice back to take vengeance. And +this is consistent with the fact that in the next play we find Falstaff +shortly afterwards not only freed from prison, but unmolested in his old +haunt in Eastcheap, well within ten miles of Henry's person. His anger +had soon passed, and he knew that the requisite effect had been produced +both on Falstaff and on the world. + +But all this, however true, will not solve our problem. It seems, on the +contrary, to increase its difficulty. For the natural conclusion is that +Shakespeare _intended_ us to feel resentment against Henry. And yet that +cannot be, for it implies that he meant the play to end disagreeably; +and no one who understands Shakespeare at all will consider that +supposition for a moment credible. No; he must have meant the play to +end pleasantly, although he made Henry's action consistent. And hence it +follows that he must have intended our sympathy with Falstaff to be so +far weakened when the rejection-scene arrives that his discomfiture +should be satisfactory to us; that we should enjoy this sudden reverse +of enormous hopes (a thing always ludicrous if sympathy is absent); that +we should approve the moral judgment that falls on him; and so should +pass lightly over that disclosure of unpleasant traits in the King's +character which Shakespeare was too true an artist to suppress. Thus our +pain and resentment, if we feel them, are wrong, in the sense that they +do not answer to the dramatist's intention. But it does not follow that +they are wrong in a further sense. They may be right, because the +dramatist has missed what he aimed at. And this, though the dramatist +was Shakespeare, is what I would suggest. In the Falstaff scenes he +overshot his mark. He created so extraordinary a being, and fixed him so +firmly on his intellectual throne, that when he sought to dethrone him +he could not. The moment comes when we are to look at Falstaff in a +serious light, and the comic hero is to figure as a baffled schemer; but +we cannot make the required change, either in our attitude or in our +sympathies. We wish Henry a glorious reign and much joy of his crew of +hypocritical politicians, lay and clerical; but our hearts go with +Falstaff to the Fleet, or, if necessary, to Arthur's bosom or +wheresomever he is.[4] + +In the remainder of the lecture I will try to make this view clear. And +to that end we must go back to the Falstaff of the body of the two +plays, the immortal Falstaff, a character almost purely humorous, and +therefore no subject for moral judgments. I can but draw an outline, and +in describing one aspect of this character must be content to hold +another in reserve. + + + 2. + +Up to a certain point Falstaff is ludicrous in the same way as many +other figures, his distinction lying, so far, chiefly in the mere +abundance of ludicrous traits. _Why_ we should laugh at a man with a +huge belly and corresponding appetites; at the inconveniences he suffers +on a hot day, or in playing the footpad, or when he falls down and there +are no levers at hand to lift him up again; at the incongruity of his +unwieldy bulk and the nimbleness of his spirit, the infirmities of his +age and his youthful lightness of heart; at the enormity of his lies and +wiles, and the suddenness of their exposure and frustration; at the +contrast between his reputation and his real character, seen most +absurdly when, at the mere mention of his name, a redoubted rebel +surrenders to him--_why_, I say, we should laugh at these and many such +things, this is no place to inquire; but unquestionably we do. Here we +have them poured out in endless profusion and with that air of careless +ease which is so fascinating in Shakespeare; and with the enjoyment of +them I believe many readers stop. But while they are quite essential to +the character, there is in it much more. For these things by themselves +do not explain why, beside laughing at Falstaff, we are made happy by +him and laugh _with_ him. He is not, like Parolles, a mere _object_ of +mirth. + +The main reason why he makes us so happy and puts us so entirely at our +ease is that he himself is happy and entirely at his ease. 'Happy' is +too weak a word; he is in bliss, and we share his glory. Enjoyment--no +fitful pleasure crossing a dull life, nor any vacant convulsive +mirth--but a rich deep-toned chuckling enjoyment circulates continually +through all his being. If you ask _what_ he enjoys, no doubt the answer +is, in the first place, eating and drinking, taking his ease at his inn, +and the company of other merry souls. Compared with these things, what +we count the graver interests of life are nothing to him. But then, +while we are under his spell, it is impossible to consider these graver +interests; gravity is to us, as to him, inferior to gravy; and what he +does enjoy he enjoys with such a luscious and good-humoured zest that we +sympathise and he makes us happy. And if any one objected, we should +answer with Sir Toby Belch, 'Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, +there shall be no more cakes and ale?' + +But this, again, is far from all. Falstaff's ease and enjoyment are not +simply those of the happy man of appetite;[5] they are those of the +humorist, and the humorist of genius. Instead of being comic to you and +serious to himself, he is more ludicrous to himself than to you; and he +makes himself out more ludicrous than he is, in order that he and +others may laugh. Prince Hal never made such sport of Falstaff's person +as he himself did. It is _he_ who says that his skin hangs about him +like an old lady's loose gown, and that he walks before his page like a +sow that hath o'erwhelmed all her litter but one. And he jests at +himself when he is alone just as much as when others are by. It is the +same with his appetites. The direct enjoyment they bring him is scarcely +so great as the enjoyment of laughing at this enjoyment; and for all his +addiction to sack you never see him for an instant with a brain dulled +by it, or a temper turned solemn, silly, quarrelsome, or pious. The +virtue it instils into him, of filling his brain with nimble, fiery, and +delectable shapes--this, and his humorous attitude towards it, free him, +in a manner, from slavery to it; and it is this freedom, and no secret +longing for better things (those who attribute such a longing to him are +far astray), that makes his enjoyment contagious and prevents our +sympathy with it from being disturbed. + +The bliss of freedom gained in humour is the essence of Falstaff. His +humour is not directed only or chiefly against obvious absurdities; he +is the enemy of everything that would interfere with his ease, and +therefore of anything serious, and especially of everything respectable +and moral. For these things impose limits and obligations, and make us +the subjects of old father antic the law, and the categorical +imperative, and our station and its duties, and conscience, and +reputation, and other people's opinions, and all sorts of nuisances. I +say he is therefore their enemy; but I do him wrong; to say that he is +their enemy implies that he regards them as serious and recognises their +power, when in truth he refuses to recognise them at all. They are to +him absurd; and to reduce a thing _ad absurdum_ is to reduce it to +nothing and to walk about free and rejoicing. This is what Falstaff +does with all the would-be serious things of life, sometimes only by his +words, sometimes by his actions too. He will make truth appear absurd by +solemn statements, which he utters with perfect gravity and which he +expects nobody to believe; and honour, by demonstrating that it cannot +set a leg, and that neither the living nor the dead can possess it; and +law, by evading all the attacks of its highest representative and almost +forcing him to laugh at his own defeat; and patriotism, by filling his +pockets with the bribes offered by competent soldiers who want to escape +service, while he takes in their stead the halt and maimed and the +gaol-birds; and duty, by showing how he labours in his vocation--of +thieving; and courage, alike by mocking at his own capture of Colvile +and gravely claiming to have killed Hotspur; and war, by offering the +Prince his bottle of sack when he is asked for a sword; and religion, by +amusing himself with remorse at odd times when he has nothing else to +do; and the fear of death, by maintaining perfectly untouched, in the +face of imminent peril and even while he _feels_ the fear of death, the +very same power of dissolving it in persiflage that he shows when he +sits at ease in his inn. These are the wonderful achievements which he +performs, not with the sourness of a cynic, but with the gaiety of a +boy. And, therefore, we praise him, we laud him, for he offends none but +the virtuous, and denies that life is real or life is earnest, and +delivers us from the oppression of such nightmares, and lifts us into +the atmosphere of perfect freedom. + +No one in the play understands Falstaff fully, any more than Hamlet was +understood by the persons round him. They are both men of genius. Mrs. +Quickly and Bardolph are his slaves, but they know not why. 'Well, fare +thee well,' says the hostess whom he has pillaged and forgiven; 'I have +known thee these twenty-nine years, come peas-cod time, but an honester +and truer-hearted man--well, fare thee well.' Poins and the Prince +delight in him; they get him into corners for the pleasure of seeing him +escape in ways they cannot imagine; but they often take him much too +seriously. Poins, for instance, rarely sees, the Prince does not always +see, and moralising critics never see, that when Falstaff speaks ill of +a companion behind his back, or writes to the Prince that Poins spreads +it abroad that the Prince is to marry his sister, he knows quite well +that what he says will be repeated, or rather, perhaps, is absolutely +indifferent whether it be repeated or not, being certain that it can +only give him an opportunity for humour. It is the same with his lying, +and almost the same with his cowardice, the two main vices laid to his +charge even by sympathisers. Falstaff is neither a liar nor a coward in +the usual sense, like the typical cowardly boaster of comedy. He tells +his lies either for their own humour, or on purpose to get himself into +a difficulty. He rarely expects to be believed, perhaps never. He +abandons a statement or contradicts it the moment it is made. There is +scarcely more intent in his lying than in the humorous exaggerations +which he pours out in soliloquy just as much as when others are by. +Poins and the Prince understand this in part. You see them waiting +eagerly to convict him, not that they may really put him to shame, but +in order to enjoy the greater lie that will swallow up the less. But +their sense of humour lags behind his. Even the Prince seems to accept +as half-serious that remorse of his which passes so suddenly into glee +at the idea of taking a purse, and his request to his friend to bestride +him if he should see him down in the battle. Bestride Falstaff! 'Hence! +Wilt thou lift up Olympus?' + +Again, the attack of the Prince and Poins on Falstaff and the other +thieves on Gadshill is contrived, we know, with a view to the +incomprehensible lies it will induce him to tell. But when, more than +rising to the occasion, he turns two men in buckram into four, and then +seven, and then nine, and then eleven, almost in a breath, I believe +they partly misunderstand his intention, and too many of his critics +misunderstand it altogether. Shakespeare was not writing a mere farce. +It is preposterous to suppose that a man of Falstaff's intelligence +would utter these gross, palpable, open lies with the serious intention +to deceive, or forget that, if it was too dark for him to see his own +hand, he could hardly see that the three misbegotten knaves were wearing +Kendal green. No doubt, if he _had_ been believed, he would have been +hugely tickled at it, but he no more expected to be believed than when +he claimed to have killed Hotspur. Yet he is supposed to be serious even +then. Such interpretations would destroy the poet's whole conception; +and of those who adopt them one might ask this out of some twenty +similar questions:--When Falstaff, in the men in buckram scene, begins +by calling twice at short intervals for sack, and then a little later +calls for more and says, 'I am a rogue if I drunk to-day,' and the +Prince answers, 'O villain, thy lips are scarce wiped since thou +drunk'st last,' do they think that _that_ lie was meant to deceive? And +if not, why do they take it for granted that the others were? I suppose +they consider that Falstaff was in earnest when, wanting to get +twenty-two yards of satin on trust from Master Dombledon the +silk-mercer, he offered Bardolph as security; or when he said to the +Chief Justice about Mrs. Quickly, who accused him of breaking his +promise to marry her, 'My lord, this is a poor mad soul, and she says up +and down the town that her eldest son is like you'; or when he explained +his enormous bulk by exclaiming, 'A plague of sighing and grief! It +blows a man up like a bladder'; or when he accounted for his voice +being cracked by declaring that he had 'lost it with singing of +anthems'; or even when he sold his soul on Good-Friday to the devil for +a cup of Madeira and a cold capon's leg. Falstaff's lies about Hotspur +and the men in buckram do not essentially differ from these statements. +There is nothing serious in any of them except the refusal to take +anything seriously. + +This is also the explanation of Falstaff's cowardice, a subject on which +I should say nothing if Maurice Morgann's essay,[6] now more than a +century old, were better known. That Falstaff sometimes behaves in what +we should generally call a cowardly way is certain; but that does not +show that he was a coward; and if the word means a person who feels +painful fear in the presence of danger, and yields to that fear in spite +of his better feelings and convictions, then assuredly Falstaff was no +coward. The stock bully and boaster of comedy is one, but not Falstaff. +It is perfectly clear in the first place that, though he had +unfortunately a reputation for stabbing and caring not what mischief he +did if his weapon were out, he had not a reputation for cowardice. +Shallow remembered him five-and-fifty years ago breaking Scogan's head +at the court-gate when he was a crack not thus high; and Shallow knew +him later a good back-swordsman. Then we lose sight of him till about +twenty years after, when his association with Bardolph began; and that +association implies that by the time he was thirty-five or forty he had +sunk into the mode of life we witness in the plays. Yet, even as we see +him there, he remains a person of consideration in the army. Twelve +captains hurry about London searching for him. He is present at the +Council of War in the King's tent at Shrewsbury, where the only other +persons are the King, the two princes, a nobleman and Sir Walter Blunt. +The messenger who brings the false report of the battle to +Northumberland mentions, as one of the important incidents, the death of +Sir John Falstaff. Colvile, expressly described as a famous rebel, +surrenders to him as soon as he hears his name. And if his own wish that +his name were not so terrible to the enemy, and his own boast of his +European reputation, are not evidence of the first rank, they must not +be entirely ignored in presence of these other facts. What do these +facts mean? Does Shakespeare put them all in with no purpose at all, or +in defiance of his own intentions? It is not credible. + +And when, in the second place, we look at Falstaff's actions, what do we +find? He boldly confronted Colvile, he was quite ready to fight with +him, however pleased that Colvile, like a kind fellow, gave himself +away. When he saw Henry and Hotspur fighting, Falstaff, instead of +making off in a panic, stayed to take his chance if Hotspur should be +the victor. He _led_ his hundred and fifty ragamuffins where they were +peppered, he did not _send_ them. To draw upon Pistol and force him +downstairs and wound him in the shoulder was no great feat, perhaps, but +the stock coward would have shrunk from it. When the Sheriff came to the +inn to arrest him for an offence whose penalty was death, Falstaff, who +was hidden behind the arras, did not stand there quaking for fear, he +immediately fell asleep and snored. When he stood in the battle +reflecting on what would happen if the weight of his paunch should be +increased by that of a bullet, he cannot have been in a tremor of craven +fear. He _never_ shows such fear; and surely the man who, in danger of +his life, and with no one by to hear him, meditates thus: 'I like not +such grinning honour as Sir Walter hath. Give me life: which if I can +save, so; if not, honour comes unlooked-for, and there's an end,' is not +what we commonly call a coward. + +'Well,' it will be answered, 'but he ran away on Gadshill; and when +Douglas attacked him he fell down and shammed dead.' Yes, I am thankful +to say, he did. For of course he did not want to be dead. He wanted to +live and be merry. And as he had reduced the idea of honour _ad +absurdum_, had scarcely any self-respect, and only a respect for +reputation as a means of life, naturally he avoided death when he could +do so without a ruinous loss of reputation, and (observe) with the +satisfaction of playing a colossal practical joke. For _that_ after all +was his first object. If his one thought had been to avoid death he +would not have faced Douglas at all, but would have run away as fast as +his legs could carry him; and unless Douglas had been one of those +exceptional Scotchmen who have no sense of humour, he would never have +thought of pursuing so ridiculous an object as Falstaff running. So +that, as Mr. Swinburne remarks, Poins is right when he thus +distinguishes Falstaff from his companions in robbery: 'For two of them, +I know them to be as true-bred cowards as ever turned back; and for the +third, if he fight longer than he sees reason, I'll forswear arms.' And +the event justifies this distinction. For it is exactly thus that, +according to the original stage-direction, Falstaff behaves when Henry +and Poins attack him and the others. The rest run away at once; +Falstaff, here as afterwards with Douglas, fights for a blow or two, +but, finding himself deserted and outmatched, runs away also. Of course. +He saw no reason to stay. _Any_ man who had risen superior to all +serious motives would have run away. But it does not follow that he +would run from mere fear, or be, in the ordinary sense, a coward.[7] + + + 3. + +The main source, then, of our sympathetic delight in Falstaff is his +humorous superiority to everything serious, and the freedom of soul +enjoyed in it. But, of course, this is not the whole of his character. +Shakespeare knew well enough that perfect freedom is not to be gained in +this manner; we are ourselves aware of it even while we are sympathising +with Falstaff; and as soon as we regard him seriously it becomes +obvious. His freedom is limited in two main ways. For one thing he +cannot rid himself entirely of respect for all that he professes to +ridicule. He shows a certain pride in his rank: unlike the Prince, he is +haughty to the drawers, who call him a proud Jack. He is not really +quite indifferent to reputation. When the Chief Justice bids him pay his +debt to Mrs. Quickly for his reputation's sake, I think he feels a +twinge, though to be sure he proceeds to pay her by borrowing from her. +He is also stung by any thoroughly serious imputation on his courage, +and winces at the recollection of his running away on Gadshill; he knows +that his behaviour there certainly looked cowardly, and perhaps he +remembers that he would not have behaved so once. It is, further, very +significant that, for all his dissolute talk, he has never yet allowed +the Prince and Poins to _see_ him as they saw him afterwards with Doll +Tearsheet; not, of course, that he has any moral shame in the matter, +but he knows that in such a situation he, in his old age, must appear +contemptible--not a humorist but a mere object of mirth. And, finally, +he has affection in him--affection, I think, for Poins and Bardolph, and +certainly for the Prince; and that is a thing which he cannot jest out +of existence. Hence, as the effect of his rejection shows, he is not +really invulnerable. And then, in the second place, since he is in the +flesh, his godlike freedom has consequences and conditions; +consequences, for there is something painfully wrong with his great toe; +conditions, for he cannot eat and drink for ever without money, and his +purse suffers from consumption, a disease for which he can find no +remedy.[8] As the Chief Justice tells him, his means are very slender +and his waste great; and his answer, 'I would it were otherwise; I would +my means were greater and my waist slenderer,' though worth much money, +brings none in. And so he is driven to evil deeds; not only to cheating +his tailor like a gentleman, but to fleecing Justice Shallow, and to +highway robbery, and to cruel depredations on the poor woman whose +affection he has secured. All this is perfectly consistent with the +other side of his character, but by itself it makes an ugly picture. + +Yes, it makes an ugly picture when you look at it seriously. But then, +surely, so long as the humorous atmosphere is preserved and the humorous +attitude maintained, you do not look at it so. You no more regard +Falstaff's misdeeds morally than you do the much more atrocious misdeeds +of Punch or Reynard the Fox. You do not exactly ignore them, but you +attend only to their comic aspect. This is the very spirit of comedy, +and certainly of Shakespeare's comic world, which is one of +make-believe, not merely as his tragic world is, but in a further +sense--a world in which gross improbabilities are accepted with a smile, +and many things are welcomed as merely laughable which, regarded +gravely, would excite anger and disgust. The intervention of a serious +spirit breaks up such a world, and would destroy our pleasure in +Falstaff's company. Accordingly through the greater part of these dramas +Shakespeare carefully confines this spirit to the scenes of war and +policy, and dismisses it entirely in the humorous parts. Hence, if +_Henry IV._ had been a comedy like _Twelfth Night_, I am sure that he +would no more have ended it with the painful disgrace of Falstaff than +he ended _Twelfth Night_ by disgracing Sir Toby Belch.[9] + +But _Henry IV._ was to be in the main a historical play, and its chief +hero Prince Henry. In the course of it his greater and finer qualities +were to be gradually revealed, and it was to end with beautiful scenes +of reconciliation and affection between his father and him, and a final +emergence of the wild Prince as a just, wise, stern, and glorious King. +Hence, no doubt, it seemed to Shakespeare that Falstaff at last must be +disgraced, and must therefore appear no longer as the invincible +humorist, but as an object of ridicule and even of aversion. And +probably also his poet's insight showed him that Henry, as he conceived +him, _would_ behave harshly to Falstaff in order to impress the world, +especially when his mind had been wrought to a high pitch by the scene +with his dying father and the impression of his own solemn consecration +to great duties. + +This conception was a natural and a fine one; and if the execution was +not an entire success, it is yet full of interest. Shakespeare's purpose +being to work a gradual change in our feelings towards Falstaff, and to +tinge the humorous atmosphere more and more deeply with seriousness, we +see him carrying out this purpose in the Second Part of _Henry IV._ Here +he separates the Prince from Falstaff as much as he can, thus +withdrawing him from Falstaff's influence, and weakening in our minds +the connection between the two. In the First Part we constantly see them +together; in the Second (it is a remarkable fact) only once before the +rejection. Further, in the scenes where Henry appears apart from +Falstaff, we watch him growing more and more grave, and awakening more +and more poetic interest; while Falstaff, though his humour scarcely +flags to the end, exhibits more and more of his seamy side. This is +nowhere turned to the full light in Part I.; but in Part II. we see him +as the heartless destroyer of Mrs. Quickly, as a ruffian seriously +defying the Chief Justice because his position as an officer on service +gives him power to do wrong, as the pike preparing to snap up the poor +old dace Shallow, and (this is the one scene where Henry and he meet) as +the worn-out lecher, not laughing at his servitude to the flesh but sunk +in it. Finally, immediately before the rejection, the world where he is +king is exposed in all its sordid criminality when we find Mrs. Quickly +and Doll arrested for being concerned in the death of one man, if not +more, beaten to death by their bullies; and the dangerousness of +Falstaff is emphasised in his last words as he hurries from Shallow's +house to London, words at first touched with humour but at bottom only +too seriously meant: 'Let us take any man's horses; the laws of England +are at my commandment. Happy are they which have been my friends, and +woe unto my Lord Chief Justice.' His dismissal to the Fleet by the Chief +Justice is the dramatic vengeance for that threat. + +Yet all these excellent devices fail. They cause us momentary +embarrassment at times when repellent traits in Falstaff's character are +disclosed; but they fail to change our attitude of humour into one of +seriousness, and our sympathy into repulsion. And they were bound to +fail, because Shakespeare shrank from adding to them the one device +which would have ensured success. If, as the Second Part of _Henry IV._ +advanced, he had clouded over Falstaff's humour so heavily that the man +of genius turned into the Falstaff of the _Merry Wives_, we should have +witnessed his rejection without a pang. This Shakespeare was too much +of an artist to do--though even in this way he did something--and +without this device he could not succeed. As I said, in the creation of +Falstaff he overreached himself. He was caught up on the wind of his own +genius, and carried so far that he could not descend to earth at the +selected spot. It is not a misfortune that happens to many authors, nor +is it one we can regret, for it costs us but a trifling inconvenience in +one scene, while we owe to it perhaps the greatest comic character in +literature. For it is in this character, and not in the judgment he +brings upon Falstaff's head, that Shakespeare asserts his supremacy. To +show that Falstaff's freedom of soul was in part illusory, and that the +realities of life refused to be conjured away by his humour--this was +what we might expect from Shakespeare's unfailing sanity, but it was +surely no achievement beyond the power of lesser men. The achievement +was Falstaff himself, and the conception of that freedom of soul, a +freedom illusory only in part, and attainable only by a mind which had +received from Shakespeare's own the inexplicable touch of infinity which +he bestowed on Hamlet and Macbeth and Cleopatra, but denied to Henry the +Fifth. + +1902. + + + NOTE + +For the benefit of readers unacquainted with Morgann's Essay I reproduce +here, with additions, some remarks omitted from the lecture for want of +time. 'Maurice Morgann, Esq. the ingenious writer of this work, +descended from an antient and respectable family in Wales; he filled the +office of under Secretary of State to the late Marquis of Lansdown, +during his first administration; and was afterwards Secretary to the +Embassy for ratifying the peace with America, in 1783. He died at his +house in Knightsbridge, in the seventy-seventh year of his age, on the +28th March, 1802' (Preface to the edition of 1825). He was a remarkable +and original man, who seems to have written a good deal, but, beyond +this essay and some pamphlets on public affairs, all or nearly all +anonymous, he published nothing, and at his death he left orders that +all his papers should be destroyed. The _Essay on the Dramatic Character +of Sir John Falstaff_ was first published in 1777. It arose out of a +conversation in which Morgann expressed his belief that Shakespeare +never meant Falstaff for a coward. He was challenged to explain and +support in print what was considered an extraordinary paradox, and his +essay bears on its title-page the quotation, 'I am not John of Gaunt, +your grandfather: but yet no coward, Hal'--one of Falstaff's few serious +sentences. But Morgann did not confine himself to the question of +Falstaff's cowardice; he analysed the whole character, and incidentally +touched on many points in Shakespearean criticism. 'The reader,' he +observes, 'will not need to be told that this inquiry will resolve +itself of course into a critique on the genius, the arts, and the +conduct, of Shakespeare: for what is Falstaff, what Lear, what Hamlet, +or Othello, but different modifications of Shakespeare's thought? It is +true that this inquiry is narrowed almost to a single point; but general +criticism is as uninstructive as it is easy: Shakespeare deserves to be +considered in detail;--a task hitherto unattempted.' + +The last words are significant. Morgann was conscious that he was +striking out a new line. The Eighteenth Century critics had done much +for Shakespeare in the way of scholarship; some of them had praised him +well and blamed him well; but they had done little to interpret the +process of his imagination from within. This was what Morgann attempted. +His attitude towards Shakespeare is that of Goethe, Coleridge, Lamb, +Hazlitt. The dangers of his method might be illustrated from the Essay, +but in his hands it yielded most valuable results. And though he did not +attempt the eloquence of some of his successors, but wrote like a +cultivated ironical man of the world, he wrote delightfully; so that in +all respects his Essay, which has long been out of print, deserves to be +republished and better known. [It was republished in Mr. Nichol Smith's +excellent _Eighteenth Century Essays on Shakespeare_, 1903; and, in +1912, by itself, with an introduction by W. A. Gill.] + +Readers of Boswell (under the year 1783) will remember that Morgann, who +once met Johnson, favoured his biographer with two most characteristic +anecdotes. Boswell also records Johnson's judgment of Morgann's Essay, +which, says Mr. Swinburne, elicited from him 'as good a jest and as bad +a criticism as might have been expected.' Johnson, we are told, being +asked his opinion of the Essay, answered: 'Why, Sir, we shall have the +man come forth again; and as he has proved Falstaff to be no coward, he +may prove Iago to be a very good character.' The following passage from +Morgann's _Essay_ (p. 66 of the 1825 edition, p. 248 of Mr. Nichol +Smith's book) gives, I presume, his opinion of Johnson. Having referred +to Warburton, he adds: 'Another has since undertaken the custody of our +author, whom he seems to consider as a sort of wild Proteus or madman, +and accordingly knocks him down with the butt-end of his critical staff, +as often as he exceeds that line of sober discretion, which this learned +Editor appears to have chalked out for him: yet is this Editor, +notwithstanding, "a man, take him for all in all," very highly +respectable for his genius and his learning.' + + +FOOTNOTES: + + [1] In this lecture and the three that follow it I have mentioned the + authors my obligations to whom I was conscious of in writing or have + discovered since; but other debts must doubtless remain, which from + forgetfulness I am unable to acknowledge. + + [2] See on this and other points Swinburne, _A Study of Shakespeare_, + p. 106 ff. + + [3] Rötscher, _Shakespeare in seinen höchsten Charaktergebilden_, + 1864. + + [4] That from the beginning Shakespeare intended Henry's accession to + be Falstaff's catastrophe is clear from the fact that, when the two + characters first appear, Falstaff is made to betray at once the hopes + with which he looks forward to Henry's reign. See the First Part of + _Henry IV._, Act I., Scene ii. + + [5] Cf. Hazlitt, _Characters of Shakespear's Plays_. + + [6] See Note at end of lecture. + + [7] It is to be regretted, however, that in carrying his guts away so + nimbly he 'roared for mercy'; for I fear we have no ground for + rejecting Henry's statement to that effect, and I do not see my way + to adopt the suggestion (I forget whose it is) that Falstaff spoke + the truth when he swore that he knew Henry and Poins as well as he + that made them. + + [8] Panurge too was 'naturally subject to a kind of disease which at + that time they called lack of money'; it was a 'flux in his purse' + (Rabelais, Book II., chapters xvi., xvii.). + + [9] I seem to remember that, according to Gervinus, Shakespeare did + disgrace Sir Toby--by marrying him to Maria! + + + + +SHAKESPEARE'S _ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA_ + + +SHAKESPEARE'S _ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA_[1] + + +Coleridge's one page of general criticism on _Antony and Cleopatra_ +contains some notable remarks. 'Of all Shakespeare's historical plays,' +he writes, '_Antony and Cleopatra_ is by far the most wonderful. There +is not one in which he has followed history so minutely, and yet there +are few in which he impresses the notion of angelic strength so +much--perhaps none in which he impresses it more strongly. This is +greatly owing to the manner in which the fiery force is sustained +throughout.' In a later sentence he refers to the play as 'this +astonishing drama.' In another he describes the style: '_feliciter +audax_ is the motto for its style comparatively with that of +Shakespeare's other works.' And he translates this motto in the phrase +'happy valiancy of style.' + +Coleridge's assertion that in _Antony and Cleopatra_ Shakespeare +followed history more minutely than in any other play might well be +disputed; and his statement about the style of this drama requires some +qualification in view of the results of later criticism as to the order +of Shakespeare's works. The style is less individual than he imagined. +On the whole it is common to the six or seven dramas subsequent to +_Macbeth_, though in _Antony and Cleopatra_, probably the earliest of +them, its development is not yet complete. And we must add that this +style has certain special defects, unmentioned by Coleridge, as well as +the quality which he points out in it. But it is true that here that +quality is almost continuously present; and in the phrase by which he +describes it, as in his other phrases, he has signalised once for all +some of the most salient features of the drama. + +It is curious to notice, for example, alike in books and in +conversation, how often the first epithets used in reference to _Antony +and Cleopatra_ are 'wonderful' and 'astonishing.' And the main source of +the feeling thus expressed seems to be the 'angelic strength' or 'fiery +force' of which Coleridge wrote. The first of these two phrases is, I +think, the more entirely happy. Except perhaps towards the close, one is +not so conscious of fiery force as in certain other tragedies; but one +is astonished at the apparent ease with which extraordinary effects are +produced, the ease, if I may paraphrase Coleridge, of an angel moving +with a wave of the hand that heavy matter which men find so intractable. +We feel this sovereign ease in contemplating Shakespeare's picture of +the world--a vast canvas, crowded with figures, glowing with colour and +a superb animation, reminding one spectator of Paul Veronese and another +of Rubens. We feel it again when we observe (as we can even without +consulting Plutarch) the nature of the material; how bulky it was, and, +in some respects, how undramatic; and how the artist, though he could +not treat history like legend or fiction, seems to push whole masses +aside, and to shift and refashion the remainder, almost with the air of +an architect playing (at times rather carelessly) with a child's bricks. + +Something similar is felt even in the portrait of Cleopatra. Marvellous +as it is, the drawing of it suggests not so much the passionate +concentration or fiery force of _Macbeth_, as that sense of effortless +and exultant mastery which we feel in the portraits of Mercutio and +Falstaff. And surely it is a total mistake to find in this portrait any +trace of the distempered mood which disturbs our pleasure in _Troilus +and Cressida_. If the sonnets about the dark lady were, as need not be +doubted, in some degree autobiographical, Shakespeare may well have used +his personal experience both when he drew Cressida and when he drew +Cleopatra. And, if he did, the story in the later play was the nearer to +his own; for Antony might well have said what Troilus could never say, + + When my love swears that she is made of truth, + I do believe her, though I know she lies. + +But in the later play, not only is the poet's vision unclouded, but his +whole nature, emotional as well as intellectual, is free. The subject no +more embitters or seduces him than the ambition of Macbeth. So that here +too we feel the angelic strength of which Coleridge speaks. If we +quarrelled with the phrase at all, it would be because we fancied we +could trace in Shakespeare's attitude something of the irony of +superiority; and this may not altogether suit our conception of an +angel. + +I have still another sentence to quote from Coleridge: 'The highest +praise, or rather form of praise, of this play which I can offer in my +own mind, is the doubt which the perusal always occasions in me, whether +the "Antony and Cleopatra" is not, in all exhibitions of a giant power +in its strength and vigour of maturity, a formidable rival of "Macbeth," +"Lear," "Hamlet," and "Othello."' Now, unless the clause here about the +'giant power' may be taken to restrict the rivalry to the quality of +angelic strength, Coleridge's doubt seems to show a lapse in critical +judgment. To regard this tragedy as a rival of the famous four, whether +on the stage or in the study, is surely an error. The world certainly +has not so regarded it; and, though the world's reasons for its verdicts +on works of art may be worth little, its mere verdict is worth much. +Here, it seems to me, that verdict must be accepted. One may notice +that, in calling _Antony and Cleopatra_ wonderful or astonishing, we +appear to be thinking first of the artist and his activity, while in the +case of the four famous tragedies it is the product of this activity, +the thing presented, that first engrosses us. I know that I am stating +this difference too sharply, but I believe that it is often felt; and, +if this is so, the fact is significant. It implies that, although +_Antony and Cleopatra_ may be for us as wonderful an achievement as the +greatest of Shakespeare's plays, it has not an equal value. Besides, in +the attempt to rank it with them there is involved something more, and +more important, than an error in valuation. There is a failure to +discriminate the peculiar marks of _Antony and Cleopatra_ itself, marks +which, whether or no it be the equal of the earlier tragedies, make it +decidedly different. If I speak first of some of these differences it is +because they thus contribute to the individuality of the play, and +because they seem often not to be distinctly apprehended in criticism. + + + 1. + +Why, let us begin by asking, is _Antony and Cleopatra_, though so +wonderful an achievement, a play rarely acted? For a tragedy, it is not +painful. Though unfit for children, it cannot be called indecent; some +slight omissions, and such a flattening of the heroine's part as might +confidently be expected, would leave it perfectly presentable. It is, no +doubt, in the third and fourth Acts, very defective in construction. +Even on the Elizabethan stage, where scene followed scene without a +pause, this must have been felt; and in our theatres it would be felt +much more. There, in fact, these two and forty scenes could not possibly +be acted as they stand. But defective construction would not distress +the bulk of an audience, if the matter presented were that of _Hamlet_ +or _Othello_, of _Lear_ or _Macbeth_. The matter, then, must lack +something which is present in those tragedies; and it is mainly owing to +this difference in substance that _Antony and Cleopatra_ has never +attained their popularity either on the stage or off it. + +Most of Shakespeare's tragedies are dramatic, in a special sense of the +word as well as in its general sense, from beginning to end. The story +is not merely exciting and impressive from the movement of conflicting +forces towards a terrible issue, but from time to time there come +situations and events which, even apart from their bearing on this +issue, appeal most powerfully to the dramatic feelings--scenes of action +or passion which agitate the audience with alarm, horror, painful +expectation, or absorbing sympathies and antipathies. Think of the +street fights in _Romeo and Juliet_, the killing of Mercutio and Tybalt, +the rapture of the lovers, and their despair when Romeo is banished. +Think of the ghost-scenes in the first Act of _Hamlet_, the passion of +the early soliloquies, the scene between Hamlet and Ophelia, the +play-scene, the sparing of the King at prayer, the killing of Polonius. +Is not _Hamlet_, if you choose so to regard it, the best melodrama in +the world? Think at your leisure of _Othello_, _Lear_, and _Macbeth_ +from the same point of view; but consider here and now even the two +tragedies which, as dealing with Roman history, are companions of +_Antony and Cleopatra_. Recall in _Julius Cćsar_ the first suggestion of +the murder, the preparation for it in a 'tempest dropping fire,' the +murder itself, the speech of Antony over the corpse, and the tumult of +the furious crowd; in _Coriolanus_ the bloody battles on the stage, the +scene in which the hero attains the consulship, the scene of rage in +which he is banished. And remember that in each of these seven tragedies +the matter referred to is contained in the first three Acts. + +In the first three Acts of our play what is there resembling this? +Almost nothing. People converse, discuss, accuse one another, excuse +themselves, mock, describe, drink together, arrange a marriage, meet and +part; but they do not kill, do not even tremble or weep. We see hardly +one violent movement; until the battle of Actium is over we witness +scarcely any vehement passion; and that battle, as it is a naval action, +we do not see. Even later, Enobarbus, when he dies, simply dies; he does +not kill himself.[2] We hear wonderful talk; but it is not talk, like +that of Macbeth and Lady Macbeth, or that of Othello and Iago, at which +we hold our breath. The scenes that we remember first are those that +portray Cleopatra; Cleopatra coquetting, tormenting, beguiling her lover +to stay; Cleopatra left with her women and longing for him; Cleopatra +receiving the news of his marriage; Cleopatra questioning the messenger +about Octavia's personal appearance. But this is to say that the scenes +we remember first are the least indispensable to the plot. One at least +is not essential to it at all. And this, the astonishing scene where she +storms at the messenger, strikes him, and draws her dagger on him, is +the one passage in the first half of the drama that contains either an +explosion of passion or an exciting bodily action. Nor is this all. The +first half of the play, though it forebodes tragedy, is not decisively +tragic in tone. Certainly the Cleopatra scenes are not so. We read +them, and we should witness them, in delighted wonder and even with +amusement. The only scene that can vie with them, that of the revel on +Pompey's ship, though full of menace, is in great part humorous. +Enobarbus, in this part of the play, is always humorous. Even later, +when the tragic tone is deepening, the whipping of Thyreus, in spite of +Antony's rage, moves mirth. A play of which all this can truly be said +may well be as masterly as _Othello_ or _Macbeth_, and more delightful; +but, in the greater part of its course, it cannot possibly excite the +same emotions. It makes no attempt to do so; and to regard it as though +it made this attempt is to miss its specific character and the intention +of its author. + +That character depends only in part on Shakespeare's fidelity to his +historical authority, a fidelity which, I may remark, is often greatly +exaggerated. For Shakespeare did not merely present the story of ten +years as though it occupied perhaps one fifth of that time, nor did he +merely invent freely, but in critical places he effected startling +changes in the order and combination of events. Still it may be said +that, dealing with a history so famous, he could not well make the first +half of his play very exciting, moving, or tragic. And this is true so +far as mere situations and events are concerned. But, if he had chosen, +he might easily have heightened the tone and tension in another way. He +might have made the story of Antony's attempt to break his bondage, and +the story of his relapse, extremely exciting, by portraying with all his +force the severity of the struggle and the magnitude of the fatal step. + +And the structure of the play might seem at first to suggest this +intention. At the opening, Antony is shown almost in the beginning of +his infatuation; for Cleopatra is not sure of her power over him, exerts +all her fascination to detain him, and plays the part of the innocent +victim who has yielded to passion and must now expect to be deserted by +her seducer. Alarmed and ashamed at the news of the results of his +inaction, he rouses himself, tears himself away, and speeds to Italy. +His very coming is enough to frighten Pompey into peace. He reconciles +himself with Octavius, and, by his marriage with the good and beautiful +Octavia, seems to have knit a bond of lasting amity with her brother, +and to have guarded himself against the passion that threatened him with +ruin. At this point his power, the world's peace, and his own peace, +appear to be secured; his fortune has mounted to its apex. But soon +(very much sooner than in Plutarch's story) comes the downward turn or +counter-stroke. New causes of offence arise between the brothers-in-law. +To remove them Octavia leaves her husband in Athens and hurries to Rome. +Immediately Antony returns to Cleopatra and, surrendering himself at +once and wholly to her enchantment is quickly driven to his doom. + +Now Shakespeare, I say, with his matchless power of depicting an inward +struggle, might have made this story, even where it could not furnish +him with thrilling incidents, the source of powerful tragic emotions; +and, in doing so, he would have departed from his authority merely in +his conception of the hero's character. But he does no such thing till +the catastrophe is near. Antony breaks away from Cleopatra without any +strenuous conflict. No serious doubt of his return is permitted to +agitate us. We are almost assured of it through the impression made on +us by Octavius, through occasional glimpses into Antony's mind, through +the absence of any doubt in Enobarbus, through scenes in Alexandria +which display Cleopatra and display her irresistible. And, finally, the +downward turn itself, the fatal step of Antony's return, is shown +without the slightest emphasis. Nay, it is not shown, it is only +reported; and not a line portrays any inward struggle preceding it. On +this side also, then, the drama makes no attempt to rival the other +tragedies; and it was essential to its own peculiar character and its +most transcendent effects that this attempt should not be made, but that +Antony's passion should be represented as a force which he could hardly +even desire to resist. By the very scheme of the work, therefore, tragic +impressions of any great volume or depth were reserved for the last +stage of the conflict; while the main interest, down to the battle of +Actium, was directed to matters exceedingly interesting and even, in the +wider sense, dramatic, but not overtly either terrible or piteous: on +the one hand, to the political aspect of the story; on the other, to the +personal causes which helped to make the issue inevitable. + + + 2. + +The political situation and its development are simple. The story is +taken up almost where it was left, years before, in _Julius Cćsar_. +There Brutus and Cassius, to prevent the rule of one man, assassinate +Cćsar. Their purpose is condemned to failure, not merely because they +make mistakes, but because that political necessity which Napoleon +identified with destiny requires the rule of one man. They spill Cćsar's +blood, but his spirit walks abroad and turns their swords against their +own breasts; and the world is left divided among three men, his friends +and his heir. Here _Antony and Cleopatra_ takes up the tale; and its +business, from this point of view, is to show the reduction of these +three to one. That Lepidus will not be this one was clear already in +_Julius Cćsar_; it must be Octavius or Antony. Both ambitious, they are +also men of such opposite tempers that they would scarcely long agree +even if they wished to, and even if destiny were not stronger than they. +As it is, one of them has fixed his eyes on the end, sacrifices +everything for it, uses everything as a means to it. The other, though +far the greater soldier and worshipped by his followers, has no such +singleness of aim; nor yet is power, however desirable to him, the most +desirable thing in the world. At the beginning he is risking it for +love; at the end he has lost his half of the world, and lost his life, +and Octavius rules alone. Whether Shakespeare had this clearly in his +mind is a question neither answerable nor important; this is what came +out of his mind. + +Shakespeare, I think, took little interest in the character of Octavius, +and he has not made it wholly clear. It is not distinct in Plutarch's +'Life of Antony'; and I have not found traces that the poet studied +closely the 'Life of Octavius' included in North's volume. To +Shakespeare he is one of those men, like Bolingbroke and Ulysses, who +have plenty of 'judgment' and not much 'blood.' Victory in the world, +according to the poet, almost always goes to such men; and he makes us +respect, fear, and dislike them. His Octavius is very formidable. His +cold determination half paralyses Antony; it is so even in _Julius +Cćsar_. In _Antony and Cleopatra_ Octavius is more than once in the +wrong; but he never admits it; he silently pushes his rival a step +backward; and, when he ceases to fear, he shows contempt. He neither +enjoys war nor is great in it; at first, therefore, he is anxious about +the power of Pompey, and stands in need of Antony. As soon as Antony's +presence has served his turn, and he has patched up a union with him and +seen him safely off to Athens, he destroys first Pompey and next +Lepidus. Then, dexterously using Antony's faithlessness to Octavia and +excesses in the East in order to put himself in the right, he makes for +his victim with admirable celerity while he is still drunk with the joy +of reunion with Cleopatra. For his ends Octavius is perfectly efficient, +but he is so partly from his limitations. One phrase of his is +exceedingly characteristic. When Antony in rage and desperation +challenges him to single combat, Octavius calls him 'the old ruffian.' +There is a horrid aptness in the phrase, but it disgusts us. It is +shameful in this boy, as hard and smooth as polished steel, to feel at +such a time nothing of the greatness of his victim and the tragedy of +his victim's fall. Though the challenge of Antony is absurd, we would +give much to see them sword to sword. And when Cleopatra by her death +cheats the conqueror of his prize, we feel unmixed delight. + +The doubtful point in the character is this. Plutarch says that Octavius +was reported to love his sister dearly; and Shakespeare's Octavius +several times expresses such love. When, then, he proposed the marriage +with Antony (for of course it was he who spoke through Agrippa), was he +honest, or was he laying a trap and, in doing so, sacrificing his +sister? Did he hope the marriage would really unite him with his +brother-in-law; or did he merely mean it to be a source of future +differences; or did he calculate that, whether it secured peace or +dissension, it would in either case bring him great advantage? +Shakespeare, who was quite as intelligent as his readers, must have +asked himself some such question; but he may not have cared to answer it +even to himself; and, in any case, he has left the actor (at least the +actor in days later than his own) to choose an answer. If I were forced +to choose, I should take the view that Octavius was, at any rate, not +wholly honest; partly because I think it best suits Shakespeare's usual +way of conceiving a character of the kind; partly because Plutarch +construed in this manner Octavius's behaviour in regard to his sister at +a later time, and this hint might naturally influence the poet's way of +imagining his earlier action.[3] + +Though the character of Octavius is neither attractive nor wholly clear, +his figure is invested with a certain tragic dignity, because he is felt +to be the Man of Destiny, the agent of forces against which the +intentions of an individual would avail nothing. He is represented as +having himself some feeling of this sort. His lament over Antony, his +grief that their stars were irreconcilable, may well be genuine, though +we should be surer if it were uttered in soliloquy. His austere words to +Octavia again probably speak his true mind: + + Be you not troubled with the time, which drives + O'er your content these strong necessities; + But let determined things to destiny + Hold unbewailed their way. + +In any case the feeling of fate comes through to us. It is aided by +slight touches of supernatural effect; first in the Soothsayer's warning +to Antony that his genius or angel is overpowered whenever he is near +Octavius; then in the strangely effective scene where Antony's soldiers, +in the night before his last battle, hear music in the air or under the +earth: + + 'Tis the god Hercules, whom Antony loved, + Now leaves him. + +And to the influence of this feeling in giving impressiveness to the +story is added that of the immense scale and world-wide issue of the +conflict. Even the distances traversed by fleets and armies enhance this +effect. + +And yet there seems to be something half-hearted in Shakespeare's appeal +here, something even ironical in his presentation of this conflict. Its +external magnitude, like Antony's magnificence in lavishing realms and +gathering the kings of the East in his support, fails to uplift or +dilate the imagination. The struggle in Lear's little island seems to us +to have an infinitely wider scope. It is here that we are sometimes +reminded of _Troilus and Cressida_, and the cold and disenchanting light +that is there cast on the Trojan War. The spectacle which he portrays +leaves Shakespeare quite undazzled; he even makes it appear inwardly +small. The lordship of the world, we ask ourselves, what is it worth, +and in what spirit do these 'world-sharers' contend for it? They are no +champions of their country like Henry V. The conqueror knows not even +the glory of battle. Their aims, for all we see, are as personal as if +they were captains of banditti; and they are followed merely from +self-interest or private attachment. The scene on Pompey's galley is +full of this irony. One 'third part of the world' is carried drunk to +bed. In the midst of this mock boon-companionship the pirate whispers to +his leader to cut first the cable of his ship and then the throats of +the two other Emperors; and at the moment we should not greatly care if +Pompey took the advice. Later, a short scene, totally useless to the +plot and purely satiric in its purport, is slipped in to show how +Ventidius fears to pursue his Parthian conquests because it is not safe +for Antony's lieutenant to outdo his master.[4] A painful sense of +hollowness oppresses us. We know too well what must happen in a world so +splendid, so false, and so petty. We turn for relief from the political +game to those who are sure to lose it; to those who love some human +being better than a prize, to Eros and Charmian and Iras; to Enobarbus, +whom the world corrupts, but who has a heart that can break with shame; +to the lovers, who seem to us to find in death something better than +their victor's life. + +This presentation of the outward conflict has two results. First, it +blunts our feeling of the greatness of Antony's fall from prosperity. +Indeed this feeling, which we might expect to be unusually acute, is +hardly so; it is less acute, for example, than the like feeling in the +case of Richard II., who loses so much smaller a realm. Our deeper +sympathies are focussed rather on Antony's heart, on the inward fall to +which the enchantment of passion leads him, and the inward recovery +which succeeds it. And the second result is this. The greatness of +Antony and Cleopatra in their fall is so much heightened by contrast +with the world they lose and the conqueror who wins it, that the +positive element in the final tragic impression, the element of +reconciliation, is strongly emphasised. The peculiar effect of the drama +depends partly, as we have seen, on the absence of decidedly tragic +scenes and events in its first half; but it depends quite as much on +this emphasis. In any Shakespearean tragedy we watch some elect spirit +colliding, partly through its error and defect, with a superhuman power +which bears it down; and yet we feel that this spirit, even in the error +and defect, rises by its greatness into ideal union with the power that +overwhelms it. In some tragedies this latter feeling is relatively weak. +In _Antony and Cleopatra_ it is unusually strong; stronger, with some +readers at least, than the fear and grief and pity with which they +contemplate the tragic error and the advance of doom. + + + 3. + +The two aspects of the tragedy are presented together in the opening +scene. Here is the first. In Cleopatra's palace one friend of Antony is +describing to another, just arrived from Rome, the dotage of their great +general; and, as the lovers enter, he exclaims: + + Look, where they come: + Take but good note, and you shall see in him + The triple pillar of the world transformed + Into a strumpet's fool: behold and see. + +With the next words the other aspect appears: + + CLEO. If it be love indeed, tell me how much. + + ANT. There's beggary in the love that can be reckoned. + + CLEO. I'll set a bourne how far to be beloved. + + ANT. Then must thou needs find out new heaven, new earth. + +And directly after, when he is provoked by reminders of the news from +Rome: + + Let Rome in Tiber melt, and the wide arch + Of the ranged empire fall! Here is my space. + Kingdoms are clay: our dungy earth alike + Feeds beast as man: the nobleness of life + Is to do thus. + +Here is the tragic excess, but with it the tragic greatness, the +capacity of finding in something the infinite, and of pursuing it into +the jaws of death. + +The two aspects are shown here with the exaggeration proper in dramatic +characters. Neither the phrase 'a strumpet's fool,' nor the assertion +'the nobleness of life is to do thus,' answers to the total effect of +the play. But the truths they exaggerate are equally essential; and the +commoner mistake in criticism is to understate the second. It is plain +that the love of Antony and Cleopatra is destructive; that in some way +it clashes with the nature of things; that, while they are sitting in +their paradise like gods, its walls move inward and crush them at last +to death. This is no invention of moralising critics; it is in the play; +and any one familiar with Shakespeare would expect beforehand to find it +there. But then to forget because of it the other side, to deny the name +of love to this ruinous passion, to speak as though the lovers had +utterly missed the good of life, is to mutilate the tragedy and to +ignore a great part of its effect upon us. For we sympathise with them +in their passion; we feel in it the infinity there is in man; even while +we acquiesce in their defeat we are exulting in their victory; and when +they have vanished we say, + + the odds is gone, + And there is nothing left remarkable + Beneath the visiting moon. + +Though we hear nothing from Shakespeare of the cruelty of Plutarch's +Antony, or of the misery caused by his boundless profusion, we do not +feel the hero of the tragedy to be a man of the noblest type, like +Brutus, Hamlet, or Othello. He seeks power merely for himself, and uses +it for his own pleasure. He is in some respects unscrupulous; and, while +it would be unjust to regard his marriage exactly as if it were one in +private life, we resent his treatment of Octavia, whose character +Shakespeare was obliged to leave a mere sketch, lest our feeling for the +hero and heroine should be too much chilled. Yet, for all this, we +sympathise warmly with Antony, are greatly drawn to him, and are +inclined to regard him as a noble nature half spoiled by his time. + +It is a large, open, generous, expansive nature, quite free from envy, +capable of great magnanimity, even of entire devotion. Antony is +unreserved, naturally straightforward, we may almost say simple. He can +admit faults, accept advice and even reproof, take a jest against +himself with good-humour. He is courteous (to Lepidus, for example, whom +Octavius treats with cold contempt); and, though he can be exceedingly +dignified, he seems to prefer a blunt though sympathetic plainness, +which is one cause of the attachment of his soldiers. He has none of the +faults of the brooder, the sentimentalist, or the man of principle; his +nature tends to splendid action and lusty enjoyment. But he is neither a +mere soldier nor a mere sensualist. He has imagination, the temper of an +artist who revels in abundant and rejoicing appetites, feasts his senses +on the glow and richness of life, flings himself into its mirth and +revelry, yet feels the poetry in all this, and is able also to put it +by and be more than content with the hardships of adventure. Such a man +could never have sought a crown by a murder like Macbeth's, or, like +Brutus, have killed on principle the man who loved him, or have lost the +world for a Cressida. + +Beside this strain of poetry he has a keen intellect, a swift perception +of the lie of things, and much quickness in shaping a course to suit +them. In _Julius Cćsar_ he shows this after the assassination, when he +appears as a dexterous politician as well as a warm-hearted friend. He +admires what is fine, and can fully appreciate the nobility of Brutus; +but he is sure that Brutus's ideas are moonshine, that (as he says in +our play) Brutus is mad; and, since his mighty friend, who was +incomparably the finest thing in the world, has perished, he sees no +reason why the inheritance should not be his own. Full of sorrow, he yet +uses his sorrow like an artist to work on others, and greets his success +with the glee of a successful adventurer. In the earlier play he proves +himself a master of eloquence, and especially of pathos; and he does so +again in the later. With a few words about his fall he draws tears from +his followers and even from the caustic humorist Enobarbus. Like Richard +II., he sees his own fall with the eyes of a poet, but a poet much +greater than the young Shakespeare, who could never have written +Antony's marvellous speech about the sunset clouds. But we listen to +Antony, as we do not to Richard, with entire sympathy, partly because he +is never unmanly, partly because he himself is sympathetic and longs for +sympathy. + +The first of living soldiers, an able politician, a most persuasive +orator, Antony nevertheless was not born to rule the world. He enjoys +being a great man, but he has not the love of rule for rule's sake. +Power for him is chiefly a means to pleasure. The pleasure he wants is +so huge that he needs a huge power; but half the world, even a third of +it, would suffice. He will not pocket wrongs, but he shows not the +slightest wish to get rid of his fellow Triumvirs and reign alone. He +never minded being subordinate to Julius Cćsar. By women he is not only +attracted but governed; from the effect of Cleopatra's taunts we can see +that he had been governed by Fulvia. Nor has he either the patience or +the steadfastness of a born ruler. He contends fitfully, and is prone to +take the step that is easiest at the moment. This is the reason why he +consents to marry Octavia. It seems the shortest way out of an awkward +situation. He does not intend even to try to be true to her. He will not +think of the distant consequences. + +A man who loved power as much as thousands of insignificant people love +it, would have made a sterner struggle than Antony's against his +enchantment. He can hardly be said to struggle at all. He brings himself +to leave Cleopatra only because he knows he will return. In every moment +of his absence, whether he wake or sleep, a siren music in his blood is +singing him back to her; and to this music, however he may be occupied, +the soul within his soul leans and listens. The joy of life had always +culminated for him in the love of women: he could say 'no' to none of +them: of Octavia herself he speaks like a poet. When he meets Cleopatra +he finds his Absolute. She satisfies, nay glorifies, his whole being. +She intoxicates his senses. Her wiles, her taunts, her furies and +meltings, her laughter and tears, bewitch him all alike. She loves what +he loves, and she surpasses him. She can drink him to his bed, out-jest +his practical jokes, out-act the best actress who ever amused him, +out-dazzle his own magnificence. She is his play-fellow, and yet a great +queen. Angling in the river, playing billiards, flourishing the sword he +used at Philippi, hopping forty paces in a public street, she remains +an enchantress. Her spirit is made of wind and flame, and the poet in +him worships her no less than the man. He is under no illusion about +her, knows all her faults, sees through her wiles, believes her capable +of betraying him. It makes no difference. She is his heart's desire made +perfect. To love her is what he was born for. What have the gods in +heaven to say against it? To imagine heaven is to imagine her; to die is +to rejoin her. To deny that this is love is the madness of morality. He +gives her every atom of his heart. + +She destroys him. Shakespeare, availing himself of the historic fact, +portrays, on Antony's return to her, the suddenness and the depth of his +descent. In spite of his own knowledge, the protests of his captains, +the entreaties even of a private soldier, he fights by sea simply and +solely because she wishes it. Then in mid-battle, when she flies, he +deserts navy and army and his faithful thousands and follows her. 'I +never saw an action of such shame,' cries Scarus; and we feel the +dishonour of the hero keenly. Then Shakespeare begins to raise him +again. First, his own overwhelming sense of shame redeems him. Next, we +watch the rage of the dying lion. Then the mere sally before the final +defeat--a sally dismissed by Plutarch in three lines--is magnified into +a battle, in which Antony displays to us, and himself feels for the last +time, the glory of his soldiership. And, throughout, the magnanimity and +gentleness which shine through his desperation endear him to us. How +beautiful is his affection for his followers and even for his servants, +and the devotion they return! How noble his reception of the news that +Enobarbus has deserted him! How touchingly significant the refusal of +Eros either to kill him or survive him! How pathetic and even sublime +the completeness of his love for Cleopatra! His anger is born and dies +in an hour. One tear, one kiss, outweighs his ruin. He believes she has +sold him to his enemy, yet he kills himself because he hears that she is +dead. When, dying, he learns that she has deceived him once more, no +thought of reproach crosses his mind: he simply asks to be carried to +her. He knows well that she is not capable of dying because he dies, but +that does not sting him; when, in his last agony, he calls for wine that +he may gain a moment's strength to speak, it is to advise her for the +days to come. Shakespeare borrowed from Plutarch the final speech of +Antony. It is fine, but it is not miraculous. The miraculous speeches +belong only to his own hero: + + I am dying, Egypt, dying; only + I here importune death awhile, until + Of many thousand kisses the poor last + I lay upon thy lips; + +or the first words he utters when he hears of Cleopatra's death: + + Unarm, Eros: the long day's task is done, + And we must sleep. + +If he meant the task of statesman and warrior, that is not what his +words mean to us. They remind us of words more familiar and less great-- + + No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love. + +And he is more than love's pilgrim; he is love's martyr. + + + 4. + +To reserve a fragment of an hour for Cleopatra, if it were not palpably +absurd, would seem an insult. If only one could hear her own remarks +upon it! But I had to choose between this absurdity and the plan of +giving her the whole hour; and to that plan there was one fatal +objection. She has been described (by Ten Brink) as a courtesan of +genius. So brief a description must needs be incomplete, and Cleopatra +never forgets, nor, if we read aright, do we forget, that she is a +great queen. Still the phrase is excellent; only a public lecture is no +occasion for the full analysis and illustration of the character it +describes. + +Shakespeare has paid Cleopatra a unique compliment. The hero dies in the +fourth Act, and the whole of the fifth is devoted to the heroine.[5] In +that Act she becomes unquestionably a tragic character, but, it appears +to me, not till then. This, no doubt, is a heresy; but as I cannot help +holding it, and as it is connected with the remarks already made on the +first half of the play, I will state it more fully. Cleopatra stands in +a group with Hamlet and Falstaff. We might join with them Iago if he +were not decidedly their inferior in one particular quality. They are +inexhaustible. You feel that, if they were alive and you spent your +whole life with them, their infinite variety could never be staled by +custom; they would continue every day to surprise, perplex, and delight +you. Shakespeare has bestowed on each of them, though they differ so +much, his own originality, his genius. He has given it most fully to +Hamlet, to whom none of the chambers of experience is shut, and perhaps +more of it to Cleopatra than to Falstaff. Nevertheless, if we ask +whether Cleopatra, in the first four Acts, is a tragic figure like +Hamlet, we surely cannot answer 'yes.' Naturally it does not follow that +she is a comic figure like Falstaff. This would be absurd; for, even if +she were ridiculous like Falstaff, she is not ridiculous to herself; she +is no humorist. And yet there is a certain likeness. She shares a +weakness with Falstaff--vanity; and when she displays it, as she does +quite naively (for instance, in the second interview with the +Messenger), she does become comic. Again, though like Falstaff she is +irresistible and carries us away no less than the people around her, we +are secretly aware, in the midst of our delight, that her empire is +built on sand. And finally, as his love for the Prince gives dignity and +pathos to Falstaff in his overthrow, so what raises Cleopatra at last +into pure tragedy is, in part, that which some critics have denied her, +her love for Antony. + +Many unpleasant things can be said of Cleopatra; and the more that are +said the more wonderful she appears. The exercise of sexual attraction +is the element of her life; and she has developed nature into a +consummate art. When she cannot exert it on the present lover she +imagines its effects on him in absence. Longing for the living, she +remembers with pride and joy the dead; and the past which the furious +Antony holds up to her as a picture of shame is, for her, glory. She +cannot see an ambassador, scarcely even a messenger, without desiring to +bewitch him. Her mind is saturated with this element. If she is dark, it +is because the sun himself has been amorous of her. Even when death is +close at hand she imagines his touch as a lover's. She embraces him that +she may overtake Iras and gain Antony's first kiss in the other world. + +She lives for feeling. Her feelings are, so to speak, sacred, and pain +must not come near her. She has tried numberless experiments to discover +the easiest way to die. Her body is exquisitely sensitive, and her +emotions marvellously swift. They are really so; but she exaggerates +them so much, and exhibits them so continually for effect, that some +readers fancy them merely feigned. They are all-important, and everybody +must attend to them. She announces to her women that she is pale, or +sick and sullen; they must lead her to her chamber but must not speak to +her. She is as strong and supple as a leopard, can drink down a master +of revelry, can raise her lover's helpless heavy body from the ground +into her tower with the aid only of two women; yet, when he is sitting +apart sunk in shame, she must be supported into his presence, she cannot +stand, her head droops, she will die (it is the opinion of Eros) unless +he comforts her. When she hears of his marriage and has discharged her +rage, she bids her women bear her away; she faints; at least she would +faint, but that she remembers various questions she wants put to the +Messenger about Octavia. Enobarbus has seen her die twenty times upon +far poorer moment than the news that Antony is going to Rome. + +Some of her feelings are violent, and, unless for a purpose, she does +not dream of restraining them; her sighs and tears are winds and waters, +storms and tempests. At times, as when she threatens to give Charmian +bloody teeth, or hales the luckless Messenger up and down by the hair, +strikes him and draws her knife on him, she resembles (if I dare say it) +Doll Tearsheet sublimated. She is a mother; but the threat of Octavius +to destroy her children if she takes her own life passes by her like the +wind (a point where Shakespeare contradicts Plutarch). She ruins a great +man, but shows no sense of the tragedy of his ruin. The anguish of +spirit that appears in his language to his servants is beyond her; she +has to ask Enobarbus what he means. Can we feel sure that she would not +have sacrificed him if she could have saved herself by doing so? It is +not even certain that she did not attempt it. Antony himself believes +that she did--that the fleet went over to Octavius by her orders. That +she and her people deny the charge proves nothing. The best we can say +is that, if it were true, Shakespeare would have made that clear. She is +willing also to survive her lover. Her first thought, to follow him +after the high Roman fashion, is too great for her. She would live on if +she could, and would cheat her victor too of the best part of her +fortune. The thing that drives her to die is the certainty that she +will be carried to Rome to grace his triumph. That alone decides her.[6] + +The marvellous thing is that the knowledge of all this makes hardly more +difference to us than it did to Antony. It seems to us perfectly +natural, nay, in a sense perfectly right, that her lover should be her +slave; that her women should adore her and die with her; that Enobarbus, +who foresaw what must happen, and who opposes her wishes and braves her +anger, should talk of her with rapture and feel no bitterness against +her; that Dolabella, after a minute's conversation, should betray to her +his master's intention and enable her to frustrate it. And when Octavius +shows himself proof against her fascination, instead of admiring him we +turn from him with disgust and think him a disgrace to his species. Why? +It is not that we consider him bound to fall in love with her. Enobarbus +did not; Dolabella did not; we ourselves do not. The feeling she +inspires was felt then, and is felt now, by women no less than men, and +would have been shared by Octavia herself. Doubtless she wrought magic +on the senses, but she had not extraordinary beauty, like Helen's, such +beauty as seems divine.[7] Plutarch says so. The man who wrote the +sonnets to the dark lady would have known it for himself. He goes out of +his way to add to her age, and tells us of her wrinkles and the waning +of her lip. But Enobarbus, in his very mockery, calls her a wonderful +piece of work. Dolabella interrupts her with the cry, 'Most sovereign +creature,' and we echo it. And yet Octavius, face to face with her and +listening to her voice, can think only how best to trap her and drag her +to public dishonour in the streets of Rome. We forgive him only for his +words when he sees her dead: + + She looks like sleep, + As she would catch another Antony + In her strong toil of grace. + +And the words, I confess, sound to me more like Shakespeare's than his. + +That which makes her wonderful and sovereign laughs at definition, but +she herself came nearest naming it when, in the final speech (a passage +surpassed in poetry, if at all, only by the final speech of Othello), +she cries, + + I am fire and air; my other elements + I give to baser life. + +The fire and air which at death break from union with those other +elements, transfigured them during her life, and still convert into +engines of enchantment the very things for which she is condemned. I can +refer only to one. She loves Antony. We should marvel at her less and +love her more if she loved him more--loved him well enough to follow him +at once to death; but it is to blunder strangely to doubt that she loved +him, or that her glorious description of him (though it was also meant +to work on Dolabella) came from her heart. Only the spirit of fire and +air within her refuses to be trammelled or extinguished; burns its way +through the obstacles of fortune and even through the resistance of her +love and grief; and would lead her undaunted to fresh life and the +conquest of new worlds. It is this which makes her 'strong toil of +grace' unbreakable; speaks in her brows' bent and every tone and +movement; glorifies the arts and the rages which in another would merely +disgust or amuse us; and, in the final scenes of her life, flames into +such brilliance that we watch her entranced as she struggles for +freedom, and thrilled with triumph as, conquered, she puts her conqueror +to scorn and goes to meet her lover in the splendour that crowned and +robed her long ago, when her barge burnt on the water like a burnished +throne, and she floated to Cydnus on the enamoured stream to take him +captive for ever.[8] + +Why is it that, although we close the book in a triumph which is more +than reconciliation, this is mingled, as we look back on the story, with +a sadness so peculiar, almost the sadness of disenchantment? Is it that, +when the glow has faded, Cleopatra's ecstasy comes to appear, I would +not say factitious, but an effort strained and prodigious as well as +glorious, not, like Othello's last speech, the final expression of +character, of thoughts and emotions which have dominated a whole life? +Perhaps this is so, but there is something more, something that sounds +paradoxical: we are saddened by the very fact that the catastrophe +saddens us so little; it pains us that we should feel so much triumph +and pleasure. In _Romeo and Juliet_, _Hamlet_, _Othello_, though in a +sense we accept the deaths of hero and heroine, we feel a keen sorrow. +We look back, think how noble or beautiful they were, wish that fate had +opposed to them a weaker enemy, dream possibly of the life they might +then have led. Here we can hardly do this. With all our admiration and +sympathy for the lovers we do not wish them to gain the world. It is +better for the world's sake, and not less for their own, that they +should fail and die. At the very first they came before us, unlike those +others, unlike Coriolanus and even Macbeth, in a glory already +tarnished, half-ruined by their past. Indeed one source of strange and +most unusual effect in their story is that this marvellous passion comes +to adepts in the experience and art of passion, who might be expected to +have worn its charm away. Its splendour dazzles us; but, when the +splendour vanishes, we do not mourn, as we mourn for the love of Romeo +or Othello, that a thing so bright and good should die. And the fact +that we mourn so little saddens us. + +A comparison of Shakespearean tragedies seems to prove that the tragic +emotions are stirred in the fullest possible measure only when such +beauty or nobility of character is displayed as commands unreserved +admiration or love; or when, in default of this, the forces which move +the agents, and the conflict which results from these forces, attain a +terrifying and overwhelming power. The four most famous tragedies +satisfy one or both of these conditions; _Antony and Cleopatra_, though +a great tragedy, satisfies neither of them completely. But to say this +is not to criticise it. It does not attempt to satisfy these conditions, +and then fail in the attempt. It attempts something different, and +succeeds as triumphantly as _Othello_ itself. In doing so it gives us +what no other tragedy can give, and it leaves us, no less than any +other, lost in astonishment at the powers which created it. + +1905 + + + NOTE A + +We are to understand, surely, that Enobarbus dies of 'thought' +(melancholy or grief), and has no need to seek a 'swifter mean.' Cf. IV. +vi. 34 _seq._, with the death-scene and his address there to the moon as +the 'sovereign mistress of true melancholy' (IV. ix.). Cf. also III. +xiii., where, to Cleopatra's question after Actium, 'What shall we do, +Enobarbus?' he answers, 'Think, and die.' + +The character of Enobarbus is practically an invention of Shakespeare's. +The death-scene, I may add, is one of the many passages which prove that +he often wrote what pleased his imagination but would lose half its +effect in the theatre. The darkness and moonlight could not be +represented on a public stage in his time. + + + NOTE B + +The scene is the first of the third Act. Here Ventidius says: + + Cćsar and Antony have ever won + More in their officer than person: Sossius, + One of my place in Syria, his lieutenant, + For quick accumulation of renown, + Which he achieved by the minute, lost his favour. + +Plutarch (North, sec. 19) says that 'Sossius, one of Antonius' +lieutenants in Syria, did notable good service,' but I cannot find in +him the further statement that Sossius lost Antony's favour. I presume +it is Shakespeare's invention, but I call attention to it on the bare +chance that it may be found elsewhere than in Plutarch, when it would +point to Shakespeare's use of a second authority. + + + NOTE C + +Since this lecture was published (_Quarterly Review_, April, 1906) two +notable editions of _Antony and Cleopatra_ have been produced. Nothing +recently written on Shakespeare, I venture to say, shows more thorough +scholarship or better judgment than Mr. Case's edition in the Arden +series; and Dr. Furness has added to the immense debt which students of +Shakespeare owe to him, and (if that is possible) to the admiration and +respect with which they regard him, by the appearance of _Antony and +Cleopatra_ in his New Variorum edition. + +On one question about Cleopatra both editors, Mr. Case more tentatively +and Dr. Furness very decidedly, dissent from the interpretation given in +the last pages of my lecture. The question is how we are to understand +the fact that, although on Antony's death Cleopatra expresses her +intention of following him, she does not carry out this intention until +she has satisfied herself that Octavius means to carry her to Rome to +grace his triumph. Though I do not profess to feel certain that my +interpretation is right, it still seems to me a good deal the most +probable, and therefore I have not altered what I wrote. But my object +here is not to defend my view or to criticise other views, but merely to +call attention to the discussion of the subject in Mr. Case's +Introduction and Dr. Furness's Preface. + + + NOTE D + +Shakespeare, it seems clear, imagined Cleopatra as a gipsy. And this, I +would suggest, may be the explanation of a word which has caused much +difficulty. Antony, when 'all is lost,' exclaims (IV. x. 38): + + O this false soul of Egypt! this grave charm,-- + Whose eye beck'd forth my wars, and call'd them home, + Whose bosom was my crownet, my chief end,-- + Like a right gipsy, hath, at fast and loose, + Beguil'd me to the very heart of loss. + +Pope changed 'grave' in the first line into 'gay.' Others conjecture +'great' and 'grand.' Steevens says that 'grave' means 'deadly,' and +that the word 'is often used by Chapman' thus; and one of his two +quotations supports his statement; but certainly in Shakespeare the word +does not elsewhere bear this sense. It could mean 'majestic,' as Johnson +takes it here. But why should it not have its usual meaning? Cleopatra, +we know, was a being of 'infinite variety,' and her eyes may sometimes +have had, like those of some gipsies, a mysterious gravity or solemnity +which would exert a spell more potent than her gaiety. Their colour, +presumably, was what is called 'black'; but surely they were not, like +those of Tennyson's Cleopatra, '_bold_ black eyes.' Readers interested +in seeing what criticism is capable of may like to know that it has been +proposed to read, for the first line of the quotation above, 'O this +false fowl of Egypt! haggard charmer.' [Though I have not cancelled this +note I have modified some phrases in it, as I have not much confidence +in my suggestion, and am inclined to think that Steevens was right.] + + +FOOTNOTES: + + [1] As this lecture was composed after the publication of my + _Shakespearean Tragedy_ I ignored in it, as far as possible, such + aspects of the play as were noticed in that book, to the Index of + which I may refer the reader. + + [2] See Note A. + + [3] 'Now whilest Antonius was busie in this preparation, Octavia his + wife, whom he had left at Rome, would needs take sea to come unto + him. Her brother Octauius Cćsar was willing vnto it, not for his + respect at all (as most authors do report) as for that he might haue + an honest colour to make warre with Antonius if he did misuse her, + and not esteeme of her as she ought to be.'--_Life of Antony_ + (North's Translation), sect. 29. The view I take does not, of course, + imply that Octavius had no love for his sister. + + [4] See Note B. + + [5] The point of this remark is unaffected by the fact that the play + is not divided into acts and scenes in the folios. + + [6] See Note C. + + [7] See Note D. + + [8] Of the 'good' heroines, Imogen is the one who has most of this + spirit of fire and air; and this (in union, of course, with other + qualities) is perhaps the ultimate reason why for so many readers she + is, what Mr. Swinburne calls her, 'the woman above all Shakespeare's + women.' + + + + +SHAKESPEARE THE MAN + + +SHAKESPEARE THE MAN + + +Such phrases as 'Shakespeare the man' or 'Shakespeare's personality' +are, no doubt, open to objection. They seem to suggest that, if we could +subtract from Shakespeare the mind that produced his works, the residue +would be the man himself; and that his mind was some pure impersonal +essence unaffected by the accidents of physique, temperament, and +character. If this were so, one could but echo Tennyson's thanksgiving +that we know so little of Shakespeare. But as it is assuredly not so, +and as 'Shakespeare the man' really means the one indivisible +Shakespeare, regarded for the time from a particular point of view, the +natural desire to know whatever can be known of him is not to be +repressed merely because there are people so foolish as to be careless +about his works and yet curious about his private life. For my own part +I confess that, though I should care nothing about the man if he had not +written the works, yet, since we possess them, I would rather see and +hear him for five minutes in his proper person than discover a new one. +And though we may be content to die without knowing his income or even +the surname of Mr. W. H., we cannot so easily resign the wish to find +the man in his writings, and to form some idea of the disposition, the +likes and dislikes, the character and the attitude towards life, of the +human being who seems to us to have understood best our common human +nature. + +The answer of course will be that our biographical knowledge of +Shakespeare is so small, and his writings are so completely dramatic, +that this wish, however natural, is idle. But I cannot think so. +Doubtless, in trying to form an idea of Shakespeare, we soon reach the +limits of reasonable certainty; and it is also true that the idea we can +form without exceeding them is far from being as individual as we could +desire. But it is more distinct than is often supposed, and it _is_ +reasonably certain; and although we can add to its distinctness only by +more or less probable conjectures, they are not mere guesses, they +really have probability in various degrees. On this whole subject there +is a tendency at the present time to an extreme scepticism, which +appears to me to be justified neither by the circumstances of the +particular case nor by our knowledge of human nature in general. + +This scepticism is due in part to the interest excited by Mr. Lee's +discussion of the Sonnets in his _Life_ of Shakespeare, and to the +importance rightly attached to that discussion. The Sonnets are lyrical +poems of friendship and love. In them the poet ostensibly speaks in his +own person and expresses his own feelings. Many critics, no doubt, had +denied that he really did so; but they had not Mr. Lee's knowledge, nor +had they examined the matter so narrowly as he; and therefore they had +not much weakened the general belief that the Sonnets, however +conventional or exaggerated their language may sometimes be, do tell us +a good deal about their author. Mr. Lee, however, showed far more fully +than any previous writer that many of the themes, many even of the +ideas, of these poems are commonplaces of Renaissance sonnet-writing; +and he came to the conclusion that in the Sonnets Shakespeare +'unlocked,' not 'his heart,' but a very different kind of armoury, and +that the sole biographical inference deducible from them is that 'at one +time in his career Shakespeare disdained no weapon of flattery in an +endeavour to monopolise the bountiful patronage of a young man of rank.' +Now, if that inference is correct, it certainly tells us something about +Shakespeare the man; but it also forbids us to take seriously what the +Sonnets profess to tell us of his passionate affection, with its hopes +and fears, its pain and joy; of his pride and his humility, his +self-reproach and self-defence, his weariness of life and his +consciousness of immortal genius. And as, according to Mr. Lee's +statement, the Sonnets alone of Shakespeare's works 'can be held to +throw any illumination on a personal trait,' it seems to follow that, so +far as the works are concerned (for Mr. Lee is not specially sceptical +as to the external testimony), the only idea we can form of the man is +contained in that single inference. + +Now, I venture to surmise that Mr. Lee's words go rather beyond his +meaning. But that is not our business here, nor could a brief discussion +do justice to a theory to which those who disagree with it are still +greatly indebted. What I wish to deny is the presupposition which seems +to be frequently accepted as an obvious truth. Even if Mr. Lee's view of +the Sonnets were indisputably correct, nay, if even, to go much further, +the persons and the story in the Sonnets were as purely fictitious as +those of _Twelfth Night_, they might and would still tell us something +of the personality of their author. For however free a poet may be from +the emotions which he simulates, and however little involved in the +conditions which he imagines, he cannot (unless he is a mere copyist) +write a hundred and fifty lyrics expressive of those simulated emotions +without disclosing something of himself, something of the way in which +he in particular _would_ feel and behave under the imagined conditions. +And the same thing holds in principle of the dramas. Is it really +conceivable that a man can write some five and thirty dramas, and +portray in them an enormous amount and variety of human nature, without +betraying anything whatever of his own disposition and preferences? I do +not believe that he could do this, even if he deliberately set himself +to the task. The only question is how much of himself he would betray. + +One is entitled to say this, I think, on general grounds; but we may +appeal further to specific experience. Of many poets and novelists we +know a good deal from external sources. And in these cases we find that +the man so known to us appears also in his works, and that these by +themselves would have left on us a personal impression which, though +imperfect and perhaps in this or that point even false, would have been +broadly true. Of course this holds of some writers much more fully than +of others; but, except where the work is very scanty in amount, it seems +to hold in some degree of all.[1] If so, there is an antecedent +probability that it will apply to Shakespeare too. After all, he was +human. We may exclaim in our astonishment that he was as universal and +impartial as nature herself; but this is the language of religious +rapture. If we assume that he was six times as universal as Sir Walter +Scott, which is praise enough for a mortal, we may hope to form an idea +of him from his plays only six times as dim as the idea of Scott that we +should derive from the Waverley Novels. + +And this is not all. As a matter of fact, the great majority of +Shakespeare's readers--lovers of poetry untroubled by theories and +questions--do form from the plays some idea of the man. Knowingly or +not, they possess such an idea; and up to a certain point the idea is +the same. Ask such a man whether he thinks Shakespeare was at all like +Shelley, or Wordsworth, or Milton, and it will not occur to him to +answer 'I have not the faintest notion'; he will answer unhesitatingly +No. Ask him whether he supposes that Shakespeare was at all like +Fielding or Scott, and he will probably be found to imagine that, while +differing greatly from both, he did belong to the same type or class. +And such answers unquestionably imply an idea which, however deficient +in detail, is definite. + +Again, to go a little further in the same direction, take this fact. +After I had put together my notes for the present lecture, I re-read +Bagehot's essay on Shakespeare the Man, and I read a book by Goldwin +Smith and an essay by Leslie Stephen (who, I found, had anticipated a +good deal that I meant to say).[2] These three writers, with all their +variety, have still substantially the same idea of Shakespeare; and it +is the idea of the competent 'general reader' more fully developed. Nor +is the value of their agreement in the least diminished by the fact that +they make no claim to be Shakespeare scholars. They show themselves much +abler than most scholars, and if they lack the scholar's knowledge they +are free from his defects. When they wrote their essays they had not +wearied themselves with rival hypotheses, or pored over minutiae until +they lost the broad and deep impressions which vivid reading leaves. +Ultra-scepticism in this matter does not arise merely or mainly from the +humility which every man of sense must feel as he creeps to and fro in +Shakespeare's prodigious mind. It belongs either to the clever faddist +who can see nothing straight, or it proceeds from those dangers and +infirmities which the expert in any subject knows too well. + +The remarks I am going to make can have an interest only for those who +share the position I have tried to indicate; who believe that the most +dramatic of writers must reveal in his writings something of himself, +but who recognise that in Shakespeare's case we can expect a reasonable +certainty only within narrow limits, while beyond them we have to trust +to impressions, the value of which must depend on familiarity with his +writings, on freedom from prejudice and the desire to reach any +particular result, and on the amount of perception we may happen to +possess. I offer my own impressions, insecure and utterly unprovable as +I know them to be, simply because those of other readers have an +interest for me; and I offer them for the most part without argument, +because even where argument might be useful it requires more time than a +lecture can afford. For the same reason I shall assume, without +attempting to define it further, and without dilating on its +implications, the truth of that general feeling about Shakespeare and +Fielding and Scott. + +But, before we come to impressions at all, we must look at the scanty +store of external evidence: for we may lay down at once the canon that +impressions derived from the works must supplement and not contradict +this evidence, so far as it appears trustworthy. It is scanty, but it +yields a decided outline. + + This figure that thou here seest put, + It was for gentle Shakespeare cut: + +--so Jonson writes of the portrait in the Folio, and the same adjective +'gentle' is used elsewhere of Shakespeare. It had not in Elizabethan +English so confined a meaning as it has now; but it meant something, and +I do not remember that their contemporaries called Marlowe or Jonson or +Marston 'gentle.' Next, in the earliest extant reference that we have to +Shakespeare, the writer says that he himself has seen his 'demeanour' to +be 'civil.'[3] It is not saying much; but it is not the first remark an +acquaintance would probably have made about Ben Jonson or Samuel +Johnson. The same witness adds about Shakespeare that 'divers of worship +have reported his uprightness of dealing which argues his honesty.' +'Honesty' and 'honest' in an Elizabethan passage like this mean more +than they would now; they answer rather to our 'honourable' or 'honour.' +Lastly we have the witness borne by Jonson in the words: 'I loved the +man, and do honour his memory, on this side idolatry, as much as any. He +was, indeed, honest, and of an open and free nature.' With this notable +phrase, to which I shall have to return, we come to an end of the +testimony of eye-witnesses to Shakespeare the Man (for we have nothing +to do with references to the mere actor or author). It is scanty, and +insufficient to discriminate him from other persons who were gentle, +civil, upright in their dealings, honourable, open, and free: but I +submit that there have been not a few writers to whom all these +qualities could not be truly ascribed, and that the testimony therefore +does tell us something definite. To which must be added that we have +absolutely no evidence which conflicts with it. Whatever Greene in his +jealous embitterment might have said would carry little weight, but in +fact, apart from general abuse of actors, he only says that the upstart +had an over-weening opinion of his own capacities. + +There remain certain traditions and certain facts; and without +discussing them I will mention what seems to me to have a more or less +probable significance. Stratford stories of drinking bouts may go for +nothing, but not the consensus of tradition to the effect that +Shakespeare was a pleasant and convivial person, 'very good company, and +of a very ready and pleasant smooth wit.'[4] That after his retirement +to Stratford he spent at the rate of Ł1000 a year is incredible, but +that he spent freely seems likely enough. The tradition that as a young +man he got into trouble with Sir Thomas Lucy for deer-stealing (which +would probably be an escapade rather than an essay in serious poaching) +is supported by his unsavoury jest about the 'luces' in Sir Robert +Shallow's coat. The more general statement that in youth he was wild +does not sound improbable; and, obscure as the matter is, I cannot +regard as comfortable the little we know of the circumstances of his +very early marriage. A contemporary story of an amorous adventure in +London may well be pure invention, but we have no reason to reject it +peremptorily as we should any similar gossip about Milton. Lastly, +certain inferences may safely be drawn from the facts that, once +securely started in London, Shakespeare soon began to prosper, and +acquired, for an actor and playwright, considerable wealth; that he +bought property in his native town, and was consulted sometimes by +fellow-townsmen on matters of business; that he enforced the payment of +certain debts; and that he took the trouble to get a coat of arms. But +what cannot with any logic or any safety be inferred is that he, any +more than Scott, was impelled to write simply and solely by the desire +to make money and improve his social position; and the comparative +abundance of business records will mislead only those who are +thoughtless enough to forget that, if they buy a house or sue a debtor, +the fact will be handed down, while their kind or generous deeds may be +recorded, if at all, only in the statement that they were 'of an open +and free nature.' + +That Shakespeare was a good and perhaps keen man of business, or that he +set store by a coat of arms, we could not have inferred from his +writings. But we could have judged from them that he worked hard, and +have guessed with some probability that he would rather have been a +'gentleman' than an actor. And most of the other characteristics that +appear from the external evidence would, I think, have seemed probable +from a study of the works. This should encourage us to hope that we may +be right in other impressions which we receive from them. And we may +begin with one on which the external evidence has a certain bearing. + +Readers of Shakespeare, I believe, imagine him to have been not only +sweet-tempered but modest and unassuming. I do not doubt that they are +right; and, vague as the Folio portrait and the Stratford bust are, it +would be difficult to believe that their subject was an irritable, +boastful, or pushing person. But if we confine ourselves to the works, +it is not easy to give reasons for the idea that their author was modest +and unassuming; and a man is not necessarily so because he is open, +free, and very good company. Perhaps we feel that a man who was not so +would have allowed much more of himself to appear in his works than +Shakespeare does. Perhaps again we think that anything like presumption +or self-importance was incompatible with Shakespeare's sense of the +ridiculous, his sublime common-sense, and his feeling of man's +insignificance. And, lastly, it seems to us clear that the playwright +admires and likes people who are modest, unassuming, and plain; while it +may perhaps safely be said that those who lack these qualities rarely +admire them in others and not seldom despise them. But, however we may +justify our impression that Shakespeare possessed them, we certainly +receive it; and assuming it to be as correct as the similar impression +left by the Waverley Novels indubitably is, I go on to observe that the +possession of them does not of necessity imply a want of spirit, or of +proper self-assertion or insistence on rights.[5] It did not in Scott, +and we have ground for saying that it did not in Shakespeare. If it had, +he could not, being of an open and free nature, have prospered as he +prospered. He took offence at Greene's attack on him, and showed that he +took it. He was 'gentle,' but he liked his debts to be paid. However his +attitude as to the enclosure at Welcombe may be construed, it is clear +that he had to be reckoned with. It appears probable that he held +himself wronged by Sir Thomas Lucy, and, pocketing up the injury because +he could not resent it, gave him tit for tat after some fifteen years. +The man in the Sonnets forgives his friend easily, but it is not from +humility; and towards the world he is very far from humble. Of the +dedication of _The Rape of Lucrece_ we cannot judge, for we do not know +Shakespeare's relations with Lord Southampton at that date; but, as for +the dedication of _Venus and Adonis_, could modesty and dignity be +better mingled in a letter from a young poet to a great noble than they +are there? + +Some of Shakespeare's writings point to a strain of deep reflection and +of quasi-metaphysical imagination in his nature; and a few of them seem +to reveal a melancholy, at times merely sad, at times embittered or +profound, if never hopeless. It is on this side mainly that we feel a +decided difference between him and Fielding, and even between him and +Scott. Yet nothing in the contemporary allusions or in the traditions +would suggest that he was notably thoughtful or serious, and much less +that he was melancholy. And although we could lay no stress on this fact +if it stood alone, it is probably significant. Shakespeare's writings, +on the whole, leave a strong impression that his native disposition was +much more gay than grave. They seem always to have made this impression. +Fuller tells us that 'though his genius generally was jocular and +inclining him to festivity, yet he could, when so disposed, be solemn +and serious, as appears by his tragedies.'[6] Johnson agreed with Rymer +that his 'natural disposition' led him to comedy; and, although Johnson +after his manner distorts a true idea by wilful exaggeration and by +perverting distinctions into antitheses, there is truth in his +development of Rymer's remark. It would be easy to quote nineteenth +century critics to the same effect; and the study of Shakespeare's early +works leads to a similar result. It has been truly said that we feel +ourselves in much closer contact with his personality in the early +comedies and in _Romeo and Juliet_ than in _Henry VI._ and _Richard +III._ and _Titus Andronicus_. In the latter, so far as we suppose them +to be his own, he seems on the whole to be following, and then improving +on, an existing style, and to be dealing with subjects which engage him +as a playwright without much appealing to him personally. With _Romeo +and Juliet_, on the other hand, and with _Richard II._ (which seems +clearly to be his first attempt to write historical tragedy in a manner +entirely his own), it is different, and we feel the presence of the +whole man. The stories are tragic, but it is not precisely the _tragic_ +aspect of them that attracts him most; and even Johnson's statement, +grotesquely false of the later tragedies, that 'in tragedy he is always +struggling after some occasion to be comic,' is no more than an +exaggeration in respect to _Romeo and Juliet_.[7] From these tragedies, +as from _Love's Labour's Lost_ and the other early comedies, we should +guess that the author was a young man, happy, alert, light-hearted, full +of romance and poetry, but full also of fun; blessed with a keen +enjoyment of absurdities, but, for all his intellectual subtlety and +power, not markedly reflective, and certainly not particularly grave or +much inclined to dejection. One might even suspect, I venture to think, +that with such a flow of spirits and such exceeding alacrity of mind he +might at present be a trifle wanting in feeling and disposed to levity. +In any case, if our general impression is correct, we shall not find it +hard to believe that the author of these plays and the creator of +Falstaff was 'very good company' and a convivial good-fellow; and it +might easily happen that he was tempted at times to 'go here and there' +in society, and 'make himself a motley to the view' in a fashion that +left some qualms behind.[8] + +There is a tradition that Shakespeare was 'a handsome well-shaped man.' +If the Stratford monument does not lie, he was not in later life a +meagre man. And if our notion of his temperament has any truth, he can +hardly have been physically feeble, bloodless, or inactive. Most readers +probably imagine him the reverse. Even sceptical critics tell us that he +was fond of field-sports; and of his familiar knowledge of them there +can be no question. Yet--I can but record the impression without trying +to justify it--his writings do not at all suggest to me that he was a +splendidly powerful creature like Fielding, or that he greatly enjoyed +bodily exertion, or was not easily tired. He says much of horses, but he +does not make one think, as Scott does, that a gallop was a great +delight to him. Nor again do I feel after reading him that he had a +strong natural love of adventurous deeds, or longed to be an explorer or +a soldier. The island of his boyish dreams--if he heard much of voyages +as a boy--was, I fancy, the haunt of marmosets and hedgehogs, quaint +moon-calves and flitting sprites, lovely colours, sounds and sweet airs +that give delight and hurt not, less like Treasure Island than the Coral +Island of Ballantyne in the original illustrations, and more full of +wonders than of dangers. He would have liked the Arabian Nights better +than Dumas. Of course he admired men of action, understood them, and +could express their feelings; but we do not feel particularly close to +his personality as we read the warrior speeches of Hotspur, Henry, +Othello, Coriolanus, as we do when we read of Romeo or Hamlet, or when +we feel the attraction of Henry's modesty. In the same way, I suppose +nobody feels Shakespeare's personal presence in the ambition of Macbeth +or the pride of Coriolanus; many feel it in Macbeth's imaginative +terrors, and in the disgust of Coriolanus at the idea of recounting his +exploits in order to win votes. When we seem to hear Shakespeare's +voice--and we hear it from many mouths besides Romeo's or Hamlet's--it +is the voice of a man with a happy, enjoying, but still contemplative +and even dreamy nature, not of a man richly endowed with the impulses +and feelings either of strenuous action or of self-assertion. If he had +drawn a Satan, we should not have felt his personality, as we do +Milton's, in Satan's pride and indomitable courage and intolerance of +rule. + +We know how often Shakespeare uses the antithesis of blood or passion, +and judgment or reason; how he praises the due commingling of the two, +or the control of the first by the second; how frequently it is the want +of such control that exposes his heroes to the attack of Fortune or +Fate. What, then, were the passions or the 'affections of the blood' +most dangerous to himself? Not, if we have been right, those of pride or +ambition; nor yet those of envy, hatred, or revenge; and still less that +of avarice. But, in the first place, let us remember Jonson's words, 'he +was honest and of an open and free nature,' and let me repeat an +observation, made elsewhere in passing, that these words are true also +of the great majority of Shakespeare's heroes, and not least of his +tragic heroes. Jonson almost quotes Iago: + + The Moor is of a free and open nature, + That thinks men honest that but seem to be so. + +The king says that Hamlet, + + being remiss, + Most generous, and free from all contrivings, + Will not peruse the foils. + +The words 'open and free' apply no less eminently to Brutus, Lear, and +Timon. Antony and Coriolanus are men naturally frank, liberal, and +large. Prospero lost his dukedom through his trustfulness. Romeo and +Troilus and Orlando, and many slighter characters, are so far of the +same type. Now such a free and open nature, obviously, is specially +exposed to the risks of deception, perfidy, and ingratitude. If it is +also a nature sensitive and intense, but not particularly active or (if +the word may be excused) volitional, such experiences will tempt it to +melancholy, embitterment, anger, possibly even misanthropy. If it _is_ +thus active or volitional, it may become the prey of violent and +destructive passion, such as that of Othello and of Coriolanus, and such +as Lear's would be if he were not so old. These affections, passions, +and sufferings of free and open natures are Shakespeare's favourite +tragic subject; and his favouritism, surely, goes so far as to +constitute a decided peculiarity, not found thus in other tragic poets. +Here he painted most, one cannot but think, what his own nature was most +inclined to feel. But it would rather be melancholy, embitterment, an +inactive rage or misanthropy, than any destructive passion; and it would +be a further question whether, and how far, he may at any time have +experienced what he depicts. I am speaking here only of his +disposition.[9] + +That Shakespeare was as much inclined to be a lover as most poets we may +perhaps safely assume; but can we conjecture anything further on this +subject? I will confine myself to two points. He treats of love +romantically, and tragically, and humorously. In the earlier plays +especially the humorous aspect of the matter, the aspect so prominent in +the _Midsummer-Night's Dream_, the changefulness, brevity, +irrationality, of the feeling, is at least as much dwelt on as the +romantic, and with at least as much relish: + + Lord! what fools these mortals be! + +Now, if there is anything peculiar in the pictures here, it is, perhaps, +the special interest that Shakespeare seems to take in what we may call +the unreality of the feeling of love in an imaginative nature. Romeo as +he first appears, and, in a later play, Orsino, are examples of this. +They are perfectly sincere, of course, but neither of them is really in +love with a woman; each is in love with the state of being in love. This +state is able to attach itself to a particular object, but it is not +induced by the particular qualities of that object; it is more a dream +than a passion, and can melt away without carrying any of the lover's +heart with it; and in that sense it is unreal. This weakness, no doubt, +is not confined to imaginative natures, but they may well be specially +disposed to it (as Shelley was), and Shakespeare may have drawn it from +his own experience. The suspicion is strengthened when we think of +_Richard II_. In Richard this imaginative weakness is exhibited again, +though not in relation to love. He luxuriates in images of his royal +majesty, of the angels who guard his divine right, and of his own +pathetic and almost sacred sufferings. The images are not insincere, and +yet they are like dreams, for they refuse to touch earth and to connect +themselves either with his past misdeeds or with the actions he ought +now to perform. A strain of a similar weakness appears again in Hamlet, +though only as one strain in a much more deep and complex nature. But +this is not a common theme in poetry, much less in dramatic poetry.[10] + +To come to our second question. When Shakespeare painted Cressida or +described her through the mouth of Ulysses ('O these encounterers,' +etc.), or, again, when he portrayed the love of Antony for Cleopatra, +was he using his personal experience? To answer that he _must_ have done +so would be as ridiculous as to argue that Iago must be a portrait of +himself; and the two plays contain nothing which, by itself, would +justify us even in thinking that he probably did so. But we have the +series of sonnets about the dark lady; and if we accept the sonnets to +the friend as to some considerable extent based on fact and expressive +of personal feelings, how can we refuse to take the others on the same +footing? Even if the stories of the two series were not intertwined, we +should have no ground for treating the two in different ways, unless we +could say that external evidence, or the general impression we derive +from Shakespeare's works, forbids us to believe that he could ever have +been entangled in an intrigue like that implied in the second series, or +have felt and thought in the manner there portrayed. Being unable to say +this, I am compelled, most regretfully, to hold it probable that this +series is, in the main, based on personal experience. And I say 'most +regretfully,' not merely because one would regret to think that +Shakespeare was the victim of a Cressida or even the lover of a +Cleopatra, but because the story implied in these sonnets is of quite +another kind. They leave, on the whole, a very disagreeable impression. +We cannot compare it with the impressions produced, for example, by the +'heathen' spirit of Goethe's _Roman Elegies_, or by the passion of +Shakespeare's Antony. In these two cases, widely dissimilar of course, +we may speak of 'immorality,' but we are not discomfited, much less +disgusted. The feeling and the attitude are poetic, whole-hearted, and +in one case passionate in the extreme. But the state of mind expressed +in the sonnets about the dark lady is half-hearted, often prosaic, and +never worthy of the name of passion. It is uneasy, dissatisfied, +distempered, the state of mind of a man who despises his 'passion' and +its object and himself, but, standing intellectually far above it, still +has not resolution to end it, and only pains us by his gross and joyless +jests. In _Troilus and Cressida_--not at all in the portrayal of +Troilus's love, but in the atmosphere of the drama--we seem to trace a +similar mood of dissatisfaction, and of intellectual but practically +impotent contempt. + +In this connection it is natural to think of the 'unhappy period' which +has so often been surmised in Shakespeare's life. There is not time here +to expand the summary remarks made elsewhere on this subject; but I may +refer a little more fully to a persistent impression left on my mind by +writings which we have reason to assign to the years 1602-6.[11] There +is surely something unusual in their tone regarding certain 'vices of +the blood,' regarding drunkenness and sexual corruption. It does not lie +in Shakespeare's _view_ of these vices, but in an undertone of disgust. +Read Hamlet's language about the habitual drunkenness of his uncle, or +even Cassio's words about his casual excess; then think of the tone of +_Henry IV._ or _Twelfth Night_ or the _Tempest_; and ask if the +difference is not striking. And if you are inclined to ascribe it wholly +to the fact that _Hamlet_ and _Othello_ are tragedies, compare the +passages in them with the scene on Pompey's galley in _Antony and +Cleopatra_. The intent of that scene is terrible enough, but in the tone +there is no more trace of disgust than in _Twelfth Night_. As to the +other matter, what I refer to is not the transgression of lovers like +Claudio and Juliet, nor even light-hearted irregularities like those of +Cassio: here Shakespeare's speech has its habitual tone. But, when he is +dealing with lechery and corruption, the undercurrent of disgust seems +to become audible. Is it not true that in the plays from _Hamlet_ to +_Timon_ that subject, in one shape or another, is continually before us; +that the intensity of loathing in Hamlet's language about his mother's +lust is unexampled in Shakespeare; that the treatment of the subject in +_Measure for Measure_, though occasionally purely humorous, is on the +whole quite unlike the treatment in _Henry IV._ or even in the brothel +scenes of _Pericles_;[12] that while _Troilus and Cressida_ is full of +disgust and contempt, there is not a trace of either in _Antony and +Cleopatra_, though some of the jesting there is obscene enough; that +this same tone is as plainly heard in the unquestioned parts of _Timon_; +and that, while it is natural in Timon to inveigh against female lechery +when he speaks to Alcibiades and his harlots, there is no apparent +reason why Lear in his exalted madness should choose this subject for +similar invectives? 'Pah! give me an ounce of civet, good apothecary, to +sweeten my imagination'--it is a fainter echo of this exclamation that +one seems to hear in the plays of those years. Of course I am not +suggesting that it is mainly due, or as regards drunkenness due in the +least, to any private experience of Shakespeare's. It may have no +connection whatever with that experience. It might well be connected +with it only in so far as a man frequently wearied and depressed might +be unusually sensitive to the ugly aspects of life. But, if we do not +take the second series of sonnets to be purely fanciful, we shall think +it probable that to some undefined extent it owed its origin to the +experience depicted in them.[13] + +There remain the sonnets addressed to the friend. Even if it were +possible to discuss the general question about them here, it would be +needless; for I accept almost wholly, and in some points am greatly +indebted to, the views put forward by Mr. Beeching in his admirable +edition, to which I may therefore refer my hearers.[14] I intend only to +state the main reason why I believe the sonnets to be, substantially, +what they purport to be, and then to touch upon one or two of the points +where they seem to throw light on Shakespeare's personality. + +The sonnets to the friend are, so far as we know, unique in Renaissance +sonnet literature in being a prolonged and varied record of the intense +affection of an older friend for a younger, and of other feelings +arising from their relations. They have no real parallel in any series +imitative of Virgil's second Eclogue, or in occasional sonnets to +patrons or patron-friends couched in the high-flown language of the +time. The intensity of the feelings expressed, however, ought not, by +itself, to convince us that they are personal. The author of the plays +could, I make no doubt, have written the most intimate of these poems to +a mere creature of his imagination and without ever having felt them +except in imagination. Nor is there any but an aesthetic reason why he +should not have done so if he had wished. But an aesthetic reason there +is; and this is the decisive point. No capable poet, much less a +Shakespeare, intending to produce a merely 'dramatic' series of poems, +would dream of inventing a story like that of these sonnets, or, even if +he did, of treating it as they treat it. The story is very odd and +unattractive. Such capacities as it has are but slightly developed. It +is left obscure, and some of the poems are unintelligible to us because +they contain allusions of which we can make nothing. Now all this is +perfectly natural if the story is substantially a real story of +Shakespeare himself and of certain other persons; if the sonnets were +written from time to time as the relations of the persons changed, and +sometimes in reference to particular incidents; and if they were written +_for_ one or more of these persons (far the greater number for only +one), and perhaps in a few cases for other friends,--written, that is to +say, for people who knew the details and incidents of which we are +ignorant. But it is all unnatural, well-nigh incredibly unnatural, if, +with the most sceptical critics, we regard the sonnets as a free product +of mere imagination.[15] + +Assuming, then, that the persons of the story, with their relations, are +real, I would add only two remarks about the friend. In the first place, +Mr. Beeching seems to me right in denying that there is sufficient +evidence of his standing to Shakespeare and the 'rival' poet or poets in +the position of a literary patron; while, even if he did, it appears to +me quite impossible to take the language of many of the sonnets as that +of interested flattery. And in the second place I should be inclined to +push even further Mr. Beeching's view on another point. It is clear that +the young man was considerably superior to the actor-dramatist in social +position; but any gentleman would be so, and there is nothing to prove +that he was more than a gentleman of some note, more than plain 'Mr. W. +H.' (for these, on the obvious though not compulsory interpretation of +the dedication, seem to have been his initials). It is remarkable +besides that, while the earlier sonnets show much deference, the later +show very little, so little that, when the writer, finding that he has +pained his young friend by neglecting him, begs to be forgiven, he +writes almost, if not quite, as an equal. Read, for example, sonnets +109, 110, 120, and ask whether it is probable that Shakespeare is +addressing here a great nobleman. It seems therefore most likely (though +the question is not of much importance) that the sonnets are, to quote +Meres's phrase,[16] his 'sonnets among his private friends.' + +If then there is, as it appears, no obstacle of any magnitude to our +taking the sonnets as substantially what they purport to be, we may +naturally look in them for personal traits (and, indeed, to repeat a +remark made earlier, we might still expect to find such traits even if +we knew the sonnets to be purely dramatic). But in drawing inferences we +have to bear in mind what is implied by the qualification +'substantially.' We have to remember that _some_ of these poems may be +mere exercises of art; that all of them are poems, and not letters, much +less _affidavits_; that they are Elizabethan poems; that the Elizabethan +language of deference, and also of affection, is to our minds habitually +extravagant and fantastic;[17] and that in Elizabethan plays friends +openly express their love for one another as Englishmen now rarely do. +Allowance being made, however, on account of these facts, the sonnets +will still leave two strong impressions--that the poet was exceedingly +sensitive to the charm of beauty, and that his love for his friend was, +at least at one time, a feeling amounting almost to adoration, and so +intense as to be absorbing. Those who are surprised by the first of +these traits must have read Shakespeare's dramas with very inactive +minds, and I must add that they seem to be somewhat ignorant of human +nature. We do not necessarily love best those of our relatives, friends, +and acquaintances who please our eyes most; and we should look askance +on anyone who regulated his behaviour chiefly by the standard of beauty; +but most of us, I suppose, love any human being, of either sex and of +any age, the better for being beautiful, and are not the least ashamed +of the fact. It is further the case that men who are beginning, like the +writer of the sonnets, to feel tired and old, are apt to feel an +increased and special pleasure in the beauty of the young.[18] If we +remember, in addition, what some critics appear constantly to forget, +that Shakespeare was a particularly poetical being, we shall hardly be +surprised that the beginning of this friendship seems to have been +something like a falling in love; and, if we must needs praise and +blame, we should also remember that it became a 'marriage of true +minds.'[19] And as to the intensity of the feeling expressed in the +sonnets, we can easily believe it to be characteristic of the man who +made Valentine and Proteus, Brutus and Cassius, Horatio and Hamlet; who +painted that strangely moving portrait of Antonio, middle-aged, sad, and +almost indifferent between life and death, but devoted to the young, +brilliant spendthrift Bassanio; and who portrayed the sudden compelling +enchantment exercised by the young Sebastian over the Antonio of +_Twelfth Night_. 'If you will not murder me for your love, let me be +your servant.' Antonio is accused of piracy: he may lose his life if he +is identified: + + I have many enemies in Orsino's court, + But, come what may, I do adore thee so + That danger shall seem sport, and I will go. + +The adoration, the 'prostration,' of the writer of the sonnets is of one +kind with this. + +I do not remember what critic uses the word 'prostration.' It applies to +Shakespeare's attitude only in some of the sonnets, but there it does +apply, unless it is taken to suggest humiliation. _That_ is the term +used by Hallam, but chiefly in view of a particular point, namely the +failure of the poet to 'resent,' though he 'felt and bewailed,' the +injury done him in 'the seduction of his mistress.' Though I think we +should substitute 'resent more strongly' for the mere 'resent,' I do not +deny that the poet's attitude in this matter strikes us at first as +surprising as well as unpleasant to contemplate. But Hallam's +explanation of it as perhaps due to the exalted position of the friend, +would make it much more than unpleasant; and his language seems to show +that he, like many critics, did not fully imagine the situation. It is +not easy to speak of it in public with the requisite frankness; but it +is necessary to realise that, whatever the friend's rank might be, he +and the poet were intimate friends; that, manifestly, it was rather the +mistress who seduced the friend than the friend the mistress; and that +she was apparently a woman not merely of no reputation, but of such a +nature that she might readily be expected to be mistress to two men at +one and the same time. Anyone who realises this may call the situation +'humiliating' in one sense, and I cannot quarrel with him; but he will +not call it 'humiliating' in respect of Shakespeare's relation to his +friend; nor will he wonder much that the poet felt more pain than +resentment at his friend's treatment of him. There is something +infinitely stranger in a play of Shakespeare's, and it may be +symptomatic. Ten Brink called attention to it. Proteus actually offers +violence to Sylvia, a spotless lady and the true love of his friend +Valentine; and Valentine not only forgives him at once when he professes +repentance, but offers to resign Sylvia to him! The incident is to us so +utterly preposterous that we find it hard to imagine how the audience +stood it; but, even if we conjecture that Shakespeare adopted it from +the story he was using, we can hardly suppose that it was so absurd to +him as it is to us.[20] And it is not the Sonnets alone which lead us to +surmise that forgiveness was particularly attractive to him, and the +forgiveness of a friend much easier than resentment. From the Sonnets we +gather--and there is nothing in the plays or elsewhere to contradict the +impression--that he would not be slow to resent the criticisms, +slanders, or injuries of strangers or the world, and that he bore +himself towards them with a proud, if silent, self-sufficiency. But, we +surmise, for anyone whom he loved + + He carried anger as a flint bears fire; + Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark + And straight is cold again; + +and towards anyone so fondly loved as the friend of the Sonnets he was +probably incapable of fierce or prolonged resentment. + + +The Sonnets must not occupy us further; and I will not dwell on the +indications they afford that Shakespeare sometimes felt bitterly both +the social inferiority of his position as an actor,[21] and its +influence on his own character; or that (as we have already conjectured) +he may sometimes have played the fool in society, sometimes felt weary +of life, and often was over-tired by work. It is time to pass on to a +few hesitating conjectures about what may be called his tastes. + +Some passages of his about music have become household words. It is not +downright impossible that, like Bottom, having only a reasonable good +ear, he liked best the tongs and the bones; that he wondered, with +Benedick, how sheeps-guts should hale souls out of men's bodies; and +that he wrote the famous lines in the _Merchant of Venice_ and in +_Twelfth Night_ from mere observation and imagination. But it is futile +to deal with scepticism run well-nigh mad, and certainly inaccessible to +argument from the cases of poets whose tastes are matter of knowledge. +Assuming therefore that Shakespeare was fond of music, I may draw +attention to two points. Almost always he speaks of music as having a +softening, tranquillising, or pensive influence. It lulls killing care +and grief of heart to sleep. It soothes the sick and weary, and even +makes them drowsy. Hamlet calls for it in his hysterical excitement +after the success of the play scene. When it is hoped that Lear's long +sleep will have carried his madness away, music is played as he awakes, +apparently to increase the desired 'temperance.' It harmonises with the +still and moon-lit night, and the dreamy happiness of newly-wedded +lovers. Almost all the rare allusions to lively or exciting music, +apart from dancing, refer, I believe, to 'the lofty instruments of +_war_.' These facts would almost certainly have a personal significance +if Shakespeare were a more modern poet. Whether they have any, or have +much, in an Elizabethan I do not venture to judge. + +The second point is diminutive, but it may be connected with the first. +The Duke in _Measure for Measure_ observes that music often has + + a charm + To make bad good and good provoke to harm. + +If we ask how it should provoke good to harm, we may recall what was +said (p. 326) of the weaknesses of some poetic natures, and that no one +speaks more feelingly of music than Orsino; further, how he refers to +music as 'the food of love,' and who it is that almost repeats the +phrase. + + Give me some music: music, moody food + Of us that trade in love: + +--the words are Cleopatra's.[22] Did Shakespeare as he wrote them +remember, I wonder, the dark lady to whose music he had listened (Sonnet +128)? + +We should be greatly surprised to find in Shakespeare signs of the +nineteenth century feeling for mountain scenery, but we can no more +doubt that within certain limits he was sensitive to the beauty of +nature than that he was fond of music.[23] The only question is whether +we can guess at any preferences here. It is probably inevitable that the +flowers most often mentioned should be the rose and the lily;[24] but +hardly that the violet should come next and not far behind, and that the +fragrance of the violet should be spoken of more often even than that of +the rose, and, it seems, with special affection. This may be a fancy, +and it will be thought a sentimental fancy too; but poets, like other +people, may have favourite flowers; that of Keats, we happen to know, +was the violet. + +Again, if we may draw any conclusion from the frequency and the +character of the allusions, the lark held for Shakespeare the place of +honour among birds; and the lines, + + Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, + And Phoebus gins arise, + +may suggest one reason for this. The lark, as several other collocations +show, was to him the bird of joy that welcomes the sun; and it can +hardly be doubted that dawn and early morning was the time of day that +most appealed to him. That he felt the beauty of night and of moonlight +is obvious; but we find very little to match the lines in _Richard II._, + + The setting sun, and music at the close, + As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last; + +and still less to prove that he felt the magic of evening twilight, the +'heavenliest hour' of a famous passage in _Don Juan_. There is a +wonderful line in Sonnet 132, + + And that full star that ushers in the even, + +but I remember little else of the same kind. Shakespeare, as it happens, +uses the word 'twilight' only once, and in an unforgetable passage: + + In me thou see'st the twilight of such day + As after sunset fadeth in the west: + Which by and by black night doth take away, + Death's second self that seals up all in rest. + +And this feeling, though not often so solemn, is on the whole the +prevailing sentiment in the references to sunset and evening twilight. +It corresponds with the analogy between the times of the day and the +periods of human life. The sun sets from the weariness of age; but he +rises in the strength and freshness of youth, firing the proud tops of +the eastern pines, and turning the hills and the sea into burnished +gold, while jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops, and the +lark sings at the gate of heaven. In almost all the familiar lines about +dawn one seems to catch that 'indescribable gusto' which Keats heard in +Kean's delivery of the words: + + Stir with the lark to-morrow, gentle Norfolk. + +Two suggestions may be ventured as to Shakespeare's feelings towards +four-footed animals. The first must be very tentative. We do not expect +in a writer of that age the sympathy with animals which is so beautiful +a trait in much of the poetry of the last hundred and fifty years. And I +can remember in Shakespeare scarcely any sign of _fondness_ for an +animal,--not even for a horse, though he wrote so often of horses. But +there are rather frequent, if casual, expressions of pity, in +references, for example, to the hunted hare or stag, or to the spurred +horse:[25] and it may be questioned whether the passage in _As You Like +It_ about the wounded deer is quite devoid of personal significance. No +doubt Shakespeare thought the tears of Jaques sentimental; but he put a +piece of himself into Jaques. And, besides, it is not Jaques alone who +dislikes the killing of the deer, but the Duke; and we may surely hear +some tone of Shakespeare's voice in the Duke's speech about the life in +the forest. Perhaps we may surmise that, while he enjoyed field-sports, +he felt them at times to be out of tune with the harmony of nature. + +On the second point, I regret to say, I can feel no doubt. Shakespeare +did not care for dogs, as Homer did; he even disliked them, as Goethe +did. Of course he can write eloquently about the points of hounds and the +music of their voices in the chase, and humorously about Launce's love +for his cur and even about the cur himself; but this is no more +significant on the one side than is his conventional use of 'dog' as a +term of abuse on the other. What is significant is the absence of +allusion, or (to be perfectly accurate) of sympathetic allusion, to the +characteristic virtues of dogs, and the abundance of allusions of an +insulting kind. Shakespeare has observed and recorded, in some instances +profusely, every vice that I can think of in an ill-conditioned dog. He +fawns and cringes and flatters, and then bites the hand that caressed +him; he is a coward who attacks you from behind, and barks at you the +more the farther off you go; he knows neither charity, humanity, nor +gratitude; as he flatters power and wealth, so he takes part against the +poor and unfashionable, and if fortune turns against you so does he.[26] +The plays swarm with these charges. Whately's exclamation--uttered after +a College meeting or a meeting of Chapter, I forget which--'The more I +see of men, the more I like dogs,' would never have been echoed by +Shakespeare. The things he most loathed in men he found in dogs too. And +yet all this might go for nothing if we could set anything of weight +against it. But what can we set? Nothing whatever, so far as I remember, +except a recognition of courage in bear-baiting, bull-baiting mastiffs. +For I cannot quote as favourable to the spaniel the appeal of Helena: + + I am your spaniel; and, Demetrius, + The more you beat me I will fawn on you: + Use me but as your spaniel, spurn me, strike me, + Neglect me, lose me; only give me leave, + Unworthy as I am, to follow you. + +This may show that Shakespeare was alive to the baseness of a +spaniel-owner, but not that he appreciated that self-less affection +which he describes. It is more probable that it irritated him, as it +does many men still; and, as for its implying fidelity, there is no +reference, I believe, to the fidelity of the dog in the whole of his +works, and he chooses the spaniel himself as a symbol of flattery and +ingratitude: his Cćsar talks of + + Knee-crooked court'sies and base spaniel-fawning; + +his Antony exclaims: + + the hearts + That spaniel'd me at heels, to whom I gave + Their wishes, do discandy, melt their sweets + On blossoming Cćsar. + +To all that he loved most in men he was blind in dogs. And then we call +him universal! + +This line of research into Shakespeare's tastes might be pursued a good +deal further, but we must return to weightier matters. We saw that he +could sympathise with anyone who erred and suffered from impulse, +affections of the blood, or even such passions as were probably no +danger to himself,--ambition, for instance, and pride. Can we learn +anything more about him by observing virtues or types of character with +which he appears to feel little sympathy, though he may approve them? He +certainly does not show this imperfect sympathy towards self-control; we +seem to feel even a special liking for Brutus, and again for Horatio, +who has suffered much, is quietly patient, and has mastered both himself +and fortune. But, not to speak of coldly selfish natures, he seems +averse to bloodless people, those who lack, or those who have deadened, +the natural desires for joy and sympathy, and those who tend to be +precise.[27] Nor does he appear to be drawn to men who, as we say, try +to live or to act on principle; nor to those who aim habitually at +self-improvement; nor yet to the saintly type of character. I mean, not +that he _could_ not sympathise with them, but that they did not attract +him. Isabella, in _Measure for Measure_, is drawn, of course, with +understanding, but, it seems to me, with little sympathy. Her readiness +to abandon her pleading for Claudio, out of horror at his sin and a +sense of the justice of Angelo's reasons for refusing his pardon, is +doubtless in character; but if Shakespeare had sympathised more with her +at this point, so should we; while, as it is, we are tempted to exclaim, + + She loves him not, she wants the natural touch; + +and perhaps if Shakespeare had liked her better and had not regarded her +with some irony, he would not have allowed himself, for mere +convenience, to degrade her by marrying her to the Duke. Brutus and +Cordelia, on the other hand, are drawn with the fullest imaginative +sympathy, and they, it may be said, are characters of principle; but +then (even if Cordelia could be truly so described) they are also +intensely affectionate, and by no means inhumanly self-controlled. + +The mention of Brutus may carry us somewhat farther. Shakespeare's +Brutus kills Cćsar, not because Cćsar aims at absolute power, but +because Brutus fears that absolute power may make him cruel. That is not +Plutarch's idea, it is Shakespeare's. He could fully sympathise with the +gentleness of Brutus, with his entire superiority to private aims and +almost entire freedom from personal susceptibilities, and even with his +resolution to sacrifice his friend; but he could not so sympathise with +mere horror of monarchy or absolute power. And now extend this a little. +Can you imagine Shakespeare an enthusiast for an 'idea'; a devotee of +divine right, or the rights of Parliament, or any particular form of +government in Church or State; a Fifth Monarchy man, or a Quaker, or a +thick-and-thin adherent of any compact, exclusive, abstract creed, even +if it were as rational and noble as Mazzini's? This type of mind, even +at its best, is alien from his. Scott is said, rightly or wrongly, to +have portrayed the Covenanters without any deep understanding of them; +it would have been the same with Shakespeare. I am not praising him, or +at least not merely praising him. One may even suggest that on this side +he was limited. In any age he would have been safe against fanaticism +and one-sided ideas; but perhaps in no age would he have been the man to +insist with the necessary emphasis on those one-sided ideas which the +moment may need, or even to give his whole heart to men who join a +forlorn hope or are martyred for a faith. And though it is rash to +suggest that anything in the way of imagination was beyond his reach, +perhaps the legend of Faust, with his longings for infinite power and +knowledge and enjoyment of beauty, would have suited him less well than +Marlowe; and if he had written on the subject that Cervantes took, his +Don Quixote would have been at least as laughable as the hero we know, +but would he have been a soul so ideally noble and a figure so +profoundly pathetic? + +This would be the natural place to discuss Shakespeare's politics if we +were to discuss them at all. But even if the question whether he shows +any interest in the political differences of his time, or any sympathies +or antipathies in regard to them, admits of an answer, it could be +answered only by an examination of details; and I must pass it by, and +offer only the briefest remarks on a wider question. Shakespeare, as we +might expect, shows no sign of believing in what is sometimes called a +political 'principle.' The main ideas which, consciously or +unconsciously, seem to govern or emerge from his presentation of state +affairs, might perhaps be put thus. National welfare is the end of +politics, and the criterion by which political actions are to be judged. +It implies of necessity 'degree'; that is, differences of position and +function in the members of the body politic.[28] And the first +requisites of national welfare are the observance of this degree, and +the concordant performance of these functions in the general interest. +But there appear to be no further absolute principles than these: beyond +them all is relative to the particular case and its particular +conditions. We find no hint, for example, in _Julius Cćsar_ that +Shakespeare regarded a monarchical form of government as intrinsically +better than a republican, or _vice versa_; no trace in _Richard II._ +that the author shares the king's belief in his inviolable right, or +regards Bolingbroke's usurpation as justifiable. We perceive, again, +pretty clearly in several plays a dislike and contempt of demagogues, +and an opinion that mobs are foolish, fickle, and ungrateful. But these +are sentiments which the most determined of believers in democracy, if +he has sense, may share; and if he thinks that the attitude of +aristocrats like Volumnia and Coriolanus is inhuman and as inexcusable +as that of the mob, and that a mob is as easily led right as wrong and +has plenty of good nature in it, he has abundant ground for holding that +Shakespeare thought so too. That Shakespeare greatly liked and admired +the typical qualities of the best kind of aristocrat seems highly +probable; but then this taste has always been compatible with a great +variety of political opinions. It is interesting but useless to wonder +what his own opinions would have been at various periods of English +history: perhaps the only thing we can be pretty sure of in regard to +them is that they would never have been extreme, and that he would never +have supposed his opponents to be entirely wrong. + +We have tried to conjecture the impulses, passions, and errors with +which Shakespeare could easily sympathise, and the virtues and types of +character which he may have approved without much sympathy. It remains +to ask whether we can notice tendencies and vices to which he felt any +special antipathy; and it is obvious and safe to point to those most +alien to a gentle, open, and free nature, the vices of a cold and hard +disposition, self-centred and incapable of fusion with others. Passing +over, again, the plainly hideous forms or extremes of such vice, as we +see them in characters like Richard III., Iago, Goneril and Regan, or +the Queen in _Cymbeline_, we seem to detect a particular aversion to +certain vices which have the common mark of baseness; for instance, +servility and flattery (especially when deliberate and practised with a +view to self-advancement), feigning in friendship, and ingratitude. +Shakespeare's _animus_ against the dog arises from the attribution of +these vices to him, and against them in men are directed the invectives +which seem to have a personal ring. There appears to be traceable also a +feeling of a special, though less painful, kind against unmercifulness. +I do not mean, of course, cruelty, but unforgivingness, and even the +tendency to prefer justice to mercy. From no other dramatic author, +probably, could there be collected such prolonged and heart-felt praises +of mercy as from Shakespeare. He had not at all strongly, I think, that +instinct and love of justice and retribution which in many men are so +powerful; but Prospero's words, + + they being penitent, + The sole drift of my purpose doth extend + Not a jot further, + +came from his heart. He perceived with extreme clearness the connection +of acts with their consequences; but his belief that in this sense 'the +gods are just' was accompanied by the strongest feeling that forgiveness +ought to follow repentance, and (if I may so put it) his favourite +petition was the one that begins 'Forgive us our trespasses.' To +conclude, I have fancied that he shows an unusual degree of disgust at +slander and dislike of censoriousness; and where he speaks in the +Sonnets of those who censured him he betrays an exceptionally decided +feeling that a man's offences are his own affair and not the +world's.[29] + +Some of the vices which seem to have been particularly odious to +Shakespeare have, we may notice, a special connection with prosperity +and power. Men feign and creep and flatter to please the powerful and +to win their own way to ease or power; and they envy and censure and +slander their competitors in the race; and when they succeed, they are +ungrateful to their friends and helpers and patrons; and they become +hard and unmerciful, and despise and bully those who are now below them. +So, perhaps, Shakespeare said to himself in those years when, as we +imagine, melancholy and embitterment often overclouded his sky, though +they did not obscure his faith in goodness and much less his +intellectual vision. And prosperity and power, he may have added, come +less frequently by merit than by those base arts or by mere fortune. The +divorce of goodness and power was, to Shelley, the 'woe of the world'; +if we substitute for 'goodness' the wider word 'merit,' we may say that +this divorce, with the evil bred by power, is to Shakespeare also the +root of bitterness. This fact, presented in its extreme form of the +appalling cruelty of the prosperous, and the heart-rending suffering of +the defenceless, forms the problem of his most tremendous drama. We have +no reason to surmise that his own sufferings were calamitous; and the +period which seems to be marked by melancholy and embitterment was one +of outward, or at least financial, prosperity; but nevertheless we can +hardly doubt that he felt on the small scale of his own life the +influence of that divorce of power and merit. His complaint against +Fortune, who had so ill provided for his life, runs through the Sonnets. +Even if we could regard as purely conventional the declarations that his +verses would make his friend immortal, it is totally impossible that he +can have been unaware of the gulf between his own gifts and those of +others, or can have failed to feel the disproportion between his +position and his mind. Hamlet had never experienced + + the spurns + That patient merit of the unworthy takes, + +and that make the patient soul weary of life; the man who had +experienced them was the writer of Sonnet 66, who cried for death +because he was tired with beholding + + desert a beggar born, + And needy nothing trimmed in jollity, + +--a beggarly soul flaunting in brave array. Neither had Hamlet felt in +his own person 'the insolence of office'; but the actor had doubtless +felt it often enough, and we can hardly err in hearing his own voice in +dramatic expressions of wonder and contempt at the stupid pride of mere +authority and at men's slavish respect for it. Two examples will +suffice. 'Thou hast seen a farmer's dog bark at a beggar, and the +creature run from the cur? There thou mightst behold the great image of +authority. A dog's obeyed in office': so says Lear, when madness has +cleared his vision, and indignation makes the Timon-like verses that +follow. The other example is almost too famous for quotation but I have +a reason for quoting it: + + man, proud man, + Drest in a little brief authority, + Most ignorant of what he's most assured, + His glassy essence, like an angry ape, + Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven + As makes the angels weep; who, with our spleens, + Would all themselves laugh mortal. + +It is Isabella who says that; but it is scarcely in character; +Shakespeare himself is speaking.[30] + +It is with great hesitation that I hazard a few words on Shakespeare's +religion. Any attempt to penetrate his reserve on this subject may +appear a crowning impertinence; and, since his dramas are almost +exclusively secular, any impressions we may form must here be even more +speculative than usual. Yet it is scarcely possible to read him much +without such speculations; and there are at least some theories which +may confidently be dismissed. It cannot be called absolutely impossible +that Shakespeare was indifferent to music and to the beauty of Nature, +and yet the idea is absurd; and in the same way it is barely possible, +and yet it is preposterous, to suppose that he was an ardent and devoted +atheist or Brownist or Roman Catholic, and that all the indications to +the contrary are due to his artfulness and determination not to get into +trouble. There is no absurdity, on the other hand, nor of necessity +anything hopeless, in the question whether there are signs that he +belonged to this or that church, and was inclined to one mode of thought +within it rather than to another. Only the question is scarcely worth +asking for our present purpose, unless there is some reason to believe +that he took a keen interest in these matters. Suppose, for example, +that we had ground to accept a tradition that he 'died a papist,' this +would not tell us much about him unless we had also ground to think that +he lived a papist, and that his faith went far into his personality. But +in fact we receive from his writings, it appears to me, a rather strong +impression that he concerned himself little, if at all, with differences +of doctrine or church government.[31] And we may go further. Have we not +reason to surmise that he was not, in the distinctive sense of the word, +a religious man--a man, that is to say, whose feelings and actions are +constantly and strongly influenced by thoughts of his relation to an +object of worship? If Shakespeare had been such a man, is it credible +that we should find nothing in tradition or in his works to indicate the +fact; and is it likely that we should find in his works some things +that we do find there?[32] + +Venturing with much doubt a little farther I will put together certain +facts and impressions without at once drawing any conclusion from them. +Almost all the speeches that can be called pronouncedly religious and +Christian in phraseology and spirit are placed in the mouths of persons +to whom they are obviously appropriate, either from their position +(_e.g._ bishops, friars, nuns), or from what Shakespeare found in +histories (_e.g._ Henry IV., V., and VI.), or for some other plain +reason. We cannot build, therefore, on these speeches in the least. On +the other hand (except, of course, where they are hypocritical or +politic), we perceive in Shakespeare's tone in regard to them not the +faintest trace of dislike or contempt; nor can we find a trace anywhere +of such feelings, or of irreverence, towards Christian ideas, +institutions, or customs (mere humorous irreverence is not relevant +here); and in the case of 'sympathetic' characters, living in Christian +times but not in any decided sense religious, no disposition is visible +to suppress or ignore their belief in, and use of, religious ideas. Some +characters, again, Christian or heathen, who appear to be drawn with +rather marked sympathy, have strong, if simple, religious convictions +(e.g. Horatio, Edgar, Hermione); and in others, of whom so much can +hardly be said, but who strike many readers, rightly or wrongly, as +having a good deal of Shakespeare in them (_e.g._ Romeo and Hamlet), we +observe a quiet but deep sense that they and other men are neither their +own masters nor responsible only to themselves and other men, but are in +the hands of 'Providence' or guiding powers 'above.'[33] + +To this I will add two remarks. To every one, I suppose, certain +speeches sound peculiarly personal. Perhaps others may share my feeling +about Hamlet's words: + + There's a divinity that shapes our ends, + Rough-hew them how we will; + +and about those other words of his: + + There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, + Than are dreamt of in your philosophy; + +and about the speech of Prospero ending, 'We are such stuff as dreams +are made on.'[34] On the other hand, we observe that Hamlet seems to +have arrived at that conviction as to the 'divinity' after reflection, +and that, while he usually speaks as one who accepts the received +Christian ideas, yet, when meditating profoundly, he appears to ignore +them.[35] In the same way the Duke in _Measure for Measure_ is for the +most part, and necessarily, a Christian; yet nobody would guess it from +the great speech, 'Be absolute for death,' addressed by a supposed friar +to a youth under sentence to die, yet containing not a syllable about a +future life.[36] + +Without adducing more of the endless but baffling material for a +conclusion, I will offer the result left on my mind, and, merely for the +sake of brevity, will state it with hardly any of the qualifications it +doubtless needs. Shakespeare, I imagine, was not, in the sense assigned +to the word some minutes ago, a religious man. Nor was it natural to him +to regard good and evil, better and worse, habitually from a theological +point of view. But (this appears certain) he had a lively and serious +sense of 'conscience,' of the pain of self-reproach and +self-condemnation, and of the torment to which this pain might rise.[37] +He was not in the least disposed to regard conscience as somehow +illusory or a human invention, but on the contrary thought of it (I use +the most non-committal phrase I can find) as connected with the power +that rules the world and is not escapable by man. He realised very fully +and felt very keenly, after his youth was past and at certain times of +stress, the sufferings and wrongs of men, the strength of evil, the +hideousness of certain forms of it, and its apparent incurability in +certain cases. And he must sometimes have felt all this as a terrible +problem. But, however he may have been tempted, and may have yielded, to +exasperation and even despair, he never doubted that it is best to be +good; felt more and more that one must be patient and must forgive;[38] +and probably maintained unbroken a conviction, practical if not +formulated, that to be good is to be at peace with that unescapable +power. But it is unlikely that he attempted to theorise further on the +nature of the power. All was for him, in the end, mystery; and, while we +have no reason whatever to attribute to him a belief in the ghosts and +oracles he used in his dramas, he had no inclination to play the spy on +God or to limit his power by our notions of it. That he had dreams and +ponderings about the mystery such as he never put into the mouths of +actors I do not doubt; but I imagine they were no more than dreams and +ponderings and movings about in worlds unrealised. + +Whether to this 'religion' he joined a more or less conventional +acceptance of some or all of the usual Christian ideas, it is impossible +to tell. There is no great improbability to me in the idea that he did +not, but it is more probable to me that he did,--that, in fact, though +he was never so tormented as Hamlet, his position in this matter was, at +least in middle life (and he never reached old age), much like Hamlet's. +If this were so it might naturally happen that, as he grew older and +wearier of labour, and perhaps of the tumult of pleasure and thought and +pain, his more personal religion, the natural piety which seems to gain +in weight and serenity in the latest plays, came to be more closely +joined with Christian ideas. But I can find no clear indications that +this did happen; and though some have believed that they discovered +these ideas displayed in full, though not explicitly, in the _Tempest_, +I am not able to hear there more than the stream of Shakespeare's own +'religion' moving with its fullest volume and making its deepest and +most harmonious music.[39] + +This lecture must end, though its subject is endless, and I will touch +on only one point more,--one that may to some extent recall and connect +the scattered suggestions I have offered. + +If we were obliged to answer the question which of Shakespeare's plays +contains, not indeed the fullest picture of his mind, but the truest +expression of his nature and habitual temper, unaffected by special +causes of exhilaration or gloom, I should be disposed to choose _As You +Like It_. It wants, to go no further, the addition of a touch of Sir +Toby or Falstaff, and the ejection of its miraculous conversions of +ill-disposed characters. But the misbehaviour of Fortune, and the +hardness and ingratitude of men, form the basis of its plot, and are a +frequent topic of complaint. And, on the other hand, he who is reading +it has a smooth brow and smiling lips, and a heart that murmurs, + + Happy is your grace, + That can translate the stubbornness of fortune + Into so quiet and so sweet a style. + +And it is full not only of sweetness, but of romance, fun, humour of +various kinds, delight in the oddities of human nature, love of modesty +and fidelity and high spirit and patience, dislike of scandal and +censure, contemplative curiosity, the feeling that in the end we are all +merely players, together with a touch of the feeling that + + Then is there mirth in heaven + When earthly things made even + Atone together. + +And, finally, it breathes the serene holiday mood of escape from the +toil, competition, and corruption of city and court into the sun and +shadow and peace of the country, where one can be idle and dream and +meditate and sing, and pursue or watch the deer as the fancy takes one, +and make love or smile at lovers according to one's age.[40] + +If, again, the question were put to us, which of Shakespeare's +characters reveals most of his personality, the majority of those who +consented to give an answer would answer 'Hamlet.' This impression may +be fanciful, but it is difficult to think it wholly so, and, speaking +for those who share it, I will try to trace some of its sources. There +is a good deal of Shakespeare that is not in Hamlet. But Hamlet, we +think, is the only character in Shakespeare who could possibly have +composed his plays (though it appears unlikely, from his verses to +Ophelia, that he could have written the best songs). Into Hamlet's mouth +are put what are evidently Shakespeare's own views on drama and acting. +Hamlet alone, among the great serious characters, can be called a +humorist. When in some trait of another character we seem to touch +Shakespeare's personality, we are frequently reminded of Hamlet.[41] +When in a profound reflective speech we hear Shakespeare's voice, we +usually hear Hamlet's too, and his peculiar humour and turns of phrase +appear unexpectedly in persons otherwise unlike him and unlike one +another. The most melancholy group of Sonnets (71-74) recalls Hamlet at +once, here and there recalls even his words; and he and the writer of +Sonnet 66 both recount in a list the ills that make men long for death. +And then Hamlet 'was indeed honest and of an open and free nature'; +sweet-tempered and modest, yet not slow to resent calumny or injury; of +a serious but not a melancholy disposition; and the lover of his friend. +And, with these traits, we remember his poet ecstasy at the glory of +earth and sky and the marvellous endowments of man; his eager +affectionate response to everything noble or sweet in human nature; his +tendency to dream and to live in the world of his own mind; his +liability to sudden vehement emotion, and his admiration for men whose +blood and judgment are better commingled; the overwhelming effect of +disillusionment upon him; his sadness, fierceness, bitterness and +cynicism. All this, and more: his sensitiveness to the call of duty; his +longing to answer to it, and his anguish over his strange delay; the +conviction gathering in his tortured soul that man's purposes and +failures are divinely shaped to ends beyond his vision; his incessant +meditation, and his sense that there are mysteries which no meditation +can fathom; nay, even little traits like his recourse to music to calm +his excitement, or his feeling on the one hand that the peasant should +not tread on the courtier's heels, and on the other that the mere +courtier is spacious in the possession of dirt--all this, I say, +corresponds with our impression of Shakespeare, or rather of +characteristic traits in Shakespeare, probably here and there a good +deal heightened, and mingled with others not characteristic of +Shakespeare at all. And if this is more than fancy, it may explain to us +why Hamlet is the most fascinating character, and the most +inexhaustible, in all imaginative literature. What else should he be, if +the world's greatest poet, who was able to give almost the reality of +nature to creations totally unlike himself, put his own soul straight +into this creation, and when he wrote Hamlet's speeches wrote down his +own heart?[42] + +1904. + + +FOOTNOTES: + + [1] Unquestionably it holds in a considerable degree of Browning, who + in _At the Mermaid_ and _House_ wrote as though he imagined that + neither his own work nor Shakespeare's betrayed anything of the inner + man. But if we are to criticise those two poems as arguments, we must + say that they involve two hopelessly false assumptions, that we have + to choose between a self-revelation like Byron's and no + self-revelation at all, and that the relation between a poet and his + work is like that between the inside and the outside of a house. + + [2] Almost all Shakespearean criticism, of course, contains something + bearing on our subject; but I have a practical reason for mentioning + in particular Mr. Frank Harris's articles in the _Saturday Review_ + for 1898. A good many of Mr. Harris's views I cannot share, and I had + arrived at almost all the ideas expressed in the lecture (except some + on the Sonnets question) before reading his papers. But I found in + them also valuable ideas which were quite new to me and would + probably be so to many readers. It is a great pity that the articles + are not collected and published in a book. [Mr. Harris has published, + in _The Man Shakespeare_, the substance of the articles, and also + matter which, in my judgment, has much less value.] + + [3] He is apologising for an attack made on Shakespeare in a pamphlet + of which he was the publisher and Greene the writer. + + [4] It was said of him, indeed, in his lifetime that, had he not + played some kingly parts in sport (_i.e._ on the stage), he would + have been a companion for a king. + + [5] Nor, _vice versa_, does the possession of these latter qualities + at all imply, as some writers seem to assume, the absence of the + former or of gentleness. + + [6] Fuller may be handing down a tradition, but it is not safe to + assume this. His comparison, on the other hand, of Shakespeare and + Jonson, in their wit combats, to an English man-of-war and a Spanish + great galleon, reads as if his own happy fancy were operating on the + reports, direct or indirect, of eye-witnesses. + + [7] See, for example, Act IV. Sc. v., to which I know no parallel in + the later tragedies. + + [8] I allude to Sonnet 110, Mr. Beeching's note on which seems to be + unquestionably right: 'There is no reference to the poet's profession + of player. The sonnet gives the confession of a favourite of + society.' This applies, I think, to the whole group of sonnets (it + begins with 107) in which the poet excuses his neglect of his friend, + though there are _also_ references to his profession and its effect + on his nature and his reputation. (By a slip Mr. Beeching makes the + neglect last for three years.) + + [9] It is perhaps most especially in his rendering of the shock and + the effects of _disillusionment_ in open natures that we seem to feel + Shakespeare's personality. The nature of this shock is expressed in + Henry's words to Lord Scroop: + + I will weep for thee; + For this revolt of thine, methinks, is like + Another fall of man. + + [10] There is nothing of this semi-reality, of course, in the + _passion_ of love as portrayed, for example, in men so different as + Orlando, Othello, Antony, Troilus, whose love for Cressida resembles + that of Romeo for Juliet. What I have said of Romeo's 'love' for + Rosaline corresponds roughly with Coleridge's view; and, without + subscribing to all of Coleridge's remarks, I believe he was right in + finding an intentional contrast between this feeling and the passion + that displaces it (though it does not follow that the feeling would + not have become a genuine passion if Rosaline had been kind). Nor do + I understand the notion that Coleridge's view is refuted and even + rendered ridiculous by the mere fact that Shakespeare found the + Rosaline story in Brooke (Halliwell-Phillipps, _Outlines_, 7th ed., + illustrative note 2). Was he compelled then to use whatever he found? + Was it his practice to do so? The question is always _why_ he used + what he found, and _how_. Coleridge's view of this matter, it need + hardly be said, is far from indisputable; but it must be judged by + our knowledge of Shakespeare's mind and not of his material alone. I + may add, as I have referred to Halliwell-Phillipps, that Shakespeare + made changes in the story he found; that it is arbitrary to assume + (not that it matters) that Coleridge, who read Steevens, was unaware + of Shakespeare's use of Brooke; and that Brooke was by no means a + 'wretched poetaster.' + + [11] _Hamlet_, _Measure for Measure_, _Othello_, _Troilus and + Cressida_, _King Lear_, _Timon of Athens_. See _Shakespearean + Tragedy_, pp. 79-85, 275-6. I should like to insist on the view there + taken that the tragedies subsequent to _Lear_ and _Timon_ do not show + the pressure of painful feelings. + + [12] It is not implied that these scenes are certainly Shakespeare's; + but I see no sufficient ground for decisively rejecting them. + + [13] That experience, certainly in part and probably wholly, belongs + to an earlier time, since sonnets 138 and 144 were printed in the + _Passionate Pilgrim_. But I see no difficulty in that. What bears + little fruit in a normal condition of spirits may bear abundant fruit + later, in moods of discouragement and exasperation induced largely by + other causes. + + [14] _The Sonnets of Shakespeare with an Introduction and Notes._ + Ginn & Co., 1904. + + [15] I find that Mr. Beeching, in the Stratford Town edition of + Shakespeare (1907), has also urged these considerations. + + [16] I do not mean to imply that Meres necessarily refers to the + sonnets we possess, or that all of these are likely to have been + written by 1598. + + [17] A fact to be remembered in regard to references to the social + position of the friend. + + [18] Mr. Beeching's illustration of the friendship of the sonnets + from the friendship of Gray and Bonstetten is worth pages of + argument. + + [19] In 125 the poet repudiates the accusation that his friendship is + too much based on beauty. + + [20] This does not imply that the Sonnets are as early as the _Two + Gentlemen of Verona_, and much less that they are earlier. + + [21] This seems to be referred to in lines by John Davies of + Hereford, reprinted in Ingleby's _Shakespeare's Centurie of Prayse_, + second edition, pp. 58, 84, 94. In the first of these passages, dated + 1603 (and perhaps in the second, 1609), there are signs that Davies + had read Sonnet 111, a fact to be noted with regard to the question + of the chronology of the Sonnets. + + [22] 'Mistress Tearsheet' too 'would fain hear some music,' and + 'Sneak's noise' had to be sent for (2 _Henry IV._, II. iv. 12). + + [23] It is tempting, though not safe, to infer from the _Tempest_ and + the great passage in _Pericles_ that Shakespeare must have been in a + storm at sea; but that he felt the poetry of a sea-storm is beyond + all doubt. Few moments in the reading of his works are more + overwhelming than that in which, after listening not without + difficulty to the writer of the first two Acts of _Pericles_, + suddenly, as the third opens, one hears the authentic voice: + + Thou god of this great vast, rebuke these surges + That wash both heaven and hell.... The seaman's whistle + Is as a whisper in the ears of death, + Unheard. + + Knowing that this is coming, I cannot stop to read the Prologue to + Act III., though I believe Shakespeare wrote it. How it can be + imagined that he did more than touch up Acts I. and II. passes my + comprehension. + + I may call attention to another point. Unless I mistake, there is + nothing in Shakespeare's authorities, as known to us, which + corresponds with the feeling of Timon's last speech, beginning, + + Come not to me again: but say to Athens, + Timon hath made his everlasting mansion + Upon the beached verge of the salt flood: + + a feeling made more explicit in the final speech of Alcibiades. + + [24] The lily seems to be in almost all cases the Madonna lily. It is + very doubtful whether the lily of the valley is referred to at all. + + [25] But there is something disappointing, and even estranging, in + Sonnet 50, which, promising to show a real sympathy, cheats us in the + end. I may observe, without implying that the fact has any personal + significance, that the words about 'the poor beetle that we tread + upon' are given to a woman (Isabella), and that it is Marina who + says: + + I trod upon a worm against my will, + But I wept for it. + + [26] Three times in one drama Shakespeare refers to this detestable + trait. See _Shakespearean Tragedy_, p. 268, where I should like to + qualify still further the sentence containing the qualification 'on + the whole.' Good judges, at least, assure me that I have admitted too + much against the dog. + + [27] Nor can I recall any sign of liking, or even approval, of that + 'prudent, _cautious_, self-control' which, according to a passage in + Burns, is 'wisdom's root.' + + [28] The _locus classicus_, of course, is _Troilus and Cressida_, I. + iii. 75 ff. + + [29] Of all the evils inflicted by man on man those chosen for + mention in the dirge in _Cymbeline_, one of the last plays, are the + frown o' the great, the tyrant's stroke, slander, censure rash. + + [30] Having written these paragraphs, I should like to disclaim the + belief that Shakespeare was habitually deeply discontented with his + position in life. + + [31] Allusions to puritans show at most what we take almost for + granted, that he did not like precisians or people hostile to the + stage. + + [32] In the Sonnets, for example, there is an almost entire absence + of definitely religious thought or feeling. The nearest approach to + it is in Sonnet 146 ('Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth'), + where, however, there is no allusion to a divine law or judge. + According to Sonnet 129, lust in action is + + The expense of spirit in a waste of shame; + + but no word shows that it is also felt as alienation from God. It + must be added that in 108 and 110 there are references to the Lord's + Prayer and, perhaps, to the First Commandment, from which a decidedly + religious Christian would perhaps have shrunk. Of course I am not + saying that we can draw any _necessary_ inference from these facts. + + [33] It is only this 'quiet but deep sense' that is significant. No + inference can be drawn from the fact that the mere belief in powers + above seems to be taken as a matter of course in practically all the + characters, good and bad alike. On the other hand there may well be + something symptomatic in the apparent absence of interest in + theoretical disbelief in such powers and in the immortality of the + soul. I have observed elsewhere that the atheism of Aaron does not + increase the probability that the conception of the character is + Shakespeare's. + + [34] With the first compare, what to me has, though more faintly, the + same ring, Hermione's + + If powers divine + Behold our human actions, as they do: + + with the second, Helena's + + It is not so with Him that all things knows + As 'tis with us that square our guess by shows; + But most it is presumption in us when + The help of heaven we count the act of men: + + followed soon after by Lafeu's remark: + + They say miracles are past; and we have our philosophical persons + to make modern and familiar things supernatural and causeless. + Hence it is that we make trifles of terrors, ensconcing ourselves + into seeming knowledge, when we should submit ourselves to an + unknown fear. + + [35] It is worth noting that the reference, which appears in the + First Quarto version of 'To be or not to be,' to 'an everlasting + judge,' disappears in the revised versions. + + [36] The suggested inference, of course, is that this speech, thus + out of character, and Hamlet's 'To be or not to be' (though that is + in character), show us Shakespeare's own mind. It has force, I think, + but not compulsory force. The topics of these speeches are, in the + old sense of the word, commonplaces. Shakespeare may have felt, Here + is my chance to show what I can do with certain feelings and thoughts + of supreme interest to men of all times and places and modes of + belief. It would not follow from this that they are not 'personal,' + but any inference to a non-acceptance of received religious ideas + would be much weakened. ('All the world's a stage' is a patent + example of the suggested elaboration of a commonplace.) + + [37] What actions in particular _his_ conscience approved and + disapproved is another question and one not relevant here. + + [38] This does not at all imply to Shakespeare, so far as we see, + that evil is never to be forcibly resisted. + + [39] I do not mean to reject the idea that in some passages in the + _Tempest_ Shakespeare, while he wrote them with a dramatic purpose, + also thought of himself. It seems to me likely. And if so, there + _may_ have been such a thought in the words, + + And thence retire me to my Milan, where + Every third thought shall be my grave; + + and also in those lines about prayer and pardon which close the + Epilogue, and to my ear come with a sudden effect of great + seriousness, contrasting most strangely with their context. If they + _had_ a grave and personal under-meaning it cannot have been intended + for the audience, which would take the prayer as addressed to itself. + + [40] It may be added that _As You Like It_, though idyllic, is not so + falsely idyllic as some critics would make it. It is based, we may + roughly say, on a contrast between court and country; but those who + inhale virtue from the woodland are courtiers who bring virtue with + them, and the country has its churlish masters and unkind or uncouth + maidens. + + [41] This has been strongly urged and fully illustrated by Mr. + Harris. + + [42] It may be suggested that, in the catalogue above, I should have + mentioned that imaginative 'unreality' in love referred to on p. 326. + But I do not see in Hamlet either this, or any sign that he took + Ophelia for an Imogen or even a Juliet, though naturally he was less + clearly aware of her deficiencies than Shakespeare. + + I may add, however, another item to the catalogue. We do not feel + that the problems presented to most of the tragic heroes could have + been fatal to Shakespeare himself. The immense breadth and clearness + of his intellect would have saved him from the fate of Othello, + Troilus, or Antony. But we do feel, I think, and he himself may have + felt, that he could not have coped with Hamlet's problem; and there + is no improbability in the idea that he may have experienced in some + degree the melancholia of his hero. + + + + +SHAKESPEARE'S THEATRE AND AUDIENCE. + + +SHAKESPEARE'S THEATRE AND AUDIENCE. + + +Why should we concern ourselves with Shakespeare's theatre and audience? +The vast majority of his readers since the Restoration have known +nothing about them, and have enjoyed his plays enormously. And if they +have enjoyed without fully understanding, it was for want of imagination +and of knowledge of human nature, and not from ignorance of the +conditions under which his plays were produced. At any rate, such +ignorance does not exclude us from the _soul_ of Shakespearean drama, +any more than from the soul of Homeric epic or Athenian tragedy; and it +is the soul that counts and endures. For the rest, we all know that +Shakespeare's time was rough, indecorous, and inexpert in regard to +machinery; and so we are prepared for coarse speech and primitive +stage-arrangements, and we make allowance for them without thinking +about the matter. Antiquarians may naturally wish to know more; but what +more is needed for intelligent enjoyment of the plays? + +I have begun with these questions because I sympathise with their +spirit. Everything I am going to speak of in this lecture is +comparatively unimportant for the appreciation of that which is most +vital in Shakespeare; and if I were allowed my choice between an hour's +inspection of a performance at the Globe and a glimpse straight into his +mind when he was planning the _Tempest_, I should not hesitate which to +choose. Nevertheless, to say nothing of the intrinsic interest of +antiquarian knowledge, we cannot make a clear division between the soul +and body, or the eternal and the perishable, in works of art. Nor can we +lay the finger on a line which separates that which has poetic interest +from that which has none. Nor yet can we assume that any knowledge of +Shakespeare's theatre and audience, however trivial it may appear, may +not help us to appreciate, or save us from misapprehending, the 'soul' +of a play or a scene. If our own souls were capacious and vivid enough, +every atom of information on these subjects, or again on the material he +used in composing, would so assist us. The danger of devotion to such +knowledge lies merely in our weakness. Research, though toilsome, is +easy; imaginative vision, though delightful, is difficult; and we may be +tempted to prefer the first. Or we note that in a given passage +Shakespeare has used what he found in his authority; and we excuse +ourselves from asking why he used it and what he made of it. Or we see +that he has done something that would please his audience; and we +dismiss it as accounted for, forgetting that perhaps it also pleased +_him_, and that we have to account for _that_. Or knowledge of his stage +shows us the stage-convenience of a scene; and we say that the scene was +due to stage-convenience, as if the cause of a thing must needs be +single and simple. Such errors provoke the man who reads his Shakespeare +poetically, and make him blaspheme our knowledge. But we ought not to +fall into them; and we cannot reject any knowledge that may help us into +Shakespeare's mind because of the danger it brings. + +I cannot attempt to describe Shakespeare's theatre and audience, and +much less to discuss the evidence on which a description must be based, +or the difficult problems it raises. I must confine myself for the most +part to a few points which are not always fully realised, or on which +there is a risk of misapprehension. + + + 1. + +Shakespeare, we know, was a popular playwright. I mean not only that +many of his plays were favourites in his day, but that he wrote, mainly +at least, for the more popular kind of audience, and that, within +certain limits, he conformed to its tastes. He was not, to our +knowledge, the author of masques composed for performance at Court or in +a great mansion, or of dramas intended for a University or one of the +Inns of Court; and though his company for some time played at the +Blackfriars, we may safely assume that the great majority of his works +were meant primarily for a common or 'public' theatre like the Globe. +The broad distinction between a 'private' and a 'public' theatre is +familiar, and I need only remind you that at the former, which was +smaller, provided seats even in the area, and was nowhere open to the +weather, the audience was more select. Accordingly, dramatists who +express their contempt for the audience, and their disapproval of those +who consult its tastes, often discriminate between the audiences at the +private and public theatres, and reserve their unmeasured language for +the latter. It was for the latter that Shakespeare mainly wrote; and it +is pretty clear that Jonson, who greatly admired and loved him, was +still of opinion that he condescended to his audience.[1] + +So far we seem to be on safe ground; and yet even here there is some +risk of mistake. We are not to imagine that the audience at a private +theatre (say the Blackfriars) accepted Jonson's dramatic theories, +while the audience at the Globe rejected them; or that the one was +composed chiefly of cultured and 'judicious' gentlemen, and the other of +riotous and malodorous plebeians; and still less that Shakespeare tried +to please the latter section in preference to the former, and was +beloved by the one more than by the other. The two audiences must have +had the same general character, differing only in degree. Neither of +them accepted Jonson's theories, nor were the 'judicious' of one mind on +that subject. The same play was frequently offered to both. Both were +very mixed. The tastes to which objection was taken cannot have been +confined to the mob. From our knowledge of human nature generally, and +of the Elizabethan nobility and gentry in particular, we may be sure of +this; and Jonson himself implies it. Nor is it credible that an +appreciation of the best things was denied to the mob, which doubtless +loved what we should despise, but appears also to have admired what we +admire, and to have tolerated more poetry than most of us can stomach. +Neither can these groundlings have formed the majority of the 'public' +audience or have been omnipotent in their theatre, when it was possible +for dramatists (Shakespeare included) to say such rude things of them to +their faces. We must not delude ourselves as to these matters; and in +particular we must realise that the mass of the audience in both kinds +of theatre must have been indifferent to the unities of time and place, +and more or less so to improbabilities and to decorum (at least as we +conceive it) both in manners and in speech; and that it must have liked +excitement, the open exhibition of violent and bloody deeds, and the +intermixture of seriousness and mirth. What distinguished the more +popular audience, and the more popular section in it, was a higher +degree of this indifference and this liking, and in addition a special +fondness for certain sources of inartistic joy. The most prominent of +these, perhaps, were noise; rant; mere bawdry; 'shews'; irrelevant +songs, ballads, jokes, dances, and clownage in general; and, lastly, +target-fighting and battles.[2] + +We may describe Shakespeare's practice in broad and general terms by +saying that he neither resisted the wishes of his audience nor gratified +them without reserve. He accepted the type of drama that he found, and +developed it without altering its fundamental character. And in the same +way, in particular matters, he gave the audience what it wanted, but in +doing so gave it what it never dreamed of. It liked tragedy to be +relieved by rough mirth, and it got the Grave-diggers in _Hamlet_ and +the old countryman in _Antony and Cleopatra_. It liked a 'drum and +trumpet' history, and it got _Henry V._ It liked clowns or fools, and it +got Feste and the Fool in _King Lear_. Shakespeare's practice was by no +means always on this level, but this was its tendency; and I imagine +that (unless perhaps in early days) he knew clearly what he was doing, +did it deliberately, and, when he gave the audience poor stuff, would +not seriously have defended himself. Jonson, it would seem, did not +understand this position. A fool was a fool to him; and if a play could +be called a drum and trumpet history it was at once condemned in his +eyes. One can hardly doubt that he was alluding to the _Tempest_ and the +_Winter's Tale_ when, a few years after the probable date of their +appearance, he spoke of writers who 'make nature afraid in their plays,' +begetting 'tales, tempests, and such like drolleries,' and bringing in +'a servant-monster' or 'a nest of antiques.' Caliban was a 'monster,' +and the London public loved to gape at monsters; and so, it appears, +that wonderful creation was to Jonson something like the fat woman, or +the calf with five legs, that we pay a penny to see at a fair. In fact +(how could he fail to take the warning?) he saw Caliban with the eyes of +Trinculo and Stephano. 'A strange fish!' says Trinculo: 'were I in +England now, as once I was, and had but this fish painted, not a holiday +fool there but would give a piece of silver.' 'If I can recover him,' +says Stephano, 'and keep him tame and get to Naples with him, he's a +present for any emperor that ever trod on neat's-leather.' Shakespeare +understood his monster otherwise; but, I fancy, when Jonson fulminated +at the Mermaid against Caliban, he smiled and said nothing. + +But my present subject is rather the tastes of the audience than +Shakespeare's way of meeting them.[3] Let me give two illustrations of +them which may have some novelty. His public, in the first place, dearly +loved to see soldiers, combats, and battles on the stage. They swarm in +some of the dramas a little earlier than Shakespeare's time, and the +cultured dramatists speak very contemptuously of these productions, if +not of Shakespeare's historical plays. We may take as an example the +First Part of _Henry VI._, a feeble piece, to which Shakespeare probably +contributed touches throughout, and perhaps one or two complete scenes. +It appears from the stage directions (which may be defective, but cannot +well be redundant) that in this one play there were represented a +pitched battle of two armies, an attack on a city wall with +scaling-ladders, two street-scuffles, four single combats, four +skirmishes, and seven excursions. No genuine play of Shakespeare's, I +suppose, is so military from beginning to end; and we know how in _Henry +V._ he laments that he must disgrace the name of Agincourt by showing +four or five men with vile and ragged foils + + Right ill-disposed in brawl ridiculous. + +Still he does show them; and his serious dramas contain such a profusion +of combats and battles as no playwright now would dream of exhibiting. +We expect these things perhaps in the English history-plays, and we +find them in abundance there: but not there alone. The last Act in +_Julius Cćsar_, _Troilus and Cressida_, _King Lear_, _Macbeth_, and +_Cymbeline_; the fourth Act of _Antony and Cleopatra_; the opening Acts +of _Coriolanus_,--these are all full of battle-scenes. If battle cannot +be shown, it can be described. If it cannot be described, still soldiers +can be shown, and twice in _Hamlet_ Fortinbras and his army march upon +the stage.[4] At worst there can be street-brawls and single fights, as +in _Romeo and Juliet_. In reading Shakespeare we scarcely realise how +much of this kind is exhibited. In seeing him acted we do not fully +realise it, for much of it is omitted. But beyond doubt it helped to +make him the most popular dramatist of his time. + +If we examine Shakespeare's battles we shall observe a certain +peculiarity, which is connected with the nature of his theatre and also +explains the treatment of them in ours. In most cases he does not give a +picture of two whole armies engaged, but makes a pair of combatants rush +upon the stage, fight, and rush off again; and this pair is succeeded by +a second, and perhaps by a third. This hurried series of single combats +admitted of speech-making; perhaps it also gave some impression of the +changes and confusion of a battle. Our tendency, on the other hand, is +to contrive one spectacle with scenic effects, or even to exhibit one +magnificent tableau in which nobody says a word. And this plan, though +it has the advantage of getting rid of Shakespeare's poetry, is not +exactly dramatic. It is adopted chiefly because the taste of our public +is, or is supposed to be, less dramatic than spectacular, and because, +unlike the Elizabethans, we are able to gratify such a taste. But there +is another fact to be remembered here. Few playgoers now can appreciate +a fencing-match, and much fewer a broad-sword and target fight. But the +Elizabethan public went to see performances of this kind as we go to see +cricket or football matches. They might watch them in the very building +which at other times was used as a playhouse.[5] They could judge of the +merit of the exhibition when Hotspur and Prince Henry fought, when +Macduff 'laid on,' or when Tybalt and Mercutio used their rapiers. And +this was probably another reason why Shakespeare's battles so often +consist of single combats, and why these scenes were beloved by the +simpler folk among his audience. + +Our second illustration concerns the popular appetite for musical and +other sounds. The introduction of songs and dances[6] was censured as a +corrupt gratification of this appetite. And so it was when the songs and +dances were excessive in number, irrelevant, or out of keeping with the +scene. I do not remember that in Shakespeare's plays this is ever the +case; but, in respect of songs, we may perhaps take Marston's _Antonio +and Mellida_ as an instance of abuse. For in each of the two Parts of +that play there are directions for five songs; and, since not even the +first lines of these songs are printed, we must suppose that the leader +of the band, or the singing actor in the company, introduced whatever he +chose. In addition to songs and dances, the musicians, at least in some +plays, performed between the Acts; and the practice of accompanying +certain speeches by low music--a practice which in some performances of +Shakespeare now has become a pest--has the sanction of several +Elizabethan playwrights, and (to a slight extent) of Shakespeare. It +seems clear, for example, that in _Twelfth Night_ low music was played +while the lovely opening lines ('That strain again') were being spoken, +and also during a part of the dialogue preceding the song 'Come away, +come away, death.' Some lines, too, of Lorenzo's famous speech about +music in the _Merchant of Venice_ were probably accompanied; and there +is a still more conspicuous instance in the scene where Lear wakes from +his long sleep and sees Cordelia standing by his side. + +But, beyond all this, if we attend to the stage-directions we shall +realise that in the serious plays of Shakespeare other musical sounds +were of frequent occurrence. Almost always the ceremonial entrance of a +royal person is marked by a 'flourish' or a 'sennet' on trumpets, +cornets, or hautboys; and wherever we have armies and battles we find +directions for drums, or for particular series of notes of trumpets or +cornets appropriate to particular military movements. In the First Part +of _Henry VI._, to take that early play again, we must imagine a dead +march, two other marches, three retreats, three sennets, seven +flourishes, eighteen alarums; and there are besides five directions for +drums, one for a horn, and five for soundings, of a kind not specified, +by trumpets. In the last three scenes of the first Act in +_Coriolanus_--scenes containing less than three hundred and fifty +lines--there are directions for a parley, a retreat, five flourishes, +and eight alarums, with three, less specific, for trumpets, and four for +drums. We find about twenty such directions in _King Lear_, and about +twenty-five in _Macbeth_, a short play in which hautboys seem to have +been unusually favoured.[7] It is evident that the audience loved these +sounds, which, from their prevalence in passages of special kinds, seem +to have been intended chiefly to stimulate excitement, and sometimes to +heighten impressions of grandeur or of awe. + +But this is not all. Such purposes were also served by noises not +musical. Four times in _Macbeth_, when the Witches appear, thunder is +heard. It thunders and lightens at intervals through the storm-scenes in +_King Lear_. Casca and Cassius, dark thoughts within them, walk the +streets of Rome in a terrific thunderstorm. That loud insistent knocking +which appalled Macbeth is repeated thrice at intervals while Lady +Macbeth in vain endeavours to calm him, and five times while the Porter +fumbles with his keys. The gate has hardly been opened and the murder +discovered when the castle-bell begins its hideous alarum. The +alarm-bell is used for the same purpose of intensifying excitement in +the brawl that ruins Cassio, and its effect is manifest in Othello's +immediate order, 'Silence that dreadful bell.' I will add but one +instance more. In the days of my youth, before the melodrama audience +dreamed of seeing chariot-races, railway accidents, or the infernal +regions, on the stage, it loved few things better than the explosion of +fire-arms; and its favourite weapon was the pistol. The Elizabethans had +the same fancy for fire-arms, only they preferred cannon. Shakespeare's +theatre was burnt down in 1613 at a performance of _Henry VIII._, not, I +suppose, as Prynne imagined, by a Providence which shared his opinion of +the drama, but because the wadding of a cannon fired during the play +flew to the thatch of the roof and set it ablaze. In _Hamlet_ +Shakespeare gave the public plenty that they could not understand, but +he made it up to them in explosions. While Hamlet, Horatio, and +Marcellus are waiting for the Ghost, a flourish is heard, and then the +roar of cannon. It is the custom to fire them when the King drinks a +pledge; and this King drinks many. In the fencing-scene at the end he +proposes to drink one for every hit scored by his beloved nephew; and +the first hit is duly honoured by the cannon. Unexpected events +prevented the celebration of the second, but the audience lost nothing +by that. While Hamlet lies dying, a sudden explosion is heard. +Fortinbras is coming with his army. And, as if that were not enough, the +very last words of the play are, 'Go, bid the soldiers shoot,' and the +very last sound of the performance is a peal of ordnance. Into this most +mysterious and inward of his works, it would seem, the poet flung, as if +in derision of his cultured critics, well-nigh every stimulant of +popular excitement he could collect: 'carnal, bloody, and unnatural +acts'; five deaths on the open stage, three appearances of a ghost, two +of a mad woman, a dumb-show, two men raving and fighting in a grave at a +funeral, the skulls and bones of the dead, a clown bandying jests with a +prince, songs at once indecent and pathetic, marching soldiers, a +fencing-match, then a litter of corpses, and explosions in the first Act +and explosions in the last. And yet out of this sensational +material--not in spite of it, but out of it--he made the most mysterious +and inward of his dramas, which leaves us haunted by thoughts beyond the +reaches of our souls; and he knew that the very audience that rejoiced +in ghosts and explosions would listen, even while it was waiting for the +ghost, to that which the explosion had suggested,--a general +disquisition, twenty-five lines long, on the manner in which one defect +may spoil a noble reputation. In this strange harmony of discords, +surely unexampled before or since, we may see at a glance the essence of +Elizabethan drama, of its poet, and of its audience. + + + 2. + +We have been occupied so far with characteristics of the drama which +reflect the more distinctively popular tastes objected to by critics +like Jonson. We may now pass on to arrangements common to all public +theatres, whether the play performed were Jonson's or Shakespeare's; and +in the first instance to a characteristic common to the public and +private theatres alike. + +As everyone knows, the female parts in stage-plays were taken by boys, +youths, or men (a mask being sometimes worn in the last case). The +indecorous Elizabethans regarded this custom almost entirely from the +point of view of decorum and morality. And as to morality, no one, I +believe, who examines the evidence, especially as it concerns the state +of things that followed the introduction of actresses at the +Restoration, will be very ready to dissent from their opinion. But it is +often assumed as a matter beyond dispute that, on the side of dramatic +effect, the Elizabethan practice was extremely unfortunate, if not +downright absurd. This idea appears to me, to say the least, +exaggerated. Our practice may be the better; for a few Shakespearean +parts it _ought_ to be much better; but that, on the whole, it is +decidedly so, or that the old custom had anything absurd about it, there +seems no reason to believe. In the first place, experience in private +and semi-private performances shows that female parts may be excellently +acted by youths or men, and that the most obvious drawback, that of the +adult male voice, is not felt to be nearly so serious as we might +anticipate. For a minute or two it may call for a slight exertion of +imagination in the audience; but there is no more radical error than to +suppose that an audience finds this irksome, or to forget that the use +of imagination at one point quickens it at other points, and so is a +positive gain. And we have further to remember that the Elizabethan +actor of female parts was no amateur, but a professional as carefully +trained as an actress now; while dramatically he had this advantage over +the actress, that he was regarded simply as a player, and not also as a +woman with an attractive or unattractive person.[8] + +In the second place, if the current ideas on this subject were true, +there would be, it seems to me, more evidence of their truth. We should +find, for example, that when first the new fashion came in, it was hailed +by good judges as a very great improvement on the old. But the traces of +such an opinion appear very scanty and doubtful, while it is certain that +one of the few actors who after the Restoration still played female parts +maintained a high reputation and won great applause. Again, if these +parts in Shakespeare's day were very inadequately performed, would not +the effect of that fact be distinctly visible in the plays themselves? +The rôles in question would be less important in Shakespeare's dramas, +for example, than in dramas of later times: but I do not see that they +are. Besides, in the Shakespearean play itself the female parts would be +much less important than the male: but on the whole they are not. In the +tragedies and histories, it is true, the impelling forces of the action +usually belong in larger measure to men than to women. But that is +because the action in such plays is laid in the sphere of public life; +and in cases where, in spite of this, the heroine is as prominent as the +hero, her part--the part of Juliet, Cleopatra, Lady Macbeth--certainly +requires as good acting as his. As to the comedies, if we ask ourselves +who are the central or the most interesting figures in them, we shall +find that we pronounce a woman's name at least as often as a man's. I +understate the case. Of Shakespeare's mature comedies the _Merchant of +Venice_, I believe, is the only one where this name would unquestionably +be a man's, and in three of the last five it would almost certainly be a +woman's--Isabella's, Imogen's, Hermione's. How shall we reconcile with +these facts the idea that in his day the female parts were, on the whole, +much less adequately played than the male? And finally, if the dramatists +themselves believed this, why do we not find frequent indications of the +belief in their prologues, epilogues, prefaces, and plays?[9] + +We must conclude, it would seem, that the absence of actresses from the +Elizabethan theatre, though at first it may appear to us highly +important, made no great difference to the dramas themselves. + + + 3. + +That certainly cannot be said of the construction and arrangements of +the stage. On this subject a great deal has been written of late years, +and as regards many details there is still much difference of +opinion.[10] But fortunately all that is of great moment for our present +purpose is tolerably certain. In trying to bring it out, I will begin by +reminding you of our present stage. For it is the stage, and not the +rest of the theatre, that is of special interest here; and no serious +harm will be done if, for the rest, we imagine Shakespeare's theatre +with boxes, circles, and galleries like our own, though in the shape of +a more elongated horse-shoe than ours. We must imagine, of course, an +area too; but there, as we shall see, an important difference comes in. + + +Our present stage may be called a box with one of its sides knocked out. +Through this opening, which has an ornamental frame, we look into the +box. Its three upright sides (for we may ignore the bottom and the top) +are composed of movable painted scenes, which are changed from time to +time during the course of the play. Before the play and after it the +opening is blocked by a curtain, dropped from the top of the frame; and +this is also dropped at intervals during the performance, that the +scenes may be changed. + +In all these respects the Elizabethan arrangement was quite different. +The stage came forward to about the middle of the area; so that a line +bisecting the house would have coincided with the line of footlights, if +there had been such things. The stage was therefore a platform viewed +from both sides and not only from the front; and along its sides, as +well as in front of it, stood the people who paid least, the +groundlings, sometimes punningly derided by dramatists as 'the men of +understanding.' Obviously, the sides of this platform were open; nor +were there movable scenes even at the back of it; nor was there any +front curtain. It was overshadowed by a projecting roof; but the area, +or 'yard,' where the groundlings stood, was open to the weather, and +accordingly the theatre could not be darkened. It will be seen that, +when the actors were on the forward part of the stage, they were (to +exaggerate a little) in the middle of the audience, like the performers +in a circus now. And on this forward naked part of the stage most of a +Shakespearean drama was played. We may call it the main or front +stage.[11] + +If now we look towards the rear of this stage, what do we find? In the +first place, while the back of our present-day box consists of a +movable scene, that of the Elizabethan stage was formed by the +'tiring-house,' or dressing-room, of the actors. In its wall were two +doors, by which entrances and exits were made. But it was not merely a +tiring-house. In the play it might represent a room, a house, a castle, +the wall of a town; and the doors played their parts accordingly. Again, +when a person speaks 'from within,' that doubtless means that he is in +the tiring-house, opens one of the doors a little, and speaks through +the chink. So apparently did the prompter. + +Secondly, on the top of the tiring-house was the 'upper stage' or +'balcony,' which looked down on the platform stage. It is hardly +possible to make brief statements about it that would be secure. For our +purposes it may be imagined as a balcony jutting forward a little from +the line of the tiring-house; and it will suffice to add that, though +the whole or part of it was on some occasions, or in some theatres, +occupied by spectators, the whole or part of it was sometimes used by +the actors and was indispensably requisite to the performance of the +play. 'Enter above' or 'enter aloft' means that the actor was to appear +on this upper stage or balcony. Usually, no doubt, he reached it by a +ladder or stair inside the tiring-house; but on occasions there were +ascents or descents directly from, or to, the main stage, as we see from +'climbs the tree and is received above' or 'the citizens leap from the +walls.' The reader of Shakespeare will at once remember many scenes +where the balcony was used. On it, as the city wall, appeared the +Governor and citizens of Harfleur, while King Henry and his train stood +before the gates below. From it Arthur made his fatal leap. It was +Cleopatra's monument, into which she and her women drew up the dying +Antony. Juliet talked to Romeo from it; and from it Romeo ('one kiss and +I'll descend') 'goeth down' to the main stage. Richard appeared there +between the two bishops; and there the spectators imagined Duncan +murdered in his sleep.[12] But they could not look into his chamber. The +balcony could be concealed by curtains, running, like all Elizabethan +stage curtains, on a rod. + +In the third place, there was, towards the back of the main stage, a +part that could be curtained off, and so separated from the front part +of that stage. Let us call it the back stage. It is the matter about +which there is most difficulty and controversy; but the general +description just given would be accepted by almost all scholars and will +suffice for us. Here was the curtain (more strictly, the curtains) +through which the actors peeped at the audience before the play began, +and at which the groundlings hurled apples and other missiles to hasten +their coming or signify disapproval of them. And this 'back stage' was +essential to many performances, and was used in a variety of ways. It +was the room where Henry IV. lay dying; the cave of Timon or of +Belarius; probably the tent in which Richmond slept before the battle of +Bosworth; the cell of Prospero, who draws the curtains apart and shows +Ferdinand and Miranda playing at chess within; and here, I imagine, and +not on the balcony, Juliet, after drinking the potion, 'falls upon her +bed within the curtains.'[13] Finally, the back stage accounts for those +passages where, at the close of a death-scene, there is no indication +that the corpse was carried off the stage. If the death took place on +the open stage, as it usually did, this of course was necessary, since +there was no front curtain to drop; and so we usually find in the +dialogue words like 'Take up the bodies' (_Hamlet_), or 'Bear them from +hence' (_King Lear_). But Desdemona was murdered in her bed on the back +stage; and there died also Othello and Emilia; so that Lodovico orders +the bodies to be 'hid,' not carried off. The curtains were drawn +together, and the dead actors withdrew into the tiring-house unseen,[14] +while the living went off openly. + +This triple stage is the primary thing to remember about Shakespeare's +theatre: a platform coming well forward into the yard, completely open +in the larger front part, but having further back a part that could be +curtained off, and overlooked by an upper stage or balcony above the +tiring-house. Only a few further details need be mentioned. Though +scenery was unknown, there were plenty of properties, as may be gathered +from the dramas and, more quickly, from the accounts of Henslowe, the +manager of the Rose. Chairs, benches, and tables are a matter of course. +Kent sat in the stocks. The witches had a caldron. Imogen slept in a +bed, and Iachimo crept out of his trunk in her room. Falstaff was +carried off the stage in a clothes-basket. I have quoted the direction +'climb the tree.' A 'banquet' figures in Henslowe's list, and in the +_Tempest_ 'several strange shapes' bring one in. He mentions a 'tomb,' +and it is possible, though not likely, that the tomb of the Capulets was +a property; and he mentions a 'moss-bank,' doubtless such as that where +the wild thyme was blowing for Titania. Her lover, you remember, wore an +ass's head, and the Falstaff of the _Merry Wives_ a buck's. There were +whole animals, too. 'A great horse with his legs' is in Henslowe's +list; and in a play not by Shakespeare Jonah is cast out of the whale's +belly on to the stage. Besides these properties there was a contrivance +with ropes and pulleys, by which a heavenly being could descend from the +stage-roof (the 'heaven'), as in _Cymbeline_ Jupiter descends upon his +eagle. When his speech is over we find the direction 'ascends.' Soon +after comes another direction: 'vanish.' This is addressed not to +Jupiter but to various ghosts who are present. For there was a hollow +space under the stage, and a trap-door into it. Through this ghosts +usually made their entrances and exits; and 'vanish' seems commonly to +mean an exit that way. Through it, too, arose and sank the witches' +caldron and the apparitions shown to Macbeth. A person could speak from +under the stage, as the Ghost does when Hamlet calls him 'old mole'; and +the musicians could go and play there, as they do in the scene where +Antony's soldiers hear strange music on the night before the battle; +'Musicke of the Hoboyes is under the Stage' the direction runs +('Hoboyes' were used also in the witch-scene just mentioned). + + + 4. + +We have now to observe certain ways in which this stage with its +arrangements influenced the dramas themselves; and we shall find that +the majority of these influences are connected with the absence of +scenery. In this, to begin with, lies the main, though not the whole, +explanation of the shortness of the performance. In our Shakespeare +revivals the drama is always considerably cut down; and yet, even where +no excessive prominence is given to scenic display, the time occupied is +seldom less than three hours, and often a good deal more. In +Shakespeare's day, as we gather from various sources (_e.g._ from the +Prologues to _Romeo and Juliet_ and _Henry VIII._), the customary time +taken by the un-shortened play was about two hours. And the chief reason +of this great difference obviously is that the time which we spend in +setting and changing scenes his company spent in acting the piece. At a +given signal certain characters appeared. Unless a placard announced the +place where they were supposed to be,[15] the audience gathered this +from their conversation, or in the absence of such indications asked no +questions on the subject. They talked for a time and went away; and at +once another set appeared. The intervals between the acts (if intervals +there were, and however they were occupied) had no purpose connected +with scene-changing, and must have been short; and the introduction and +removal of a few properties would take next to no time from the +performance.[16] We may safely assume that not less than a hundred of +the hundred and twenty minutes were given to the play itself. + +The absence of scenery, however, will not wholly account for the +difference in question. If you take a Shakespearean play of average +length and read it at about the pace usual in our revivals, you will +find, I think, that you have occupied considerably more than a hundred +or a hundred and twenty minutes.[17] The Elizabethan actor can hardly +have spoken so slowly. Probably the position of the stage, and +especially of the front part of it where most of the action took place, +was of advantage to him in this respect. Standing almost in the middle +of his audience, and at no great distance from any section of it, he +could with safety deliver his lines much faster than an actor can now. +He could speak even a 'passionate' speech 'trippingly on the tongue.' +Hamlet bids him do so, warns him not to mouth, and, when the time for +his speech comes, calls impatiently to him to leave his damnable faces +and begin; and this is not the only passage in Elizabethan literature +which suggests that good judges objected to a slow and over-emphatic +delivery. We have some actors not inferior in elocution, we must +presume, to Burbage or Taylor, but even Mr. Vezin or Mr. Forbes +Robertson may find it difficult to deliver blank verse intelligibly, +musically, and rapidly out of our stage-box.[18] + +I return to the absence of scenery, which even in this matter must be +more important than the position of the stage or the preference for +rapid speech. It explains, secondly, the great difference between +Elizabethan and more modern plays in the number of the scenes.[19] This +number, with Shakespeare, averages somewhere about twenty: it reaches +forty-two in _Antony and Cleopatra_, and sinks to nine in _Love's +Labour's Lost_, the _Midsummer-Night's Dream_, and the _Tempest_. In the +fourth act of the first of these plays there are thirteen scenes, no one +of them in the same place as the next. The average number in Schiller's +plays seems to be about eight. In plays written now it corresponds not +unfrequently with the number of acts.[20] The primary cause of this +difference, though not the only one, is, I presume, that we expect to +see appropriate surroundings, at the least, for every part of the +story. Such surroundings mean more or less elaborate scenery, which, +besides being expensive, takes a long time to set and change. For a +dramatist accordingly who is a dramatist and wishes to hold his audience +by the play itself, it is an advantage to have as few scenes as may be. +And so the absence of scenery in Shakespeare's day, and its presence in +ours, result in two totally different systems, not merely of theatrical +effect, but of dramatic construction. + +In certain ways it was clearly an advantage to a playwright to be able +to produce a large number of scenes, varying in length according to his +pleasure, and separated by almost inappreciable intervals. Nor could +there be any disadvantage in this freedom, if he had a strong feeling +for dramatic construction, and a gift for it, and a determination to +construct as well as he could. But, as a matter of fact, many, perhaps +the majority, of the pre-Shakespearean dramas are put together very +loosely; scene follows scene in the manner of a casual narrative rather +than a play; and a good deal is admitted for the sake of its immediate +attraction and not because it is essential to the plot. The freedom +which we are considering, though it could not necessitate these defects, +gave the widest scope for them; the majority of the audience probably +was, and continued to be, well-nigh indifferent to them; and a large +proportion of the plays of Shakespeare's time exhibits them in some +degree. The average drama of that day has great merits of a strictly +dramatic kind, but it is not well-built, it is not what we mean by 'a +good play'; and if we look at it from the restricted point of view +implied by that phrase we shall be inclined, I think, to believe that it +would have been a better play if its author had been compelled by the +stage-arrangements to halve the number of the scenes. These remarks will +hold of Shakespeare himself. Some of his most delightful dramas, +indeed,--for instance, the two Parts of _Henry IV._--make little or no +pretence to be well-constructed wholes; and even in those which fully +deserve that title a certain amount of matter not indispensable to the +plot is usually to be found. In point of construction _Othello_ is the +best of his tragedies, _Julius Cćsar_ better than _King Lear_, and +_Antony and Cleopatra_ perhaps the faultiest. To say that this depends +solely on the number of scenes would be ridiculous, but still it is +probably significant that the numbers are, respectively, fifteen, +eighteen, twenty-one, and forty-two. + +The average Elizabethan play could not, of course, have been converted +into a well-built fabric by a _mere_ reduction of the number of its +scenes; and in some cases no amount of rearrangement of the whole +material employed could have produced this result. This means, however, +on the other hand, that the Elizabethans, partly from the very +simplicity of their theatrical conditions, were able to handle with +decided, though usually imperfect, dramatic effect subjects which would +present difficulties still greater, if not insuperable, to a playwright +now. And in Shakespeare we can trace, in this respect and in others, the +advantages connected with the absence of scenery. He could carry his +audience freely from one country, town, house or room, to another, or +from this part of a battle-field to that, because the audience imagined +each place and saw none. I take an extreme example. The Third Act of +_Antony and Cleopatra_, according to modern editions, contains thirteen +scenes, and these are the localities assigned to them: (1) a plain in +Syria, (2) Rome, an ante-chamber in Cćsar's house, (3) Alexandria, +Cleopatra's palace, (4) Athens, a room in Antony's house, (5) the same, +another room, (6) Rome, Cćsar's house, (7) near Actium, Antony's camp, +(8) a plain near Actium, (9) another part of the plain, (10) another +part of the plain, (11) Alexandria, Cleopatra's palace, (12) Egypt, +Cćsar's camp, (13) Alexandria, Cleopatra's palace. I wonder how long +this Act would take on our stage, where each locality must be +represented. Three hours perhaps, of which the performance might occupy +one-eighth. But in Shakespeare's day there was no occasion for any +stage-direction as to locality throughout the Act. + +Again, Shakespeare's method of working a double plot depends largely on +his ability to bring the persons belonging to the two plots on to the +stage in alternate scenes of no great length until the threads are +combined. This is easily seen in _King Lear_; and there we can observe, +further, how he varies the pitch of feeling and provides relief by +interposing short quiet scenes between longer exciting ones. By this +means, as I have pointed out elsewhere, the Storm-scene on the heath, +which if undivided would be intolerable, is broken into three, separated +by very short duologues spoken within the Castle and in prose. Again, +since scene follows scene without a pause, he could make one tell on +another in the way either of intensification or of contrast. We catch +the effect in reading, but in our theatres it is usually destroyed by +the interval. Finally, however many scenes an Act may contain, +Shakespeare can keep attention glued to the play throughout the Act, +because there are no intervals. So can our playwrights, because they +have but one or two scenes in the Act. But in our reproductions of +Shakespeare, though the number of scenes is reduced, it can scarcely +ever be reduced to that extent; so that several times during an Act, and +many times during the play, we are withdrawn perforce from the dramatic +atmosphere into that of everyday life, solitary impatience or ennui, +distracting conversation, third-rate music, or, occasionally, good music +half-drowned in a babble of voices. + +If we consider the characteristics on which I have been dwelling, and +bear in mind also the rapidity of speech which we have found to be +probable, we shall realise that a performance in Shakespeare's day, +though more of the play was performed, must have been something much +more variegated and changeful, and much lighter in movement, than a +revival now. And this difference will have been observed by those who +have seen Shakespeare acted by the Elizabethan Stage Society, under the +direction of Mr. Poel, who not only played scene after scene without +intervals, but secured in a considerable degree that rapidity of speech. + +A minor point remains. The Elizabethan stage, we have seen, had no front +curtain. The front curtain and the use of scenery naturally came in +together, for the second, so far as the front stage was concerned, was +dependent on the first; and as we have already glanced at some effects +of the absence of the second, that of the first will require but a few +additional words. It was clearly in some ways a great disadvantage; for +every situation at the front of the stage had to be begun and ended +before the eyes of the audience. In our dramas the curtain may rise on a +position which the actors then had to produce by movements not really +belonging to the play; and, what is more important, the scene may +advance to a striking climax, the effect of which would be greatly +diminished and sometimes destroyed if the actors had to leave the stage +instead of being suddenly hidden. In Elizabethan plays, accordingly, we +seldom meet with this kind of effect, though it is not difficult to +discover places where it would have been appropriate. But we shall not +find them, I venture to think, in tragedies. This effect, in other +words, appears properly to belong to comedy and to melodrama (if that +species of play is to be considered here at all); and the Elizabethans +lost nothing by their inability to misuse it in tragedy, and especially +at the close of a tragedy. Whether it can be artistic to end any +serious scene whatever at the point of greatest tension seems doubtful, +but surely it is little short of barbarous to drop the curtain on the +last dying words, or, it may be, the last convulsion, of a tragic hero. +In tragedy the Elizabethan practice, like the Greek, was to lower the +pitch of emotion from this point by a few quiet words, followed perhaps +by sounds which, in intention at least, were majestic or solemn, and so +to restore the audience to common life 'in calm of mind, all passion +spent.' Thus Shakespeare's tragedies always close; and the end of +Marlowe's _Doctor Faustus_ is not _Exeunt Devils with Faustus_, but the +speech beginning + + Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight, + And burned is Apollo's laurel-bough, + That sometime grew within this learned man. + +In this particular case Marlowe, if he had not been a poet, might have +dispensed with the final descent, or ascent, from the violent emotions +attending the catastrophe; but in the immense majority of their +tragedies the Elizabethans, even if they had wished to do as we too +often do, were saved from the temptation by the absence of a front +curtain.[21] + + + 5. + +Hitherto we have not considered a Shakespearean performance on the side, +I will not say of its spectacular, but of its pictorial effect. This +must be our last subject. We have to bear in mind here three things: the +fact that the stage was viewed from three sides, its illumination by +daylight throughout the play, and the absence of scenery. It is obvious +that the last two deprived the audience of many attractive or impressive +pictures; while, as to the first, it seems unlikely that actors who were +watched from the sides as well as the front would study to group +themselves as parts of a composition addressed to the eye. Indeed one +may doubt whether, except in regard to costume, they seriously attended +to the pictorial effect of a drama at all; their tiny crowds and armies, +for example, cannot have provided much of a show. And in any case it is +clear that the audience had to dispense with many more or less beautiful +sights that we may now enjoy. But the question whether their loss was, +on the whole, a disadvantage is not so easy to answer; for here again it +freed them from a temptation--that of sacrificing dramatic to pictorial +effect; and we cannot tell whether, or how far, they would have been +proof against its influence. Let us try, however, to see the position +clearly. + +The essence of drama--and certainly of Shakespearean drama--lies in +actions and words expressive of inward movements of human nature. +Pictorial effects (if for convenience' sake the various matters under +consideration may be signified by that phrase) are in themselves no more +dramatic than songs, dances, military music, or the jests of a 'fool.' +Like these other things, they may be made dramatic. They may be used and +apprehended, that is to say, as elements fused with the essential +elements of dramatic effect. And, so far as this is the case and they +thus contribute to that effect, they are, it seems clear, an unmixed +advantage. But a distinct and separate attention to them is another +matter; for, the moment it sets in, attention begins to be withdrawn +from the actions and words, and therefore from the inward movements that +these express. And experience shows that, as soon as pictorial +attractions exceed a certain limit, impossible to specify in general +terms, they at once influence the average play-goer in this mischievous +way. It is, further, well-nigh inevitable that this should happen. +However interesting the actions, words, and inward movements may be, +they call for some effort of imagination and of other mental +activities,[22] while stage-pictures demand very little; and +accordingly, at the present time at any rate, the bulk of an audience to +which the latter are abundantly presented will begin to enjoy them for +their own sakes, or as parts of a panorama and not of a drama. No one, I +think, can honestly doubt this who watches and listens to the people +sitting near him at what the newspapers too truly call 'an amazing +Shakespearean spectacle.' If we are offered a pretty picture of the +changing colours of the sky at dawn, or of a forest glade with deer +miraculously moving across its sunny grass, most of us cease for the +time to be an audience and become mere spectators; and let Romeo and +Juliet, or Rosalind and Orlando, talk as like angels as they will, they +will talk but half-heeded. Our dramatists know this well enough. Mr. +Barrie and Mr. Pinero and Mr. Shaw, who want the audience to listen and +understand, take good care not to divert its attention and deaden its +imagination by scenic displays. And yet, with the heartiest admiration +for their best work, one may say that Shakespeare's requires more +attention and imagination than theirs. + +Whether the Elizabethan companies, if they had had the power to use the +attractions of scenery, would have abused it, and whether in that case +the audience would have been as readily debauched as ours, it is useless +to dispute. The audience was not composed mainly of groundlings; and +even the groundlings in that age had drama in their blood. But I venture +to disbelieve that the main fault in these matters lies, in any age, +with the audience. It is like the populace in Shakespeare's plays, easy +to lead wrong but just as easy to lead right. If you give people in the +East End, or even in the Albert Hall, nothing but third-rate music, most +of them will be content with it, and possibly may come to disrelish what +is better. But if you have a little faith in great art and in human +nature, and offer them, I do not say the Diabelli variations, but such +music as the symphonies of Beethoven or even of Brahms, they will +justify your faith. This is not theory, but fact; and I cannot think +that it is otherwise with drama, or at least with the dramas of +Shakespeare. Did they ever 'spell ruin to managers' if they were, +through the whole cast, satisfactorily acted? What spells real ruin to +managers and actors alike is what spells degradation to audiences.[23] + +But whether or no Shakespeare's audience could have been easily degraded +by scenic pleasure, it had not the chance; and I will not raise the +further question how far its disabilities were the cause of its virtues, +but will end with a few words on two of the virtues themselves. It +possessed, first, a vivid imagination. Shakespeare could address to it +not in vain the injunction, 'Work, work your thoughts!' Probably in +three scenes out of five the place and surroundings of the action were +absolutely invisible to its eyes. In a fourth it took the barest symbol +for reality. A couple of wretched trees made the Forest of Arden for it, +five men with ragged foils the army that conquered at Agincourt: are we +stronger than it, or weaker? It heard Romeo say + + Look, love, what envious streaks + Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east; + +and to its mind's eye they were there. It looked at a shabby old +balcony, but as it listened it saw the swallows flitting round the +sun-lit battlements of Macbeth's castle, and our pitiful sense of +grotesque incongruity never troubled it.[24] The simplest convention +sufficed to set its imagination at work. If Prospero entered wearing a +particular robe, it knew that no one on the stage could see his solid +shape;[25] and if Banquo, rising through the trap-door, had his bloody +face dusted over with meal, it recognised him for a ghost and thrilled +with horror; and we, Heaven help us, should laugh. Though the stage +stood in broad daylight, again, Banquo, for it, was being murdered on a +dark wet night, for he carried a torch and spoke of rain; and the +chaste stars were shining for it outside Desdemona's chamber as the +awful figure entered and extinguished the lamp. Consider how +extraordinary is the fact I am about to mention, and what a testimony it +bears to the imagination of the audience. In _Hamlet_, _Othello_, and +_Macbeth_, not one scene here and there but actually the majority of the +most impressive scenes take place at night, and, to a reader, depend not +a little on the darkness for their effect. Yet the Ghost-scenes, the +play-scene, the sparing of the king at prayer, that conversation of +Hamlet with his mother which is opened by the killing of Polonius and +interrupted by the appearance of the Ghost; the murder of Duncan, the +murder of Banquo, the Banquet-scene, the Sleep-walking scene; the whole +of the first Act of _Othello_, the scene of Cassio's drunken revel and +fight, and the whole of the terrible last Act,--all of this was played +in a theatre open to the afternoon sun, and was written by a man who +knew that it was so to be played. But he knew his audience too.[26] + +That audience had not only imagination, and the power to sink its soul +in the essence of drama. It had something else of scarcely less import +for Shakespeare, the love of poetry. Ignorant, noisy, malodorous, too +fond of dances and songs and dirty jokes, of soldiers and trumpets and +cannon, the groundling might be: but he liked poetry. If he had not +liked it, he, with his brutal manners, would have silenced it, and the +Elizabethan drama could never have been the thing it was. The plays of +Shakespeare swarm with long speeches, almost all of which are cut down +or cut clean away for our theatres. They are never, of course, +irrelevant; sometimes they are indispensable to the full appreciation +of a character; but it is manifest that they were not written solely +for a dramatic purpose, but also because the author and his audience +loved poetry. A sign of this is the fact that they especially abound +where, from the nature of the story, the dramatic structure is +imperfect.[27] They abound in _Troilus and Cressida_ and _Henry V._ more +than in _Othello_ or _Much Ado_. Remember, for a standard of size, that +'To be or not to be' is thirty-three lines in length, and then consider +the following fact. _Henry V._ contains seventeen speeches longer than +that soliloquy. Five of them are between forty and fifty lines long, two +between fifty and sixty, and two exceed sixty. Yet if any play entirely +by Shakespeare were open to the charge of being a 'drum and trumpet +history' written to please the populace, it would be _Henry V._ Not only +then the cultured section of the audience loved poetry; the whole +audience loved it. How long would they have continued to relish this +'perpetual feast of nectared sweets' if their eyes had been feasted too? +Or is it likely that, once habituated to spectacular stimulants, they +would have welcomed 'the crystal clearness of the Muses' spring'? + +1902. + + +FOOTNOTES: + + [1] This, one may suspect, was also the position of Webster, who + praises Shakespeare, but groups him with Dekker and Heywood, and + mentions him after Chapman, Jonson, and Beaumont and Fletcher + (Preface to the _White Devil_). + + [2] I am obliged to speak summarily. Some of these things declined in + popularity as time went on. + + [3] The examples just cited show his method at its best, and it would + be easy to mention others far less satisfactory. Nor do I doubt that + his plays would be much more free from blemishes of various kinds if + his audience had added to their virtues greater cultivation. On the + other hand the question whether, or how far, he knowingly 'wrote down + to' his audience, in the sense of giving it what he despised, seems + to me very difficult, if not impossible, to answer: and I may mention + some causes of this difficulty. + + (1) There is no general presumption against interpolations in an + Elizabethan drama published piratically or after the author's death. + We have, further, positive grounds of the strongest kind for + believing that 'Shakespeare's plays' contain a good deal that + Shakespeare never wrote. We cannot therefore simply take it for + granted that he wrote every silly or offensive thing that we find in + the volume; and least of all should we do this when the passage is + more or less irrelevant and particularly easy to excise. I do not say + that these considerations have great importance here, but they have + some; and readers of Shakespeare, and even some scholars, constantly + tend to forget them, and to regard the texts as if they had been + published by himself, or by scrupulously careful men of letters + immediately after his death. + + (2) We must never take for granted that what seems to us feeble or + bad seemed so to Shakespeare. Evidently he was amused by puns and + quips and verbal ingenuities in which most of us find little + entertainment. Gross jokes, scarcely redeemed in our eyes by their + humour, may have diverted him. He sometimes writes, and clearly in + good faith, what seems to us bombastic or 'conceited.' So far as this + was the case he was not writing down to his audience. He shared its + tastes, or the tastes of some section of it. So it may have been, + again, with such a blot as the blinding of Gloucester on the open + stage. + + (3) Jonson defied his audience, yet he wrote a good deal that we + think bad. In the same way certain of Shakespeare's faults _cannot_ + be due to condescension to his audience: _e.g._ the obscurities and + distortions of language not infrequent in his later plays. And this + may be so with some faults which have the appearance of arising from + that condescension. + + (4) Other defects again he might have deliberately defended; _e.g._ + the highly improbable conclusions and the distressing mis-marriages + of some of the comedies. 'It is of the essence of romantic comedy,' + he might have said, 'to treat such things with indifference. There is + a convention that you should take the characters with some degree of + seriousness while they are in difficulties, and should cease to do so + when they are to be delivered from them.' Do not we ourselves adopt + this point of view to some extent when we go to the theatre now? + + I added this note after reading Mr. Bridges's very interesting and + original contribution to the Stratford Town edition of Shakespeare + (vol x.). I disagree with some of Mr. Bridges's remarks, and am not + always repelled by things that he dislikes. But this brief note is + not, of course, meant for an answer to his paper; it merely suggests + reasons for at least diminishing the proportion of defect + attributable to a conscious sacrifice of art to the tastes of the + audience. + + [4] To us their first appearance is of interest chiefly because it + introduces the soliloquy 'How all occasions.' But, it is amusing to + notice, the Folio, which probably represents the acting version in + 1623, omits the soliloquy but retains the marching soldiers. + + [5] I do not refer to the Globe. + + [6] The latter, no doubt, accompanied by the band, except when the + clown played the tabor while he danced alone. + + [7] This may possibly be one of the signs that _Macbeth_ was altered + after Shakespeare's retirement or death. + + [8] Surely every company that plays Shakespeare should include a boy. + There would then be no excuse for giving to a woman such parts as + Ariel and Brutus's boy Lucius. + + [9] This question will not be answered by the citation of one famous + speech of Cleopatra's--a speech, too, which is strictly in character. + But, as to this matter and the other considerations put forward + above, I must add that, while my impression is that what has been + said of Shakespeare holds of most of the contemporary dramatists, I + have not verified it by a research. A student looking for a subject + for his thesis might well undertake such a research. + + [10] When the lecture was given (in 1902) I went more fully into + details, having arrived at certain conclusions mainly by an + examination of Elizabethan dramas. I suppress them here because I + have been unable to study all that has since been written on the + Elizabethan stage. The reader who is interested in the subject should + refer in the first instance to an excellent article by Mr. Archer in + the _Quarterly Review_ for April, 1908. + + [11] This is a description of a public theatre. A private one, it + will be remembered, had seats in the area (there called the pit), was + completely roofed, and could be darkened. + + [12] 'The doors are open, and the surfeited grooms Do mock their + charge with snores,' says Lady Macbeth on the stage below; and no + doubt the tiring-house doors _were_ open. + + [13] This view, into the grounds of which I cannot go, implies that + Juliet's bedroom was, in one scene, the upper stage, and, in another, + the back stage; but the Elizabethans, I believe, would make no + difficulty about that. + + [14] Perhaps. It seems necessary to suppose that the sides of the + backstage, as well as its front, could be open; otherwise many of the + spectators could not have seen what took place there. But it is not + _necessary_, so far as I remember, to suppose that the sides could be + closed by curtains. The Elizabethans probably would not have been + troubled by seeing dead bodies get up and go into the tiring-house + when a play or even a scene was over. + + [15] Where this contrivance was used at all it probably only + announced the general place of the action throughout the play: _e.g._ + _Denmark_, or, a little more fully, _Verona_, _Mantua_. + + [16] It is possibly significant that _Macbeth_ and the _Tempest_, + plays containing more 'shews' than most, are exceptionally short. + + [17] It suffices for this rough experiment to read a column in an + edition like the Globe, and then to multiply the time taken by the + number of columns in the play. + + [18] I do not know whether the average size of our theatres differs + much from that of the Elizabethan. The diameter of the area at the + _Fortune_ and the _Globe_ seems to have been fifty feet. + + [19] I mean by a scene a section of a play before and after which the + stage is unoccupied. Most editions of Shakespeare are faulty in the + division of scenes (see _Shakespearean Tragedy_, p. 451). + + [20] So it very nearly does in some Restoration comedies. In the _Way + of the World_ the scenery is changed only twice in the five acts, + though there are more than five scenes. + + [21] The 'back' stage, which had curtains, must, I suppose, have been + too small to accommodate the number of persons commonly present, + alive or dead, at the close of a tragedy. I do not know if any recent + writer has raised and discussed the questions how often the back + stage is used in the last scene of an Elizabethan play, and, again, + whether it is often employed at all in order to produce, by the + closing of the curtains, the kind of effect referred to in the + paragraph above. Perhaps the fact that the curtains had to be closed + by an actor, within them or without, made this effect impossible. Or + perhaps it was not desired. In Shakespeare's tragedies, if my memory + serves me, the only sudden or startling appeals of an outward kind + (apart, of course, from actions) are those produced by supernatural + appearances and disappearances, as in _Hamlet_ and _Macbeth_. These, + we have seen, were usually managed by means of the trap-door, which, + it would seem from some passages, must have been rather large. These + matters deserve investigation if they have not already received it. + + [22] I do not refer to such deliberate and sustained effort as a + reader may sometimes make. It is not commonly realised that + continuous attention to any imaginative or intellectual matter, + however enjoyable, involves considerable strain. If at a lecture or + sermon a careless person makes himself observable in arriving late or + leaving early, the eyes of half the audience will turn to him and + follow him. And the reason is not always that the speaker bores them; + it is that involuntarily they seek relief from this strain. The same + thing may be seen in the concert-room or theatre, but very much less + at a panorama, because the mere use of the eyes, even when + continuous, is comparatively easy. + + [23] I am not referring here, or elsewhere, to such a moderate use of + scenery in Shakespearean performances as most of our actor-managers + (_e.g._ Mr. Benson) now adopt. I regret it in so far as it involves a + curtailing of the play; but I do not think it withdraws from the play + any attention that is of value, and for some of the audience it + probably heightens the dramatic effect. Still, in my belief, it would + be desirable to decrease it, because the less there is of it, the + more is good acting necessary, and the more of the play itself can be + acted. Some use of scenery, with its consequences to the play, must + unquestionably be accepted as the rule, but I would add that it ought + always to be possible for us to see performances, such as we owed to + Mr. Poel, nearer to those of Shakespeare's time. + + [24] When, in the time of Malone and Steevens, the question was + debated whether Shakespeare's stage had scenery, it was argued that + it must have had it, because otherwise the contrast between the words + and the visible stage in the passage referred to would have been + hopelessly ludicrous. + + [25] 'Enter invisible' (a common stage-direction) means 'Enter in the + dress which means to the audience that you are invisible.' + + [26] Probably he never needed to think of the audience, but wrote + what pleased his own imagination, which, like theirs, was not only + dramatic but, in the best sense, theatrical. + + [27] Their abundance in _Hamlet_ results partly from the character of + the hero. They helped, however, to make that play too long; and the + omission of 'How all occasions' from the Folio doubtless means that + the company cut this soliloquy (whether they did so in the author's + life-time we cannot tell). It may be noticed that, where a play shows + clear signs of revision by Shakespeare himself, we rarely find a + disposition to shorten long poetical speeches. + + + + +In some of these lectures[1]--for the duties and pleasures that have +fallen to me as Professor of Poetry are now to end--I may have betrayed +a certain propensity to philosophise. But I should ask pardon for this +only if I believed it to intrude where it has no place, in the +imaginative perception of poetry. Philosophy has long been at home in +this University; in the remarkable development of English philosophical +thought during the last five-and-thirty years Oxford has played a +leading part; and I hope the time will never come when a son of hers +will need to apologise to his brethren for talking philosophy. Besides, +though I owe her gratitude for many gifts, and most for the friendships +she gave me, her best intellectual gift was the conviction that what +imagination loved as poetry reason might love as philosophy, and that in +the end these are two ways of saying the same thing. And, finally, I +hoped, by dwelling in these lectures (for instance, with reference to +the poets of Wordsworth's time) on the connection of poetry with the +wider life around it, to correct an impression which my opening lecture +seems here and there to have left. Not that I can withdraw or even +modify the view put forward then. So far as any single function of +spiritual life can be said to have an intrinsic value, poetry, it seems +to me, possesses it just as other functions do, and it is in each case +irreplaceable. And further, it seems to me, poetry attains its own aim, +and in doing so makes its contribution to the whole, most surely and +fully when it seeks its own end without attempting to reach those of +co-ordinate functions, such as the attainment of philosophic truth or +the furtherance of moral progress. But then I believe this because I +also believe that the unity of human nature in its diverse activities is +so intimate and pervasive that no influence can affect any one of them +alone, and that no one of them can operate or change without +transmitting its influence to the rest. If I may use the language of +paradox I would say that the pursuit of poetry for its own sake is the +pursuit both of truth and of goodness. Devotion to it is devotion to +'the good cause of the world'; and wherever the imagination is +satisfied, there, if we had a knowledge we have not, we should discover +no idle fancy but the image of a truth. + + +FOOTNOTE: + + [1] As the order of the lectures has been changed for the purposes of + publication, I have been obliged to move these concluding sentences + from their original place at the end of the lecture on _The Long Poem + in the Age of Wordsworth_. + + + + + PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY + MORRISON AND GIBB LTD., LONDON AND EDINBURGH + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Oxford Lectures on Poetry, by Andrew Cecil Bradley + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OXFORD LECTURES ON POETRY *** + +***** This file should be named 36773-8.txt or 36773-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/6/7/7/36773/ + +Produced by Marius Masi, Suzanne Shell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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