University of Virginia Library

WORDSWORTH.

In an intellectual history of our age, the bard of Rydal
Mount must occupy a prominent place. His name is so
intimately associated with the poetical criticisms of the
period, that, even if his productions are hereafter
neglected, he cannot wholly escape consideration. The
mere facts of his life will preserve his memory. It will
not be forgotten that one among the men of acknowledged
genius in England, during a period of great political excitement,
and when society accorded to literary success
the highest honors, should voluntarily remain secluded
amid the mountains, the uncompromising advocate of
a theory, from time to time sending forth his effusions,
as uncolored by the poetic taste of the time, as statues
from an isolated quarry. It has been the fortune of
Wordsworth, like many original characters, to be almost
wholly regarded from the two extremes of prejudice and
admiration. The eclectic spirit, which is so appropriate
to the criticism of Art, has seldom swayed his commentators.
It has scarcely been admitted, that his works may
please to a certain extent, and in particular traits, and in

other respects prove wholly uncongenial. Whoever recognizes
his beauties is held responsible for his system;
and those who have stated his defects; have been unfairly
ranked with the insensible and unreasonable reviewers
who so fiercely assailed him at the outset of his career.
There is a medium ground, from which we can survey
the subject to more advantage. From this point of observation,
it is easy to perceive that there is reason on
both sides of the question. It was natural and just that
the lovers of poetry, reared in the school of Shakspeare,
should be repelled at the outset by a new minstrel, whose
prelude was an argument. It was like being detained at
the door of a cathedral by a dull cicerone, who, before
granting admittance, must needs deliver a long homily
on the grandeur of the interior, and explain away its deficiencies.
“Let us enter,” we impatiently exclaim: “if
the building is truly grand, its sublimity needs no expositor;
if it is otherwise, no reasoning will render it impressive.”
The idea of adopting for poetical objects “the
real language of men, when in a state of vivid sensation,”
was indeed, as Coleridge observes, never strictly attempted;
but there was something so deliberate, and even cold,
in Wordsworth's first appeal, that we cannot wonder it
was unattractive. Byron and Burns needed no introduction.
The earnestness of their manner secured instant
attention. Their principles and purposes were matters
of after-thought. Whoever is even superficially acquainted
with human nature, must have prophecied a doubtful
reception to a bard, who begins by calmly stating his
reasons for considering prose and verse identical, his
wish to inculcate certain truths which he deemed neglected,
and the several considerations which induced him to
adopt rhyme for the purpose. Nor is this feeling wholly
unworthy of respect, even admitting, with Wordsworth,
that mere popularity is no evidence of the genuineness of
poetry. Minds of poetical sensibility are accustomed to
regard the true poet as so far inspired by his experience,
as to write from a spontaneous enthusiasm. They regard
verse as his natural element—the most congenial form of
expression. They imagine he can scarcely account
wholly to himself, far less to others, for his diction and
imagery,—any farther than they are the result of emotion
too intense and absording to admit of any conscious or
reflective process. Even if “poetry takes its origin
from emotion recollected in tranquillity,” it must be of
that earnest and tender kind, which is only occasionally
experienced. Trust, therefore, was not readily accorded
a writer who scarcely seemed enamored of his Art, and
presented a theory in prose to win the judgment, instead
of first taking captive the heart by the music of his lyre.
Nor is this the only just cause of Wordsworth's early
want of appreciation. He has not only written too much,
from pure reflection, but the quantity of his verse is
wholly out of proportion to its quality. He has too often
written for the mere sake of writing. The mine he opened
may be inexhaustible, but to him it is not given to
bring to light all its treasures. His characteristics are
not universal. His power is not unlimited. On the
contrary, his points of peculiar excellence, though rare,
are comparatively few. He has endeavored to extend his
range beyond its natural bounds. In a word, he has
written too much, and too indiscriminately. It is to be
feared that habit has made the work of versifying necessary,
and he has too often resorted to it merely as an occupation.
Poetry is too sacred to be thus mechanically
pursued. The true bard seizes only genial periods, and
inciting themes. He consecrates only his better moments
to “the divinest of arts.” He feels that there is a
correspondence between certain subjects and his individual
genius, and to these he conscientiously devotes his
powers. Wordsworth seems to have acted on a different
principle. It is obvious to a discerning reader that his
muse is frequently whipped into service. He is too often
content to indite a series of common-place thoughts, and
memorialize topics which have apparently awakened in
his mind only a formal interest. It sometimes seems as
if he had taken up the business of a bard, and felt bound
to fulfil its functions. His political opinions, his historical
reading, almost every event of personal experience,
must be chronicled, in the form of a sonnet or blank
verse. The language may be chaste, the sentiment unexceptionable,
the moral excellent, and yet there may be
no poetry, and perhaps the idea has been often better
expressed in prose. Even the admirers of Wordsworth
are compelled, therefore, to acknowledge, that with all his
unrivalled excellencies, he has written too many
Occasional felicities of style do not atone for such frequent
desecration of the muse. We could forgive them in a
less-gifted minstrel; but with one of Wordsworth's genius
it is more difficult to compromise. The number of his
indifferent attempts shade the splendor of his real merit.
The poems protected by his fame, which are uninspired
by his genius, have done much to blind a large class of
readers to his intrinsic worth. Another circumstance has
contributed to the same result. His redeeming graces often,
from excess, become blemishes. In avoiding the
tinsel of a meretricious style, he sometimes degenerates
into positive homeliness. In rejecting profuse ornament,
he often presents his conceptions in so bald a manner as
to prove utterly unattractive. His simplicity is not unfrequently
childish, his calmness stagnation, his pathos
puerility. And these impressions, in some instances,
have been allowed to outweigh those which his more
genuine qualities inspire. For when we reverse the picture,
Wordsworth presents claims to grateful admiration,
second to no poet of the age; and no susceptible and observing
mind can study his writings without yielding him
at least this cordial acknowledgment. It is not easy to
estimate the happy influence Wordsworth has exerted upon
poetical taste and practice, by the example he has given
of a more simple and artless style. Like the sculptors
who lead their pupils to the anatomy of the human frame,
and the painters who introduced the practice of drawing
from the human figure, Wordsworth opposed to the artifificial
and declamatory, the clear and natural in diction.
He exhibited, as it were, a new source of the elements of
expression. He endeavored, and with singular success,
to revive a taste for less exciting poetry. He boldly tried
the experiment of introducing plain viands, at a banquet
garnished with all the art of gastronomy. He offered to
substitute crystal water for ruddy wine, and invited those
accustomed only to “a sound of revelry by night,” to go
forth and breathe the air of mountains, and gaze into the
mirror of peaceful lakes. He aimed to persuade men
that they could be “moved by gentler excitements” than
those of luxury and violence. He essayed to calm their
beating hearts, to cool their fevered blood, to lead them
gently back to the fountains that “go softly.” He bade
them repose their throbbing brows upon the lap of Nature.
He quietly advocated the peace of rural solitude, the pleasure
of evening walks among the hills, as more salutary
than more ostentatious amusements. The lesson was
suited to the period. It came forth from the retirement
of Nature as quietly as a zephyr; but it was not lost in
the hum of the world. Insensibly it mingled with the
noisy strife, and subdued it to a sweeter murmur. It fell
upon the heart of youth, and its passions grew calmer.
It imparted a more harmonious tone to the meditations of
the poet. It tempered the aspect of life to many an eager
spirit, and gradually weaned the thoughtful from the encroachments
of false taste and conventional habits. To
a commereial people it portrayed the attractiveness of
tranquillity. Before an unhealthy and flashy literature,
it set up a standard of truthfulness and simplicity. In an
age of mechanical triumph, it celebrated the majestic resources
of the universe.

To this calm voice from the mountains, none could

listen without advantage. What though its tones were
sometimes monotonous?—they were hopeful and serene.
To listen exclusively, might indeed prove wearisome; but
in some placid moments those mild echoes could not but
bring good cheer. In the turmoil of cities, they refreshed
from contrast; among the green fields, they inclined the
mind to recognize blessings to which it is often insensible.
There were ministers to the passions, and apostles
of learning, sufficient for the exigencies of the times.
Such an age could well suffer one preacher of the simple,
the natural and the true; one advocate of a wisdom
not born of books, of a pleasure not obtainable from society,
of a satisfaction underived from outward activity.
And such a prophet proved William Wordsworth.

Sensibility to Nature is characteristic of poets in general.
Wordsworth's feelings in this regard have the character
of affection. He does not break out into ardent
apostrophes like that of Byron addressed to the Ocean, or
Coleridge's Hymn at Chamouni; but his verse breathes
a constant and serene devotion to all the charms of natural
scenery—from the mountain-range that bounds the
horizon, to the daisy beside his path:

He does not seem so much to resort to the quiet scenes of
the country for occasional recreation, as to live and
breathe only in their tranquil atmosphere. His interest
in the universe has been justly called personal. It is not
the passion of a lover in the dawn of his bliss, nor the
unexpected delight of a metropolitan, to whose sense rural
beauty is arrayed in the charms of novelty; but rather the
settled, familiar, and deep attachment of a friend:
The life, both inward and outward, of Wordsworth, is
most intimately associated with lakes and mountains.
Amid them he was born, and to them has he ever looked
for the necessary aliment of his being. Nor are his feelings
on the subject merely passive or negative. He has
a reason for the faith that is in him. To the influences
of Nature he brings a philosophic imagination. No transient
pleasure, no casual agency, does he ascribe to the
outward world. In his view, its functions in relation to
man are far more penetrating and efficient than has ever
been acknowledged. Human education he deems a process
for which the Creator has made adequate provision
in this “goodly frame” of earth and sea and sky.
Accordingly, both in details and combination, Nature has
been the object of his long and earnest study. To illustrate
her unobserved and silent ministry to the heart, has
been his favorite pursuit. From his poems might be
gleaned a compendium of mountain influences. Even
the animal world is viewed in the same light. In the
much-ridiculed Peter Bell, Susan, and the White Doe of
Rylstone, we have striking instances. To present the
affecting points of its relation to mankind has been one of
the most daring experiments of his muse:
It is the common and universal in Nature that he loves
to celebrate. The rare and startling seldom find a place
in his verse. That calm, soothing, habitual language,
addressed to the mind by the common air and sky, the
ordinary verdure, the field-flower, and the sunset, is the
almost invariable theme of his song. And herein have
his labors proved chiefly valuable. They have tended to
make us more reverent listeners to the daily voices of earth,
to make us realize the goodness of our common heritage,
and partake, with a more conscious and grateful sensibility,
of the beautiful around us. In the same spirit has
Wordsworth looked upon human life and history. To lay
bare the native elements of character in its simplest form,
to assert the essential dignity of life in its most rude and
common manifestations, to vindicate the interest which
belongs to human beings, simply as such, have been the
darling objects of his thoughts. Instead of Corsairs and
Laras, peerless ladies and perfect knights, a waggoner, a
beggar, a potter, a pedlar, are the character of whose
feelings and experience he sings. The operation of industry,
bereavement, temptation, remorse and local influences,
upon these children of humble toil, have furnished
problems which he has delighted to solve. And who shall
say that in so doing, he has not been of signal service to his
kind? Who shall say that through such portraits a wider
and truer sympathy, a more vivid sense of human brotherhood,
a more just self-respect, has not been extensively
awakened? Have not our eyes been thus opened to the
better aspects of ignorance and poverty? Have we
not thus been made to feel the true claims of man? Allured
by the gentle monitions from Rydal Mount, do we
not now look upon our race in a more meek and susceptible
mood, and pass the lowliest being beside the highway,
with more of that new sentiment of respect and hope
which was heralded by the star of Bethlehem? Can we
not more sincerely exclaim with the hero of Sartor Resartus:
“Poor, wandering, wayward man! Art thou not
tried, beaten with many stripes, even as I am? Ever,
whether thou wear the royal mantle or the beggar's gaberdine,
art thou not so weary, so heavy laden? O! my
brother, my brother! why cannot I shelter thee in my
bosom, and wipe away all tears from thine eyes?”

In accordance with this humane philosophy, Childhood
is contemplated by Wordsworth. The spirit of the Saviour's
sympathy with this beautiful era of life, seems to
possess his muse. Its unconsciousness, its ignorance of
death, its trust, hope and peace, its teachings, and promise
he has portrayed with rare sympathy. Witness,
“We are Seven,” the “Pet Lamb,” and especially the
Ode, which is perhaps the finest and most characteristic
of Wordsworth's compositions. A reader of his poetry,
who imbibes its spirit, can scarcely look upon the young
with indifference. The parent must thence derive a new
sense of the sacredness of children, and learn to reverence
their innocence, to leave unmarred their tender traits, and
to yield them more confidently to the influences of Nature.
In his true and feeling chronicles of the “heaven” that
“lies about us in our infancy,” Wordsworth has uttered a
silent but most eloquent reproach upon all the absurdities
and sacrilegious abuses of modern education. He has
made known the truth, that children have their lessons to
convey as well as receive:

He has made more evident the awful chasm between the
repose and hopefulness of happy childhood, and the cynical
distrust of worldly age. He thus indirectly but forcibly
appeals to men for a more guarded preservation of the
early dew of existence, so recklessly lavished upon the
desert of ambition:
He has exemplified that the worst evil of life is rather acquired
than inherited, and vindicated the beneficent designs
of the Creator, by exhibiting humanity when fresh
from his hand. This is a high moral service. Upon
many of those who have become familiar with Wordsworth
in youth, such impressions must have been permanent
and invaluable, greatly influencing their observation of
life and nature, and touching “to finer issues” their unpledged
sympathies. It is with the eye of a meditative
poet that Wordsworth surveys life and nature. And thus
inspired, a new elevation is imparted to “ordinary moral
sensations,” and it is the sentiment rather than the subject
which gives interest to the song. Hence it is absolutely
necessary that the reader should sympathize with the
feelings of the poet, to enjoy or understand him. He appeals
to that contemplative spirit which does not belong
to all, and visits even its votaries but occasionally; to
“a sadness that has its seat in the depths of reason;” he
professes to “follow the fluxes and refluxes of the mind
when agitated by the great and simple affections of our
nature.” To enter into purposes like these, there must
exist a delicate sympathy with human nature, a reflective
habit, a mingling of reason and fancy, an imagination
active but not impassioned. The frame of mind which
he labors to induce, and in which he must be read, is

This calm and holy musing, this deep and intimate
communion with Nature, this spirit of peace, should sometimes
visit us. There are periods when passionate poetry
wearies, and a lively measure is discordant. There are
times when we are calmed and softened, and it is a luxury
to pause and forget the promptings of desire and the cares
of life; when it is a relief to leave the crowd and wander
into solitude, when, faint and disappointed, we seek, like

tired children, the neglected bosom of Nature, and in the
serenity of her maternal smile, find rest and solace. Such
moments redeem existence from its monotony, and refresh
the human heart with dew from the urns of Peace. Then
it is that the bard of Rydal Mount is like a brother, and
we deeply feel that it is good for us to have known him.