n. This opinion may be further illusby appealing to the Reader's own experi the reluctance with which he comes to >erusal of the distressful parts of " ClaHarlowe," or the " Gamester"; while >eare's writings, in the most pathetic never act upon us, as pathetic, beyond unds of pleasure-an effect which, in a greater degree than might at first be im, is to be ascribed to small, but continual gular impulses of pleasurable surprise he metrical arrangement. On the other what it must be allowed will much more ntly happen), if the Poet's words should mensurate with the passion, and inadeto raise the Reader to a height of desirable ment, then (unless the Poet's choice of tre has been grossly injudicious), in the s of pleasure which the Reader has been omed to connect with metre in general, the feeling, whether cheerful or melanwhich he has been accustomed to connect hat particular movement of metre, there e found something which will greatly cone to impart passion to the words, and to the complex end which the Poet proposes aself. i had undertaken a SYSTEMATIC defence → theory here maintained, it would have my duty to develop the various causes which the pleasure received from metrical age depends. Among the chief of these s is to be reckoned a principle which must ell known to those who have made any e Arts the object of accurate reflection; ly, the pleasure which the mind derives the perception of similitude in dissimili This principle is the great spring of the ity of our minds, and their chief feeder. this principle the direction of the sexual tite, and all the passions connected with ke their origin: it is the life of our ordiconversation; and upon the accuracy with h similitude in dissimilitude, and dissimiliin similitude, are perceived, depend our and our moral feelings. It would not be less employment to apply this principle to consideration of metre, and to show that e is hence enabled to afford much pleasure, to point out in what manner that pleasure oduced. But my limits will not permit me ter upon this subject, and I must content elf with a general summary. have said that poetry is the spontaneous flow of powerful feelings it takes its in from emotion recollected in tranquillity; emotion is contemplated till, by a species e-action, the tranquillity gradually disap8. and an emotion, kindred to that which before the subject of contemplation, is lually produced, and does itself actually t in the mind. In this mood successful position generally begins, and in a mood ilar to this it is carried on; but the emotion, whatever kind, and in whatever degree, n various causes, is qualified by various asures, so that in describing any passions whatsoever, which are voluntarily described, the mind will, upon the whole, be in a state of enjoyment. If Nature be thus cautious to preserve in a state of enjoyment a being so employed, the Poet ought to profit by the lesson held forth to him, and ought especially to take care that, whatever passions he communicates to his Reader, those passions, if his Reader's mind be sound and vigorous, should always be accompanied with an over-balance of pleasure. Now the music of harmonious metrical language, the sense of difficulty overcome, and the blind association of pleasure which has been previously received from works of rhyme or metre of the same or similar construction, an indistinct perception perpetually renewed of language closely resembling that of real life, and yet, in the circumstance of metre, differing from it so widely-all these imperceptibly make up a complex feeling of delight, which is of the most important use in tempering the painful feeling always found intermingled with powerful descriptions of the deeper passions. This effect is always produced in pathetic and impassioned poetry; while, in lighter compositions, the ease and gracefulness with which the Poet manages his numbers are themselves confessedly a principal source of the gratification of the Reader. All that it is necessary to say, however, upon this subject, may be effected by affirming, what few persons will deny, that of two descriptions, either of passions, manners, or characters, each of them equally well executed, the one in prose and the other in verse, the verse will be read a hundred times where the prose is read once. Having thus explained a few of my reasons for writing in verse, and why I have chosen subjects from common life, and endeavoured to bring my language near to the real language of men, if I have been too minute in pleading my own cause, I have at the same time been treating a subject of general interest; and for this reason a few words shall be added with reference solely to these particular poems, and to some defects which will probably be found in them. I am sensible that my associations must have sometimes been particular instead of general, and that, consequently, giving to things a false importance, I may have sometimes written upon unworthy subjects; but I am less apprehensive on this account, than that my language may frequently have suffered from those arbitrary connections of feelings and ideas with particular words and phrases from which no man can altogether protect himself. Hence I have no doubt that, in some instances, feelings, even of the ludicrous, may be given to my Readers by expressions which appeared to me tender and pathetic. Such faulty expressions, were I convinced they were faulty at present, and that they must necessarily continue to be so, I would willingly take all reasonable pains to correct. But it is dangerous to make these alterations on the simple authority of a few individuals, or even of certain classes of men; for where the understanding of an autho is not convinced, or his feelings altered, this cannot be done without great injury to himself: for his own feelings are his stay and support; and, if he set them aside in one instance, he may be induced to repeat this act till his mind shall lose all confidence in itself, and become utterly debilitated. To this it may be added, that the critic ought never to forget that he is himself exposed to the same errors as the Poet, and, perhaps, in a much greater degree: for there can be no presumption in saying of most readers, that it is not probable they will be so well acquainted with the various stages of meaning through which words have passed, or with the fickleness or stability of the relations of particular ideas to each other; and, above all, since they are so much less interested in the subject, they may decide lightly and carelessly. Long as the reader has been detained, I hope he will permit me to caution him against a mode of false criticism which has been applied to poetry, in which the language closely resembles that of life and nature. Such verses have been triumphed over in parodies, of which Dr. Johnson's stanza is a fair specimen: "I put my hat upon my head Immediately under these lines let us place one of the most justly-admired stanzas of the 66 Babes in the Wood." "These pretty Babes with hand in hand 64 In both these stanzas the words, and the order of the words, in no respect differ from the most unimpassioned conversation. There are words in both, for example, the Strand," and "the Town," connected with none but the most familiar ideas; yet the one stanza we admit as admirable, and the other as a fair example of the superlatively contemptible. Whence arises this difference? Not from the metre, not from the language, not from the order of the words; but the matter expressed in Dr. Johnson's stanza is contemptible. The proper method of treating trivial and simple verses, to which Dr. Johnson's stanza would be a fair parallelism, is not to say, this is a bad kind of poetry, or, this is not poetry; but, this wants sense; it is neither interesting in itself, nor can lead to anything interesting; the images neither originate in that sane state of feeling which arises out of thought, nor can excite thought or feeling in the Reader. This is the only sensible manner of dealing with such verses. Why trouble yourself about the species till you have previously decided upon the genus? Why take pains to prove that an ape is not a Newton, when it is self-evident that he is not a man? One request I must make of my Reader, which is, that in judging these Poems he would decide by his own feelings genuinely, and by reflection upon what will probably be ta judgment of others. How common is hear a person say, I myself do not object to t style of composition, or this or that expres but to such and such classes of people it v appear mean or ludicrous! This mode of e cism, so destructive of all sound unadultere judgment, is almost universal: let the Re then abide, independently, by his own feeling and, if he finds himself affected, let him suffer such conjectures to interfere with m pleasure. If an Author, by any single composition, impressed us with respect for his talents. it useful to consider this as affording a pres tion that on other occasions where we have be displeased he, nevertheless, may not s written ill or absurdly; and further, to give t so much credit for this one composition as induce us to review what has displeased a with more care than we should otherwise Lam bestowed upon it. This is not only an a justice, but, in our decisions upon poetry e cially, may conduce, in a high degree, to improvement of our own taste: for an acrea taste in poetry, and in all the other arts, Joshua Reynolds has observed, is an or talent, which can only be produced by these and a long-continued intercourse with the models of composition. This is mentioned. M with so ridiculous a purpose as to prevent most inexperienced Reader from judging himself (I have already said that I wish hi judge for himself), but merely to temper rashness of decision, and to suggest that§ Poetry be a subject on which much time not been bestowed, the judgment may erroneous; and that, in many cases, it ne rily will be so. Nothing would, I know, have so effectu contributed to further the end which I haven' view, as to have shown of what kind pleasure is, and how that pleasure is produs which is confessedly produced by metrical en position essentially different from that which have here endeavoured to recommend: for Reader will say that he has been pleased by sh composition; and what more can be done him? The power of any art is limited: he will suspect that, if it be proposed to fur him with new friends, that can be only condition of his abandoning his old frie Besides, as I have said, the Reader is be self conscious of the pleasure which he h received from such composition, composi to which he has peculiarly attached the dearing name of Poetry; and all men an habitual gratitude, and something of honourable bigotry, for the objects which ha long continued to please them: we not wish to be pleased, but to be pleased in the particular way in which we have been so tomed to be pleased. There is in these feel enough to resist a host of arguments; and should be the less able to combat them snedse fully, as I am willing to allow that, in ord tirely to enjoy the Poetry which I am recomnding, it would be necessary to give up much what is ordinarily enjoyed. But would my its have permitted me to point out how this asure is produced, many obstacles might ve been removed, and the Reader assisted in rceiving that the powers of language are not limited as be may suppose; and that it is ssible for poetry to give other enjoyments, of urer, more lasting, and more exquisite nature. is part of the subject has not been altogether glected, but it has not been so much my esent aim to prove, that the interest excited some other kinds of poetry is less vivid, and s worthy of the nobler powers of the mind, as to offer reasons for presuming that if my purpose were fulfilled, a species of poetry would be produced which is genuine poetry; in its nature well adapted to interest mankind permanently, and likewise important in the multiplicity and quality of its moral relations. From what has been said, and from a perusal of the Poems, the Reader will be able clearly to perceive the object which I had in view he will determine how far it has been attained, and, what is a much more important question, whether it be worth attaining: and upon the decision of these two questions will rest my claim to the approbation of the Public. APPENDIX See page 796-"by what is usually called POETIC DICTION." RHAPS, as I have no right to expect that entive perusal, without which, confined, as ave been, to the narrow limits of a preface, meaning cannot be thoroughly understood, I 1 anxious to give an exact notion of the sense which the phrase poetic diction has been ed; and for this purpose, a few words shall re be added, concerning the origin and charteristics of the phraseology which I have conmned under that name. The earliest poets of all nations generally rote from passion excited by real events; ey wrote naturally, and as men feeling powfully as they did, their language was daring, d figurative. In succeeding times, Poets, d Men ambitious of the fame of Poets, periving the influence of such language, and deous of producing the same effect without ing animated by the same passion, set themIves to a mechanical adoption of these figures speech, and made use of them, sometimes th propriety, but much more frequently plied them to feelings and thoughts with ich they had no natural connection whatsoer. A language was thus insensibly produced, ffering materially from the real language of en in any situation. The Reader or Hearer this distorted language found himself in a rturbed and unusual state of mind: when fected by the genuine language of passion he d been in a perturbed and unusual state of ind also in both cases he was willing that B common judgment and understanding ould be laid asleep, and he had no instinctive id infallible perception of the true to make m reject the false; the one served as a passort for the other. The emotion was in both ses delightful, and no wonder if he conunded the one with the other, and believed em both to be produced by the same or similar uses. Besides, the Poet spake to him in the aracter of a man to be looked up to, a man i genius and authority. Thus, and from a ariety of other causes, this distorted language was received with admiration; and Poets, it is probable, who had before contented themselves for the most part with misapplying only expressions which at first had been dictated by real passion, carried the abuse still further, and introduced phrases composed apparently in the spirit of the original figurative language of passion, yet altogether of their own invention, and characterised by various degrees of wanton deviation from good sense and nature. It is indeed true that the language of the earliest Poets was felt to differ materially from ordinary language, because it was the language of extraordinary occasions; but it was really spoken by men, language which the Poet himself had uttered when he had been affected by the events which he described, or which he had heard uttered by those around him. To this language it is probable that metre of some sort or other was early superadded. This separated the genuine language of Poetry still further from common life, so that whoever read or heard the poems of these earliest Poets felt himself moved in a way in which he had not been accustomed to be moved in real life, and by causes manifestly different from those which acted upon him in real life. This was the great temptation to all the corruptions which have followed under the protection of this feeling succeeding Poets constructed a phraseology which had one thing, it is true, in common with the genuine language of poetry, namely, that it was not heard in ordinary conversation; that it was unusual. But the first Poets, as I have said, spake a language which, though unusual, was still the language of men. This circumstance, however, was disregarded by their successors; they found that they could please by easier means: they became proud of modes of expression which they themselves had invented, and which were uttered only by themselves. In process of time metre became a symbol or promise of this unusual language, and whoever took upon him to write in metre, according as he possessed more or less of true poetic genius, introduced less or more of this adulterated phraseology into his compositions, and the true and the false were inseparably interwoven until, the taste of men becoming gradually perverted, this language was received as a natural language, and at length, by the influence of books upon men, did to a certain degree really become so. Abuses of this kind were imported from one nation to another, and with the progress of refinement this diction became daily more and more corrupt, thrusting out of sight the plain humanities of nature by a motley masquerade of tricks, quaintnesses, hieroglyphics, and enigmas. It would not be uninteresting to point out the causes of the pleasure given by this extravagant and absurd diction. It depends upon a great variety of causes, but upon none, perhaps, more than its influence in impressing a notion of the peculiarity and exaltation of the Poet's character, and in flattering the Reader's self-love by bringing him nearer to a sympathy with that character; an effect which is accomplished by unsettling ordinary habits of thinking, and thus assisting the Reader to approach to that perturbed and dizzy state of mind in which if he does not find himself, he imagines that he is balked of a peculiar enjoyment which poetry can and ought to bestow. The sonnet quoted from Gray in the Preface, except the lines printed in Italics, consists of little else but this diction; though not of the worst kind; and indeed, if one may be permitted to say so, it is far too common in the best writers, both ancient and modern. Perhaps in no way, by positive example, could more easily be given a notion of what I mean by the phrase poetic diction than by referring to a comparison between the metrical paraphrase which we have of passages in the Old and New Testament, and those passages_as they exist in our common Translation. See Pope's Messiah throughout; Prior's "Did sweeter sounds adorn my flowing tongue," etc. Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels," etc. 1st Corinthians, chap. xiii. By way of immediate example, take the following of Dr. Johnson: 66 "Turn on the prudent Ant thy heedless eyes, From this hubbub of words pass to the original. Go to the ant, thou sluggard; consider her ways, and be wise: which having no g overseer, or ruler, provideth her meat in summer, and gathereth her food in the har How long wilt thou sleep, O sluggard? wilt thou arise out of thy sleep? Yet a L sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of hands to sleep: so shall thy poverty come as that travelleth, and thy want as an ar man. Proverbs, chap. vi. One more quotation, and I have done. from Cowper's Verses supposed to be write by Alexander Selkirk: "Religion! what treasure untold Ye winds, that have made me your sport, This passage is quoted as an instance of the different styles of composition. The first lines are poorly expressed; some Critics w call the language prosaic; the fact is, it w be bad prose, so bad, that it is scarcely was in metre. The epithet "church-going "appl® to a bell, and that by so chaste a writer Cowper, is an instance of the strange ab which Poets have introduced into their b guage, till they and their Readers take the * matters of course, if they do not single th out expressly as objects of admiration. T two lines "Ne'er sighed at the sound." are, in my opinion, an instance of the langu of passion wrested from its proper use, from the mere circumstance of the compos being in metre, applied upon an occasion does not justify such violent expressions; I should condemn the passage, though per few Readers will agree with me, as vis poetic diction. The last stanza is through # admirably expressed: it would be equally e whether in prose or verse, except that Reader has an exquisite pleasure in seeing s natural language so naturally connected w metre. The beauty of this stanza tempts= to conclude with a principle which ought to be lost sight of, and which has been my e guide in all I have said, - namely, that in work of imagination and sentiment, for of these o have I been treating, in proportion as ideas feelings are valuable, whether the composit be in prose or in verse, they require and ex one and the same language. Metre is but a ventitious to composition, and the phrase for which that passport is necessary, even whe it may be graceful at all, will be little vained by the judicious. DEDICATION PREFIXED TO THE EDITION OF 1815 ΤΟ GEORGE HOWLAND BEAUMONT, DEAR SIR GEORGE, cept my thanks for the permission given me dicate these Volumes to you. In addition ively pleasure derived from general considons, I feel a particular satisfaction; for, by ibing these Poems with your Name, I seem yself in some degree to repay, by an approe honour, the great obligation which I owe e part of the Collection-as having been the ns of first making us personally known to other. Upon much of the remainder, also, have a peculiar claim, - for some of the pieces were composed under the shade of own groves, upon the classic ground of orton; where I was animated by the recolon of those illustrious Poets of your name family, who were born in that neighbour1; and, we may be assured, did not wander with indifference by the dashing stream of Grace Dieu, and among the rocks that diversify the forest of Charnwood. Nor is there any one to whom such parts of this Collection as have been inspired or coloured by the beautiful Coun try from which I now address you, could be presented with more propriety than to yourself to whom it has suggested so many admirable pictures. Early in life, the sublimity and beauty of this region excited your admiration; and I know that you are bound to it in mind by a still strengthening attachment. Wishing and hoping that this Work, with the embellishments it has received from your pencil. may survive as a lasting memorial of a friendship, which I reckon among the blessings of my life, I have the honour to be, Yours most affectionately and faithfully, RYDAL MOUNT, WESTMORELAND, PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1815 E powers requisite for the production of try are: first, those of Observation and Deption, i. e. the ability to observe with uracy things as they are in themselves, and h fidelity to describe them, unmodified by passion or feeling existing in the mind of describer: whether the things depicted be ually present to the senses, or have a place y in the memory. This power, though indisisable to a Poet, is one which he employs y in submission to necessity, and never for a itinuance of time: as its exercise supposes the higher qualities of the mind to be passive, d in a state of subjection to external objects, ach in the same way as a translator or enaver ought to be to his original. 2dly, Sensility, which, the more exquisite it is, the der will be the range of a poet's perceptions; d the more will he be incited to observe obets, both as they exist in themselves and as -acted upon by his own mind. (The distinction etween poetic and human sensibility has been arked in the character of the Poet delineated 1 -- the original preface.) 3dly, Reflection, hich makes the Poet acquainted with the value factions, images, thoughts, and feelings; and ssists the sensibility in perceiving their connecion with each other. 4thly, Imagination and ancy, - to modify, to create, and to associate. thly, Invention, by which characters are composed out of materials supplied by observaion; whether of the Poet's own heart and nind, or of external life and nature; and such ncidents and situations produced as are most mpressive to the imagination, and most fitted to do justice to the characters, sentiments, and passions, which the poet undertakes to illustrate. And, lastly, Judgment, - to decide how and where, and in what degree, each of these faculties ought to be exerted; so that the less shall not be sacrificed to the greater; nor the greater, slighting the less, arrogate, to its own injury, more than its due. By judgment, also, is determined what are the laws and appropriate graces of every species of composition.2 The materials of Poetry, by these powers collected and produced, are cast, by means of various moulds, into divers forms. The moulds may be enumerated, and the forms specified, in the following order. 1st, The Narrative, -including the Epopoeia, the Historic Poem, the Tale, the Romance, the Mock-heroic, and, if the spirit of Homer will tolerate such neighbourhood, that dear production of our days, the metrical Novel. Of this Class, the distinguishing mark is, that the Narrator, however liberally his speaking agents be introduced, is himself the source from which everything primarily flows. Epic Poets, in order that their mode of composition may accord with the elevation of their subject, represent themselves as singing from the inspiration of the Muse, "Arma virumque cano;" but this is a fiction, in modern times, of slight value: the Iliad or the "Paradise 1 The state of the plates has, for some time, not allowed them to be repeated. 2 As sensibility to harmony of numbers, and the power of producing it, are invariably attendants upon the faculties above specified, nothing has been said upon those requisites. |