Chapter VIII: Part 8

Spenser, in one of his letters to Harvey, had said, "Why, a God's name, may not we, as else the Greeks, have the kingdom of our own language?" This is in the tone of Bellay, as is also a great deal of what is said in the epistle prefixed to the "Shepherd's Calendar." He would have been wiser had he followed more closely Bellay's advice about the introduction of novel words: "Fear not, then, to innovate somewhat, particularly in a long poem, with modesty, however, with analogy, and judgment of ear; and trouble not thyself as to who may think it good or bad, hoping that posterity will approve it,--she who gives faith to doubtful, light to obscure, novelty to antique, usage to unaccustomed, and sweetness to harsh and rude things." Spenser's innovations were by no means always happy, as not always according with the genius of the language, and they have therefore not prevailed. He forms English words out of French or Italian ones, sometimes, I think, on a misapprehension of their true meaning; nay, he sometimes makes new ones by unlawfully grafting a scion of Romance on a Teutonic root. His theory, caught from Bellay, of rescuing good archaisms from unwarranted oblivion, was excellent; not so his practice of being archaic for the mere sake of escaping from the common and familiar. A permissible archaism is a word or phrase that has been supplanted by something less apt, but has not become unintelligible; and Spenser's often needed a glossary, even in his own day.[321] But he never endangers his finest passages by any experiments of this kind. There his language is living, if ever any, and of one substance with the splendor of his fancy. Like all masters of speech, he is fond of toying with and teasing it a little; and it may readily be granted that he sometimes "hunted the letter," as it was called, out of all cry. But even where his alliteration is tempted to an excess, its prolonged echoes caress the ear like the fading and gathering reverberations of an Alpine horn, and one can find in his heart to forgive even such a debauch of initial assonances as

"Eftsoones her shallow ship away did slide,
More swift than swallow shears the liquid sky."

Generally, he scatters them at adroit intervals, reminding us of the arrangement of voices in an ancient catch, where one voice takes up the phrase another has dropped, and thus seems to give the web of harmony a firmer and more continuous texture.

Other poets have held their mirrors up to nature, mirrors that differ very widely in the truth and beauty of the images they reflect; but Spenser's is a magic glass in which we see few shadows cast back from actual life, but visionary shapes conjured up by the wizard's art from some confusedly remembered past or some impossible future; it is like one of those still pools of mediaeval legend which covers some sunken city of the antique world; a reservoir in which all our dreams seem to have been gathered. As we float upon it, we see that it pictures faithfully enough the summer-clouds that drift over it, the trees that grow about its margin, but in the midst of these shadowy echoes of actuality we catch faint tones of bells that seem blown to us from beyond the horizon of time, and looking down into the clear depths, catch glimpses of towers and far-shining knights and peerless dames that waver and are gone. Is it a world that ever was, or shall be, or can be, or but a delusion? Spenser's world, real to him, is real enough for us to take a holiday in, and we may well be content with it when the earth we dwell on is so often too real to allow of such vacations. It is the same kind of world that Petrarca's Laura has walked in for five centuries with all ears listening for the music of her footfall.

The land of Spenser is the land of Dream, but it is also the land of Rest. To read him is like dreaming awake, without even the trouble of doing it yourself, but letting it be done for you by the finest dreamer that ever lived, who knows how to color his dreams like life and make them move before you in music. They seem singing to you as the sirens to Guyon, and we linger like him:--

"O, thou fair son of gentle Faery
That art in mighty arms most magnified
Above all knights that ever battle tried,
O, turn thy rudder hitherward awhile,
Here may thy storm-beat vessel safely ride,
This is the port of rest from troublous toil,
The world's sweet inn from pain and wearisome turmoil.[322]

"With that the rolling sea, resounding swift
In his big bass, them fitly answered,
And on the rock the waves, breaking aloft,
A solemn mean unto them measured,
The whiles sweet Zephyrus loud whisteled
His treble, a strange kind of harmony
Which Guyon's senses softly tickeled
That he the boatman bade row easily
And let him hear some part of their rare melody."

Despite Spenser's instinctive tendency to idealize, and his habit of distilling out of the actual an ethereal essence in which very little of the possible seems left, yet his mind, as is generally true of great poets, was founded on a solid basis of good-sense. I do not know where to look for a more cogent and at the same time picturesque confutation of Socialism than in the Second Canto of the Fifth Book. If I apprehend rightly his words and images, there is not only subtile but profound thinking here. The French Revolution is prefigured in the well-meaning but too theoretic giant, and Rousseau's fallacies exposed two centuries in advance. Spenser was a conscious Englishman to his inmost fibre, and did not lack the sound judgment in politics which belongs to his race. He was the more English for living in Ireland, and there is something that moves us deeply in the exile's passionate cry:--

"Dear Country! O how dearly dear
Ought thy remembrance and perpetual band
Be to thy foster-child that from thy hand
Did common breath and nouriture receive!
How brutish is it not to understand
How much to her we owe that all us gave,
That gave unto us all whatever good we have!"

His race shows itself also where he tells us that

"chiefly skill to ride seems a science
Proper to gentle blood,"

which reminds one of Lord Herbert of Cherbury's saying that the finest sight God looked down on was a fine man on a fine horse.

Wordsworth, in the supplement to his preface, tells us that the "Faery Queen" "faded before" Sylvester's translation of Du Bartas. But Wordsworth held a brief for himself in this case, and is no exception to the proverb about men who are their own attorneys. His statement is wholly unfounded. Both poems, no doubt, so far as popularity is concerned, yielded to the graver interests of the Civil War. But there is an appreciation much weightier than any that is implied in mere popularity, and the vitality of a poem is to be measured by the kind as well as the amount of influence it exerts. Spenser has _coached_ more poets and more eminent ones than any other writer of English verse. I need say nothing of Milton, nor of professed disciples like Browne, the two Fletchers, and More. Oowley tells us that he became "irrecoverably a poet" by reading the "Faery Queen" when a boy. Dryden, whose case is particularly in point because he confesses having been seduced by Du Bartas, tells us that Spenser had been his master in English. He regrets, indeed, comically enough, that Spenser could not have read the rules of Bossu, but adds that "no man was ever born with a greater genius or more knowledge to support it." Pope says, "There is something in Spenser that pleases one as strongly in one's old age as it did in one's youth. I read the _Faery Queen_ when I was about twelve with a vast deal of delight; and I think it gave me as much when I read it over about a year or two ago." Thomson wrote the most delightful of his poems in the measure of Spenser; Collins, Gray, and Akenside show traces of him; and in our own day his influence reappears in Wordsworth, Byron, Shelley, and Keats. Landor is, I believe, the only poet who ever found him tedious. Spenser's mere manner has not had so many imitators as Milton's, but no other of our poets has given an impulse, and in the right direction also, to so many and so diverse minds; above all, no other has given to so many young souls a consciousness of their wings and a delight in the use of them. He is a standing protest against the tyranny of Commonplace, and sows the seeds of a noble discontent with prosaic views of life and the dull uses to which it may be put.

Three of Spenser's own verses best characterize the feeling his poetry gives us:--

"Among wide waves set like a little nest,"
"Wrapt in eternal silence far from enemies,"
"The world's sweet inn from pain and wearisome turmoil."

We are wont to apologize for the grossness of our favorite authors sometimes by saying that their age was to blame and not they; and the excuse is a good one, for often it is the frank word that shocks us while we tolerate the thing. Spenser needs no such extenuations. No man can read the "Faery Queen" and be anything but the better for it. Through that rude age, when Maids of Honor drank beer for breakfast and Hamlet could say a gross thing to Ophelia, he passes serenely abstracted and high, the Don Quixote of poets. Whoever can endure unmixed delight, whoever can tolerate music and painting and poetry all in one, whoever wishes to be rid of thought and to let the busy anvils of the brain be silent for a time, let him read in the "Faery Queen." There is the land of pure heart's ease, where no ache or sorrow of spirit can enter.

Footnotes:

[263] Though always misapplied in quotation, as if he had used the
word in that generalized meaning which is common now, but which could
not without an impossible anachronism have been present to his mind.
He meant merely freedom from prison.

[264] In his "Defence of Poesy" he condemns the archaisms and
provincialisms of the "Shepherd's Calendar."

[265] "There is, as you must have heard Wordsworth point out, a
language of pure, intelligible English, which was spoken in Chaucer's
time, and is spoken in ours; equally understood then and now; and of
which the Bible is the written and permanent standard, as it has
undoubtedly been the great means of preserving it." (Southey's Life
and Correspondence, III. 193, 194.)

[266] Nash, who has far better claims than Swift to be called the
English Rabelais, thus at once describes and parodies Harvey's
hexameters in prose, "that drunken, staggering kind of verse, which
is all up hill and down hill, like the way betwixt Stamford and
Beechneld, and goes like a horse plunging through the mire in the
deep of winter, now soused up to the saddle, and straight aloft on
his tiptoes." It was a happy thought to satirize (in this inverted
way) prose written in the form of verse.

[267] Edmund Bolton in his _Hypercritica_ says, "The works of Sam
Daniel contained somewhat a flat, but yet withal a very pure and
copious English, and words as warrantable as any man's, and _fitter
perhaps for prose than measure_." I have italicized his second
thought, which chimes curiously with the feeling Daniel leaves in the
mind. (See Haslewood's Ancient Crit. Essays, Vol. II.) Wordsworth, an
excellent judge, much admired Daniel's poem to the Countess of
Cumberland.

[268] Mr. Hales, in the excellent memoir of the poet prefixed to the
Globe edition of his works, puts his birth a year earlier, on the
strength of a line in the sixtieth sonnet. But it is not established
that this sonnet was written in 1593, and even if it were, a sonnet
is not upon oath, and the poet would prefer the round number forty,
which suited the measure of his verse, to thirty-nine or forty-one,
which might have been truer to the measure of his days.

[269] This has been inferred from a passage in one of Gabriel
Harvey's letters to him. But it would seem more natural, from the
many allusions in Harvey's pamphlets against Nash, that it was his
own wrongs which he had in mind, and his self-absorption would take
it for granted that Spenser sympathized with him in all his grudges.
Harvey is a remarkable instance of the refining influence of
classical studies. Amid the pedantic farrago of his omni-sufficiency
(to borrow one of his own words) we come suddenly upon passages whose
gravity of sentiment, stateliness of movement, and purity of diction
remind us of Landor. These lucid intervals in his overweening vanity
explain and justify the friendship of Spenser. Yet the reiteration of
emphasis with which he insists on all the world's knowing that Nash
had called him an ass, probably gave Shakespeare the hint for one of
the most comic touches in the character of Dogberry.

[270] The late Major C. G. Halpine, in a very interesting essay,
makes it extremely probable that Rosalinde is the anagram of Rose
Daniel, sister of the poet and married to John Florio He leaves
little doubt, also, that the name of Spenser's wife (hitherto
unknown) was Elizabeth Nagle. (See "Atlantic Monthly," Vol II 674
November, 1858.) Mr. Halpine informed me that he found the substance
of his essay among the papers of his father, the late Rev. N. J.
Halpine, of Dublin. The latter published in the series of the
Shakespeare Society a sprightly little tract entitled "Oberon,"
which, if not quite convincing, is well worth reading for its
ingenuity and research.

[271] In his prose tract on Ireland, Spenser, perhaps with some
memory of Ovid in his mind, derives the Irish mainly from the
Scythians.

[272] Compare Shakespeare's LXVI. Sonnet.

[273] This poem, published in 1591, was, Spenser tells us in his
dedication, "long sithens composed in the raw conceit of my youth."
But he had evidently retouched it. The verses quoted show a firmer
hand than is generally seen in it, and we are safe in assuming that
they were added after his visit to England. Dr. Johnson
epigrammatized Spenser's indictment into

"There mark what ills the scholar's life assail,
Toil, envy, want, the patron and the jail,"

but I think it loses in pathos more than it gains in point.

[274] Paradiso, XI. 4-12 Spenser was familiar with the "Divina
Commedia," though I do not remember that his commentators have
pointed out his chief obligations to it.

[275] His own words as reported by Lodowick Bryskett. (Todd's
Spenser, I. lx.) The whole passage is very interesting as giving us
the only glimpse we get of the living Spenser in actual contact with
his fellow-men. It shows him to us, as we could wish to see him,
surrounded with loving respect, companionable and helpful. Bryskett
tells us that he was "perfect in the Greek tongue," and "also very
well read in philosophy both moral and natural." He encouraged
Bryskett in the study of Greek, and offered to help him in it.
Comparing the last verse of the above citation of the "Faery Queen"
with other passages in Spenser, I cannot help thinking that he wrote,
"do not love amiss."

[276]
"And know, sweet prince, when you shall come to know,
That 'tis not in the power of kings to raise
A spirit for verse that is not born thereto;
Nor are they born in every prince's days"

_Daniel's Dedic Trag. of "Philotas."_

[277] Louis XIV. is commonly supposed in some miraculous way to have
created French literature. He may more truly be said to have
petrified it so far as his influence went. The French _renaissance_
in the preceding century was produced by causes similar in essentials
to those which brought about that in England not long after. The
_grand siècle_ grew by natural processes of development out of that
which had preceded it, and which, to the impartial foreigner at
least, has more flavor, and more French flavor too, than the
Gallo-Roman usurper that pushed it from its stool. The best modern
French poetry has been forced to temper its verses in the colder
natural springs of the ante-classic period.

[278] In the Elizabethan drama the words "England" and "France" we
constantly used to signify the kings of those countries.

[279] I say supposed, for the names of his two sons, Sylvanus and
Peregrine, indicate that they were born in Ireland, and that Spenser
continued to regard it as a wilderness and his abode there as exile.
The two other children are added on the authority of a pedigree drawn
up by Sir W. Betham and cited in Mr. Hales's Life of Spenser prefixed
to the Globe edition.

[280] Ben Jonson told Drummond that one child perished in the flames.
But he was speaking after an interval of twenty-one years, and, of
course, from hearsay. Spenser's misery was exaggerated by succeeding
poets, who used him to point a moral, and from the shelter of his
tomb launched many a shaft of sarcasm at an unappreciative public.
Giles Fletcher in his "Purple Island" (a poem which reminds us of the
"Faery Queen" by the supreme tediousness of its allegory, but in
nothing else) set the example in the best verse he ever wrote:--

"Poorly, poor man, he lived; poorly, poor man, he died."

Gradually this poetical tradition established itself firmly as
authentic history. Spenser could never have been poor, except by
comparison. The whole story of his later days has a strong savor of
legend. He must have had ample warning of Tyrone's rebellion, and
would probably have sent away his wife and children to Cork, if he
did not go thither himself. I am inclined to think that he did,
carrying his papers with him, and among them the two cantos of
Mutability, first published in 1611. These, it is most likely, were
the only ones he ever completed, for, with all his abundance, he was
evidently a laborious finisher. When we remember that ten years were
given to the elaboration of the first three books, and that five more
elapsed before the next three were ready, we shall waste no vain
regrets on the six concluding books supposed to have been lost by the
carelessness of an imaginary servant on their way from Ireland.

[281] Sir Philip Sidney did not approve of this. "That same framing
of his style to an old rustic language I dare not allow, since
neither Theocritus in Greek, Virgil in Latin, nor Sannazzaro in
Italian did affect it." ("Defence of Poesy.") Ben Jonson, on the
other hand, said that Guarini "kept not decorum in making shepherds
speak as well as himself could." ("Conversations with Drummond.") I
think Sidney was right, for the poets' Arcadia is a purely ideal
world, and should be treated accordingly. But whoever looks into the
glossary appended to the "Calendar" by E.K., will be satisfied that
Spenser's object was to find unhackneyed and poetical words rather
than such as should seem more on a level with the speakers. See also
the "Epistle Dedicatory." I cannot help thinking that E.K. was
Spenser himself, with occasional interjections of Harvey. Who else
could have written such English as many passages in this Epistle?

[282] It was at Penshurst that he wrote the only specimen that has
come down to us, and bad enough it is. I have said that some of
Sidney's are pleasing.

[283] See "My Study Windows," 264 _seqq_.

[284] Of course _dillies_ and _lilies_ must be read with a slight
accentuation of the last syllable (permissible then), in order to
chime with _delice_. In the first line I have put _here_ instead of
_hether_, which (like other words where _th_ comes between two
vowels) was then very often a monosyllable, in order to throw the
accent back more strongly on _bring_, where it belongs. Spenser's
innovation lies in making his verses by ear instead of on the
finger-tips, and in valuing the stave more than any of the single
verses that compose it. This is the secret of his easy superiority to
all others in the stanza which he composed, and which bears his name.
Milton (who got more of his schooling in these matters from Spenser
than anywhere else) gave this principle a greater range, and applied
it with more various mastery. I have little doubt that the tune of
the last stanza cited above was clinging in Shakespeare's ear when he
wrote those exquisite verses in "Midsummer Night's Dream" ("I know a
bank"), where our grave pentameter is in like manner surprised into a
lyrical movement. See also the pretty song in the eclogue for August.
Ben Jonson, too, evidently caught some cadences from Spenser for his
lyrics. I need hardly say that in those eclogues (May, for example)
where Spenser thought he was imitating what wiseacres used to call
the _riding-rhyme_ of Chaucer, he fails most lamentably. He had
evidently learned to scan his master's verses better when he wrote
his "Mother Hubberd's Tale."

[285] Drummond, it will be remarked, speaking from memory, takes
Cuddy to be Colin. In Milton's "Lycidas" there are reminiscences of
this eclogue as well as of that for May. The latter are the more
evident, but I think that Spenser's

"Cuddie, the praise is better than the price,"

suggested Milton's

"But not the praise,
Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears."

Shakespeare had read and remembered this pastoral. Compare

"But, ah, Mecaenas is yclad in clay,
And great Augustus long ago is dead,
And all the worthies liggen wrapt in lead,"

with

"King Pandion, he is dead;
All thy friends are lapt in lead."

It is odd that Shakespeare, in his "lapt in lead," is more Spenserian
than Spenser himself, from whom he caught this "hunting of the
letter."

[286] "Ruins of Time." It is perhaps not considering too nicely to
remark how often this image of _wings_ recurred to Spenser's mind. A
certain aerial latitude was essential to the large circlings of his
style.

[287] Perhaps his most striking single epithet is the
"sea-shouldering whales," B. II 12, xxiii. His ear seems to delight
in prolongations For example, he makes such words as _glorious_,
_gratious_, _joyeous_, _havior_, _chapelet_ dactyles, and that, not
at the end of verses, where it would not have been unusual, but in
the first half of them. Milton contrives a break (a kind of heave, as
it were) in the uniformity of his verse by a practice exactly the
opposite of this. He also shuns a _hiatus_ which does not seem to
have been generally dipleasing to Spenser's ear, though perhaps in
the compound epithet _bees-alluring_ he intentionally avoids it by
the plural form.

[288]
"Like as a wayward child, whose sounder sleep
Is broken with some fearful dream's affright,
With froward will doth set himself to weep
Ne can be stilled for all his nurse's might,
But kicks and squalls and shrieks for fell despight,
Now scratching her and her loose locks misusing,
Now seeking darkness and now seeking light,
Then craving suck, and then the suck refusing."

He would doubtless have justified himself by the familiar example of
Homer's comparing Ajax to a donkey in the eleventh book of the
Illiad. So also in the "Epithalamion" it grates our nerves to hear,

"Pour not by cups, but by the bellyful,
Pour out to all that wull."

Such examples serve to show how strong a dose of Spenser's _aurum
potabile_ the language needed.

[289] I could not bring myself to root out this odorous herb-garden,
though it make my extract too long. It is a pretty reminiscence of
his master Chaucer, but is also very characteristic of Spenser
himself. He could not help planting a flower or two among his
serviceable plants, and after all this abundance he is not satisfied,
but begins the next stanza with "And whatso _else_."

[290] Leigh Hunt's Indicator, XVII.

[291] Ben Jonson told Drummond "that in that paper Sir W. Raleigh had
of the allegories of his Faery Queen, by the Blatant Beast the
Puritans were understood." But this is certainly wrong. There were
very different shades of Puritanism, according to individual
temperament. That of Winthrop and Higginson had a mellowness of which
Endicott and Standish were incapable The gradual change of Milton's
opinions was similar to that which I suppose in Spenser. The passage
in Mother Hubberd may have been aimed at the Protestant clergy of
Ireland (for he says much the same thing in his "View of the State of
Ireland"), but it is general in its terms.

[292] Two of his eclogues, as I have said, are from Marot, and his
earliest known verses are translations from Bellay, a poet who was
charming whenever he had the courage to play truant from a bad
school. We must not suppose that an analysis of the literature of the
_demi-monde_ will give us all the elements of the French character.
It has been both grave and profound; nay, it has even contrived to be
wise and lively at the same time, a combination so incomprehensible
by the Teutonic races that they have labelled it levity. It puts them
out as nature did Fuseli.

[293] Taste must be partially excepted. It is remarkable how little
eating and drinking there is in the "Faery Queen." The only time he
fairly sets a table is in the house of Malbecco, where it is
necessary to the conduct of the story. Yet taste is not wholly
forgotten:--

"In her left hand a cup of gold she held,
And with her right the riper fruit did reach,
Whose sappy liquor, that with fulness sweld,
Into her cup she scruzed with dainty breach
Of her fine fingers without foul impeach,
That so fair wine-press made the wine more sweet."
B. II c. xii. 56.

Taste can hardly complain of unhandsome treatment!

[294] Had the poet lived longer, he might perhaps have verified his
friend Raleigh's saying, that "whosoever in writing modern history
shall follow truth too near the heels, it may haply strike out his
teeth." The passage is one of the very few disgusting ones in the
"Faery Queen." Spenser was copying Ariosto; but the Italian poet,
with the discreeter taste of his race, keeps to generalities. Spenser
goes into particulars which can only be called nasty. He did this, no
doubt, to pleasure his mistress, Mary's rival; and this gives us a
measure of the brutal coarseness of contemporary manner. It becomes
only the more marvellous that the fine flower of his genius could
have transmuted the juices of such a soil into the purity and
sweetness which are its own peculiar properties.

[295] There is a gleam of humor in one of the couplets of "Mother
Hubberd's Tale," where the Fox, persuading the Ape that they should
disguise themselves as discharged soldiers in order to beg the more
successfully, says,--

"Be you the soldier, for you likest are
For manly semblance _and small skill in war."_

[296] Bunyan probably took the hint of the Giants suicidal offer of
"knife, halter, or poison," from Spenser's "swords, ropes, poison,"
in Faery Queen, B. I. c. ix. 1.

[297] Book II. c. 9.

[298] See Sidney's "Defence," and Puttenham's "Art of English Poesy,"
Book I. c. 8.

[299] We can fancy how he would have done this by Jeremy Taylor, who
was a kind of Spenser in a cassock.

[300] Of this he himself gives a striking hint, when speaking in his
own person he suddenly breaks in on his narrative with the passionate
cry,

"Ah, dearest God, me grant I dead be not defouled."

_Faery Queen_, B. I. c. x. 43.

[301] Was not this picture painted by Paul Veronese, for example?

"Arachne figured how Jove did abuse
Europa like a bull, and on his back
Her through the sea did bear: ...
She seemed still back unto the land to look,
And her playfellows' aid to call, and fear
The dashing of the waves, that up she took
Her dainty feet, and garments gathered near....
Before the bull she pictured winged Love,
With his young brother Sport, ...
And many nymphs about them flocking round,
And many Tritons which their horns did sound."

_Muiopotmos_, 281-296.

Spenser begins a complimentary sonnet prefixed to the "Commonwealth
and Government of Venice" (1599) with this beautiful verse,

"Fair Venice, flower of the last world's delight."

Perhaps we should read "lost"?

[302] Marlowe's "Tamburlaine," Part I. Act V. 2.

[303]
Grayheaded Thought, nor much nor little, may
Take up its lodging here in any heart;
Unease nor Lack can enter at this door;
But here dwells full-horned Plenty evermore.

_Orl. Fur._, e. vi. 78.

[304] B. I. c. iii. 7. Leigh Hunt, one of the most sympathetic of
critics, has remarked the passionate change from the third to the
first person in the last two verses.

[305] B. II. c. viii. 3.

[306] Observations on Faery Queen, Vol. I pp. 158, 159. Mr. Hughes
also objects to Spenser's measure, that it is "closed always by a
fullstop, in the same place, by which every stanza is made as it were
a distinct paragraph." (Todd's Spenser, II. xli.) But he could hardly
have read the poem attentively, for there are numerous instances to
the contrary. Spenser was a consummate master of versification, and
not only did Marlowe and Shakespeare learn of him, but I have little
doubt that, but for the "Faery Queen," we should never have had the
varied majesty of Milton's blank verse.

[307] As where Dr. Warton himself says:--

"How nearly had my spirit past,
Till stopt by Metcalf's skilful hand,
To death's dark regions wide and waste
And the black river's mournful strand,
Or to," etc.,

to the end of the next stanza. That is, I had died but for Dr.
Metcalf 's boluses.

[308] Iliad, XVII. 55 _seqq_. Referred to in Upton's note on Faery
Queen, B. I. c. vii. 32. Into what a breezy couplet trailing off with
an alexandrine has Homer's [Greek: pnoiai pantoion anemon] expanded!
Chaplin unfortunately has slurred this passage in his version, and
Pope _tittivated_ it more than usual in his. I have no other
translation at hand. Marlowe was so taken by this passage in
Spenser that he put it bodily into his _Tamburlaine_.

[309] Inferno, XXIV. 46-52.

"For sitting upon down,
Or under quilt, one cometh not to fame,
Withouten which whoso his life consumeth
Such vestige leaveth of himself on earth
As smoke in air or in the water foam."

_Longfellow._

It shows how little Dante was read during the last century that none
of the commentators on Spenser notice his most important obligations
to the great Tuscan.

[310] Faery Queen, B. II. c. iii. 40, 41.

[311] Ibid., B. I. c. v. 1.

[312] Ibid., B. II. c. viii. 1,2.

[313] B. III. c. xi. 28.

[314] B. I. c. i. 41.

[315] This phrase occurs in the sonnet addressed to the Earl of
Ormond and in that to Lord Grey de Wilton in the series prefixed to
the "Faery Queen". These sonnets are of a much stronger build than
the "Amoretti", and some of them (especially that to Sir John Norris)
recall the firm tread of Milton's, though differing in structure.

[316] Daphnaida, 407, 408.

[317] Faery Queen, B. I. c. x. 9.

[318] Strictly taken, perhaps his world is not _much_ more imaginary
than that of other epic poets, Homer (in the Iliad) included. He who
is familiar with mediaeval epics will be extremely cautious in
drawing inferences as to contemporary manners from Homer. He
evidently _archaizes_ like the rest.

[319] Faery Queen, B. VI. c. x. 10-16.

[320] Purgatorio, XXIX., XXX.

[321] I find a goodly number of Yankeeisms in him, such as _idee_
(not as a rhyme); but the oddest is his twice spelling _dew deow_,
which is just as one would spell it who wished to phonetize its sound
in rural New England.

[322] This song recalls that in Dante's Purgatorio (XIX. 19--24), in
which the Italian tongue puts forth all its siren allurements.
Browne's beautiful verses ("Turn, hither turn your winged pines")
were suggested by these of Spenser. It might almost seem as if
Spenser had here, in his usual way, expanded the sweet old verses:--

"Merry sungen the monks binnen Ely
When Knut king rew thereby;
'Roweth knightes near the loud,
That I may hear these monkes song.'"

WORDSWORTH.

A generation has now passed away since Wordsworth was laid with the family in the churchyard at Grasmere.[323] Perhaps it is hardly yet time to take a perfectly impartial measure of his value as a poet. To do this is especially hard for those who are old enough to remember the last shot which the foe was sullenly firing in that long war of critics which began when he published his manifesto as Pretender, and which came to a pause rather than end when they flung up their caps with the rest at his final coronation. Something of the intensity of the _odium theologicum_ (if indeed the _aestheticum_ be not in these days the more bitter of the two) entered into the conflict. The Wordsworthians were a sect, who, if they had the enthusiasm, had also not a little of the exclusiveness and partiality to which sects are liable. The verses of the master had for them the virtue of religious canticles stimulant of zeal and not amenable to the ordinary tests of cold-blooded criticism. Like the hymns of the Huguenots and Covenanters, they were songs of battle no less than of worship, and the combined ardors of conviction and conflict lent them a fire that was not naturally their own. As we read them now, that virtue of the moment is gone out of them, and whatever of Dr. Wattsiness there is gives us a slight shock of disenchantment. It is something like the difference between the _Marseillaise_ sung by armed propagandists on the edge of battle, or by Brissotins in the tumbrel, and the words of it read coolly in the closet, or recited with the factitious frenzy of Thérèse. It was natural in the early days of Wordsworth's career to dwell most fondly on those profounder qualities to appreciate which settled in some sort the measure of a man's right to judge of poetry at all. But now we must admit the shortcomings, the failures, the defects, as no less essential elements in forming a sound judgment as to whether the seer and artist were so united in him as to justify the claim first put in by himself and afterwards maintained by his sect to a place beside the few great poets who exalt men's minds, and give a right direction and safe outlet to their passions through the imagination, while insensibly helping them toward balance of character and serenity of judgment by stimulating their sense of proportion, form, and the nice adjustment of means to ends. In none of our poets has the constant propulsion of an unbending will, and the concentration of exclusive, if I must not say somewhat narrow, sympathies done so much to make the original endowment of nature effective, and in none accordingly does the biography throw so much light on the works, nor enter so largely into their composition as an element whether of power or of weakness. Wordsworth never saw, and I think never wished to see, beyond the limits of his own consciousness and experience. He early conceived himself to be, and through life was confirmed by circumstances in the faith that he was, a "dedicated spirit,"[324] a state of mind likely to further an intense but at the same time one-sided development of the intellectual powers. The solitude in which the greater part of his mature life was passed, while it doubtless ministered to the passionate intensity of his musings upon man and nature, was, it may be suspected, harmful to him as an artist, by depriving him of any standard of proportion outside himself by which to test the comparative value of his thoughts, and by rendering him more and more incapable of that urbanity of mind which could be gained only by commerce with men more nearly on his own level, and which gives tone without lessening individuality. Wordsworth never quite saw the distinction between the eccentric and the original. For what we call originality seems not so much anything peculiar, much less anything odd, but that quality in a man which touches human nature at most points of its circumference, which reinvigorates the consciousness of our own powers by recalling and confirming our own unvalued sensations and perceptions, gives classic shape to our own amorphous imaginings, and adequate utterance to our own stammering conceptions or emotions. The poet's office is to be a Voice, not of one crying in the wilderness to a knot of already magnetized acolytes, but singing amid the throng of men and lifting their common aspirations and sympathies (so first clearly revealed to themselves) on the wings of his song to a purer ether and a wider reach of view. We cannot, if we would, read the poetry of Wordsworth as mere poetry; at every other page we find ourselves entangled in a problem of aesthetics. The world-old question of matter and form of whether nectar _is_ of precisely the same flavor when served to us from a Grecian chalice or from any jug of ruder pottery, comes up for decision anew. The Teutonic nature has always shown a sturdy preference of the solid bone with a marrow of nutritious moral to any shadow of the same on the flowing mirror of sense. Wordsworth never lets us long forget the deeply rooted stock from which he sprang,--_vien ben dà lui_.

* * * * *

William Wordsworth was born at Cockermouth in Cumberland on the 7th of April, 1770, the second of five children. His father was John Wordsworth, an attorney-at-law, and agent of Sir James Lowther, afterwards first Earl of Lonsdale. His mother was Anne Cookson, the daughter of a mercer in Penrith. His paternal ancestors had been settled immemorially at Penistone in Yorkshire, whence his grandfather had emigrated to Westmoreland. His mother, a woman, of piety and wisdom, died in March, 1778, being then in her thirty-second year. His father, who never entirely cast off the depression occasioned by her death, survived her but five years, dying in December, 1783, when William was not quite fourteen years old.

The poet's early childhood was passed partly at Cockermouth, and partly with his maternal grandfather at Penrith. His first teacher appears to have been Mrs. Anne Birkett, a kind of Shenstone's Schoolmistress, who practised the memory of her pupils, teaching them chiefly by rote, and not endeavoring to cultivate their reasoning faculties, a process by which children are apt to be converted from natural logicians into impertinent sophists. Among his schoolmates here was Mary Hutchinson, who afterwards became his wife.

In 1778 he was sent to a school founded by Edwin Sandys, Archbishop of York, in the year 1585, at Hawkshead in Lancashire. Hawkshead is a small market-town in the vale of Esthwaite, about a third of a mile northwest of the lake. Here Wordsworth passed nine years, among a people of simple habits and scenery of a sweet and pastoral dignity. His earliest intimacies were with the mountains, lakes, and streams of his native district, and the associations with which his mind was stored during its most impressible period were noble and pure. The boys were boarded among the dames of the village, thus enjoying a freedom from scholastic restraints, which could be nothing but beneficial in a place where the temptations were only to sports that hardened the body, while they fostered a love of nature in the spirit and habits of observation in the mind. Wordsworth's ordinary amusements here were hunting and fishing, rowing, skating, and long walks around the lake and among the hills, with an occasional scamper on horseback.[325] His life as a school-boy was favorable also to his poetic development, in being identified with that of the people among whom he lived. Among men of simple habits, and where there are small diversities of condition, the feelings and passions are displayed with less restraint, and the young poet grew acquainted with that primal human basis of character where the Muse finds firm foothold, and to which he ever afterward cleared his way through all the overlying drift of conventionalism. The dalesmen were a primitive and hardy race who kept alive the traditions and often the habits of a more picturesque time. A common level of interests and social standing fostered unconventional ways of thought and speech, and friendly human sympathies. Solitude induced reflection, a reliance of the mind on its own resources, and individuality of character. Where everybody knew everybody, and everybody's father had known everybody's father, the interest of man in man was not likely to become a matter of cold hearsay and distant report When death knocked at any door in the hamlet, there was an echo from every fireside, and a wedding dropt its white flowers at every threshold. There was not a grave in the churchyard but had its story, not a crag or glen or aged tree untouched with some ideal hue of legend It was here that Wordsworth learned that homely humanity which gives such depth and sincerity to his poems. Travel, society, culture, nothing could obliterate the deep trace of that early training which enables him to speak directly to the primitive instincts of man. He was apprenticed early to the difficult art of being himself.

At school he wrote some task-verses on subjects imposed by the master, and also some voluntaries of his own, equally undistinguished by any peculiar merit. But he seems to have made up his mind as early as in his fourteenth year to become a poet.[326] "It is recorded," says his biographer vaguely, "that the poet's father set him very early to learn portions of the best English poets by heart, so that at an early age he could repeat large portions of Shakespeare, Milton, and Spenser."[327]

The great event of Wordsworth's school days was the death of his father, who left what may be called a hypothetical estate, consisting chiefly of claims upon the first Earl of Lonsdale, the payment of which, though their justice was acknowledged, that nobleman contrived in some unexplained way to elude so long as he lived. In October, 1787, he left school for St. John's College, Cambridge. He was already, we are told, a fair Latin scholar, and had made some progress in mathematics. The earliest books we hear of his reading were Don Quixote, Gil Blas, Gulliver's Travels, and the Tale of a Tub; but at school he had also become familiar with the works of some English poets, particularly Goldsmith and Gray, of whose poems he had learned many by heart. What is more to the purpose, he had become, without knowing it, a lover of Nature in all her moods, and the same mental necessities of a solitary life which compel men to an interest in the transitory phenomena of scenery, had made him also studious of the movements of his own mind, and the mutual interaction and dependence of the external and internal universe.

Doubtless his early orphanage was not without its effect in confirming a character naturally impatient of control, and his mind, left to itself, clothed itself with an indigenous growth, which grew fairly and freely, unstinted by the shadow of exotic plantations. It has become a truism, that remarkable persons have remarkable mothers; but perhaps this is chiefly true of such as have made themselves distinguished by their industry, and by the assiduous cultivation of faculties in themselves of only an average quality. It is rather to be noted how little is known of the parentage of men of the first magnitude, how often they seem in some sort foundlings, and how early an apparently adverse destiny begins the culture of those who are to encounter and master great intellectual or spiritual experiences.

Of his disposition as a child little is known, but that little is characteristic. He himself tells us that he was "stiff, moody, and of violent temper." His mother said of him that he was the only one of her children about whom she felt any anxiety,--for she was sure that he would be remarkable for good or evil. Once, in resentment at some fancied injury, he resolved to kill himself but his heart failed him. I suspect that few boys of passionate temperament have escaped these momentary suggestions of despairing helplessness. "On another occasion," he says, "while I was at my grandfather's house at Penrith, along with my eldest brother Richard we were whipping tops together in the long drawing-room, on which the carpet was only laid down on particular occasions. The walls were hung round with family pictures, and I said to my brother, 'Dare you strike your whip through that old lady's petticoat?' He replied, 'No, I won't.' 'Then,' said I, 'here goes,' and I struck my lash through her hooped petticoat, for which, no doubt, though I have forgotten it, I was properly punished. But, possibly from some want of judgment in punishments inflicted, I had become perverse and obstinate in defying chastisement, and rather proud of it than otherwise." This last anecdote is as happily typical as a bit of Greek mythology which always prefigured the lives of heroes in the stories of their childhood. Just so do we find him afterward striking his defiant lash through the hooped petticoat of the artificial style of poetry, and proudly unsubdued by the punishment of the Reviewers.

Of his college life the chief record is to be found in "The Prelude." He did not distinguish himself as a scholar, and if his life had any incidents, they were of that interior kind which rarely appear in biography, though they may be of controlling influence upon the life. He speaks of reading Chaucer, Spenser, and Milton while at Cambridge,[328] but no reflection from them is visible in his earliest published poems. The greater part of his vacations was spent in his native Lake-country, where his only sister, Dorothy, was the companion of his rambles. She was a woman of large natural endowments, chiefly of the receptive kind, and had much to do with the formation and tendency of the poet's mind. It was she who called forth the shyer sensibilities of his nature, and taught an originally harsh and austere imagination to surround itself with fancy and feeling, as the rock fringes itself with a sun-spray of ferns. She was his first public, and belonged to that class of prophetically appreciative temperaments whose apparent office it is to cheer the early solitude of original minds with messages from the future. Through the greater part of his life she continued to be a kind of poetical conscience to him.

Wordsworth's last college vacation was spent in a foot journey upon the Continent (1790). In January, 1791, he took his degree of B.A., and left Cambridge. During the summer of this year he visited Wales, and, after declining to enter upon holy orders under the plea that he was not of age for ordination, went over to France in November, and remained during the winter at Orleans. Here he became intimate with the republican General Beaupuis, with whose hopes and aspirations he ardently sympathized. In the spring of 1792 he was at Blois, and returned thence to Orleans, which he finally quitted in October for Paris. He remained here as long as he could with safety, and at the close of the year went back to England, thus, perhaps, escaping the fate which soon after overtook his friends the Brissotins.

As hitherto the life of Wordsworth may be called a fortunate one, not less so in the training and expansion of his faculties was this period of his stay in France. Born and reared in a country where the homely and familiar nestles confidingly amid the most savage and sublime forms of nature, he had experienced whatever impulses the creative faculty can receive from mountain and cloud and the voices of winds and waters, but he had known man only as an actor in fireside histories and tragedies, for which the hamlet supplied an ample stage. In France he first felt the authentic beat of a nation's heart; he was a spectator at one of those dramas where the terrible footfall of the Eumenides is heard nearer and nearer in the pauses of the action; and he saw man such as he can only be when he is vibrated by the orgasm of a national emotion. He sympathized with the hopes of France and of mankind deeply, as was fitting in a young man and a poet; and if his faith in the gregarious advancement of men was afterward shaken, he only held the more firmly by his belief in the individual, and his reverence for the human as something quite apart from the popular and above it. Wordsworth has been unwisely blamed, as if he had been recreant to the liberal instincts of his youth. But it was inevitable that a genius so regulated and metrical as his, a mind which always compensated itself for its artistic radicalism by an involuntary leaning toward external respectability, should recoil from whatever was convulsionary and destructive in politics, and above all in religion. He reads the poems of Wordsworth without understanding, who does not find in them the noblest incentives to faith in man and the grandeur of his destiny, founded always upon that personal dignity and virtue, the capacity for whose attainment alone makes universal liberty possible and assures its permanence. He was to make men better by opening to them the sources of an inalterable well-being; to make them free, in a sense higher than political, by showing them that these sources are within them, and that no contrivance of man can permanently emancipate narrow natures and depraved minds. His politics were always those of a poet, circling in the larger orbit of causes and principles, careless of the transitory oscillation of events.

The change in his point of view (if change there was) certainly was complete soon after his return from France, and was perhaps due in part to the influence of Burke.

"While he [Burke] forewarns, denounces, launches forth,
Against all systems built on abstract rights,
Keen ridicule; the majesty proclaims
Of institutes and laws hallowed by time;
Declares the vital power of social ties
Endeared by custom; and with high disdain,
Exploding upstart theory, insists
Upon the allegiance to which men are born.
.... Could a youth, and one
In ancient story versed, whose breast hath heaved
Under the weight of classic eloquence,
Sit, see, and hear, unthankful, uninspired?"[329]

He had seen the French for a dozen years eagerly busy in tearing up whatever had roots in the past, replacing the venerable trunks of tradition and orderly growth with liberty-poles, then striving vainly to piece together the fibres they had broken, and to reproduce artificially that sense of permanence and continuity which is the main safeguard of vigorous self-consciousness in a nation. He became a Tory through intellectual conviction, retaining, I suspect, to the last, a certain radicalism of temperament and instinct. Haydon tells us that in 1809 Sir George Beaumont said to him and Wilkie, "Wordsworth may perhaps walk in; if he do I caution you both against his terrific democratic notions"; and it must have been many years later that Wordsworth himself told Crabb Eobinson, "I have no respect whatever for Whigs, but I have a great deal of the Chartist in me." In 1802, during his tour in Scotland, he travelled on Sundays as on the other days of the week.[330]

He afterwards became a theoretical churchgoer. "Wordsworth defended earnestly the Church establishment. He even said he would shed his blood for it. Nor was he disconcerted by a laugh raised against him on account of his having confessed that he knew not when he had been in a church in his own country. 'All our ministers are so vile,' said he. The mischief of allowing the clergy to depend on the caprice of the multitude he thought more than outweighed all the evils of an establishment."[331] In December, 1792, Wordsworth had returned to England, and in the following year published "Descriptive Sketches" and the "Evening Walk." He did this, as he says in one of his letters, to show that, although he had gained no honors at the University, he _could_ do something. They met with no great success, and he afterward corrected them so much as to destroy all their interest as juvenile productions, without communicating to them any of the merits of maturity. In commenting, sixty years afterward, on a couplet in one of these poems,--

"And, fronting the bright west, the oak entwines
Its darkening boughs and leaves in stronger lines,"--