Preface to Lyrical Ballads Main Text

Main text

Preface to Lyrical Ballads
William Wordsworth (1800)
THE FIRST volume of these Poems has already been submitted to general
perusal. It was published, as an experiment, which, I hoped, might be of
some use to ascertain, how far, by fitting to metrical arrangement a
selection of the real language of men in a state of vivid sensation, that
sort of pleasure and that quantity of pleasure may be imparted, which a
Poet may rationally endeavour to impart.
I had formed no very inaccurate estimate of the probable effect of
those Poems: I flattered myself that they who should be pleased with
them would read them with more than common pleasure: and, on the
other hand, I was well aware, that by those who should dislike them,
they would be read with more than common dislike. The result has
differed from my expectation in this only, that a greater number have
been pleased than I ventured to hope I should please.
Several of my Friends are anxious for the success of these Poems,
from a belief, that, if the views with which they were composed were
indeed realized, a class of Poetry would be produced, well adapted to
interest mankind permanently, and not unimportant in the quality, and
in the multiplicity of its moral relations: and on this account they have
advised me to prefix a systematic defence of the theory upon which the
Poems were written. But I was unwilling to undertake the task, knowing
that on this occasion the Reader would look coldly upon my arguments,
since I might be suspected of having been principally influenced by the
selfish and foolish hope of reasoning him into an approbation of these
particular Poems: and I was still more unwilling to undertake the task,
because, adequately to display the opinions, and fully to enforce the
arguments, would require a space wholly disproportionate to a preface.
For, to treat the subject with the clearness and coherence of which it is
susceptible, it would be necessary to give a full account of the present
state of the public taste in this country, and to determine how far this
taste is healthy or depraved; which, again, could not be determined,
2
without pointing out in what manner language and the human mind act
and re-act on each other, and without retracing the revolutions, not of
literature alone, but likewise of society itself. I have therefore altogether
declined to enter regularly upon this defence; yet I am sensible, that there
would be something like impropriety in abruptly obtruding upon the
Public, without a few words of introduction, Poems so materially
different from those upon which general approbation is at present
bestowed.
It is supposed, that by the act of writing in verse an Author makes a
formal engagement that he will gratify certain known habits of
association; that he not only thus apprises the Reader that certain classes
of ideas and expressions will be found in his book, but that others will be
carefully excluded. This exponent or symbol held forth by metrical
language must in different eras of literature have excited very different
expectations: for example, in the age of Catullus, Terence, and Lucretius,
and that of Statius or Claudian; and in our own country, in the age of
Shakespeare and Beaumont and Fletcher, and that of Donne and Cowley,
or Dryden, or Pope. I will not take upon me to determine the exact
import of the promise which, by the act of writing in verse, an Author in
the present day makes to his reader: but it will undoubtedly appear to
many persons that I have not fulfilled the terms of an engagement thus
voluntarily contracted. They who have been accustomed to the gaudiness
and inane phraseology of many modern writers, if they persist in reading
this book to its conclusion, will, no doubt, frequently have to struggle
with feelings of strangeness and awkwardness: they will look round for
poetry, and will be induced to inquire by what species of courtesy these
attempts can be permitted to assume that title. I hope therefore the reader
will not censure me for attempting to state what I have proposed to
myself to perform; and also (as far as the limits of a preface will permit)
to explain some of the chief reasons which have determined me in the
choice of my purpose: that at least he may be spared any unpleasant
feeling of disappointment, and that I myself may be protected from one
of the most dishonourable accusations which can be brought against an
Author, namely, that of an indolence which prevents him from
endeavouring to ascertain what is his duty, or, when his duty is
ascertained, prevents him from performing it.
The principal object, then, proposed in these Poems was to choose
incidents and situations from common life, and to relate or describe
them, throughout, as far as was possible in a selection of language really
used by men, and, at the same time, to throw over them a certain
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colouring of imagination, whereby ordinary things should be presented
to the mind in an unusual aspect; and, further, and above all, to make
these incidents and situations interesting by tracing in them, truly though
not ostentatiously, the primary laws of our nature: chiefly, as far as
regards the manner in which we associate ideas in a state of excitement.
Humble and rustic life was generally chosen, because, in that condition,
the essential passions of the heart find a better soil in which they can
attain their maturity, are less under restraint, and speak a plainer and
more emphatic language; because in that condition of life our elementary
feelings coexist in a state of greater simplicity, and, consequently, may be
more accurately contemplated, and more forcibly communicated;
because the manners of rural life germinate from those elementary
feelings, and, from the necessary character of rural occupations, are more
easily comprehended, and are more durable; and, lastly, because in that
condition the passions of men are incorporated with the beautiful and
permanent forms of nature. The language, too, of these men has been
adopted (purified indeed from what appear to be its real defects, from all
lasting and rational causes of dislike or disgust) because such men hourly
communicate with the best objects from which the best part of language
is originally derived; and because, from their rank in society and the
sameness and narrow circle of their intercourse, being less under the
influence of social vanity, they convey their feelings and notions in
simple and unelaborated expressions. Accordingly, such a language,
arising out of repeated experience and regular feelings, is a more
permanent, and a far more philosophical language, than that which is
frequently substituted for it by Poets, who think that they are conferring
honour upon themselves and their art, in proportion as they separate
themselves from the sympathies of men, and indulge in arbitrary and
capricious habits of expression, in order to furnish food for fickle tastes,
and fickle appetites, of their own creation.1
I cannot, however, be insensible to the present outcry against the
triviality and meanness, both of thought and language, which some of
my contemporaries have occasionally introduced into their metrical
1 I here use the word ’Poetry’ (though against my own judgement) as opposed to the
word Prose, and synonymous with metrical composition. But much confusion has been
introduced into criticism by this contradistinction of Poetry and Prose, instead of the
more philosophical one of Poetry and Matter of Fact, or Science. The only strict
antithesis to Prose is Metre; nor is this, in truth, a strict antithesis, because lines and
passages of metre so naturally occur in writing prose, that it would be scarcely possible
to avoid them, even were it desirable.
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compositions; and I acknowledge that this defect, where it exists, is more
dishonourable to the Writer’s own character than false refinement or
arbitrary innovation, though I should contend at the same time, that it is
far less pernicious in the sum of its consequences. From such verses the
Poems in these volumes will be found distinguished at least by one mark
of difference, that each of them has a worthy purpose. Not that I always
began to write with a distinct purpose formerly conceived; but habits of
meditation have, I trust, so prompted and regulated my feelings, that my
descriptions of such objects as strongly excite those feelings, will be
found to carry along with them a purpose. If this opinion be erroneous, I
can have little right to the name of a Poet. For all good poetry is the
spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: and though this be true,
Poems to which any value can be attached were never produced on any
variety of subjects but by a man who, being possessed of more than usual
organic sensibility, had also thought long and deeply. For our continued
influxes of feeling are modified and directed by our thoughts, which are
indeed the representatives of all our past feelings; and, as by
contemplating the relation of these general representatives to each other,
we discover what is really important to men, so, by the repetition and
continuance of this act, our feelings will be connected with important
subjects, till at length, if we be originally possessed of much sensibility,
such habits of mind will be produced, that, by obeying blindly and
mechanically the impulses of those habits, we shall describe objects, and
utter sentiments, of such a nature, and in such connexion with each other,
that the understanding of the Reader must necessarily be in some degree
enlightened, and his affections strengthened and purified.
It has been said that each of these poems has a purpose. Another
circumstance must be mentioned which distinguishes these Poems from
the popular Poetry of the day; it is this, that the feeling therein developed
gives importance to the action and situation, and not the action and
situation to the feeling.
A sense of false modesty shall not prevent me from asserting, that
the Reader’s attention is pointed to this mark of distinction, far less for
the sake of these particular Poems than from the general importance of
the subject. The subject is indeed important! For the human mind is
capable of being excited without the application of gross and violent
stimulants; and he must have a very faint perception of its beauty and
dignity who does not know this, and who does not further know, that
one being is elevated above another, in proportion as he possesses this
capability. It has therefore appeared to me, that to endeavour to produce
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or enlarge this capability is one of the best services in which, at any
period, a Writer can be engaged; but this service, excellent at all times, is
especially so at the present day. For a multitude of causes, unknown to
former times, are now acting with a combined force to blunt the
discriminating powers of the mind, and, unfitting it for all voluntary
exertion, to reduce it to a state of almost savage torpor. The most effective
of these causes are the great national events which are daily taking place,
and the increasing accumulation of men in cities, where the uniformity of
their occupations produces a craving for extraordinary incident, which
the rapid communication of intelligence hourly gratifies. To this tendency
of life and manners the literature and theatrical exhibitions of the country
have conformed themselves. The invaluable works of our elder writers, I
had almost said the works of Shakespeare and Milton, are driven into
neglect by frantic novels, sickly and stupid German Tragedies, and
deluges of idle and extravagant stories in verse.—When I think upon this
degrading thirst after outrageous stimulation, I am almost ashamed to
have spoken of the feeble endeavour made in these volumes to
counteract it; and, reflecting upon the magnitude of the general evil, I
should be oppressed with no dishonourable melancholy, had I not a deep
impression of certain inherent and indestructible qualities of the human
mind, and likewise of certain powers in the great and permanent objects
that act upon it, which are equally inherent and indestructible; and were
there not added to this impression a belief, that the time is approaching
when the evil will be systematically opposed, by men of greater powers,
and with far more distinguished success.
Having dwelt thus long on the subjects and aim of these Poems, I
shall request the Reader’s permission to apprise him of a few
circumstances relating to their style, in order, among other reasons, that
he may not censure me for not having performed what I never
attempted. The Reader will find that personifications of abstract ideas
rarely occur in these volumes; and are utterly rejected, as an ordinary
device to elevate the style, and raise it above prose. My purpose was to
imitate, and, as far as possible, to adopt the very language of men; and
assuredly such personifications do not make any natural or regular part
of that language. They are, indeed, a figure of speech occasionally
prompted by passion, and I have made use of them as such; but have
endeavoured utterly to reject them as a mechanical device of style, or as a
family language which Writers in metre seem to lay claim to by
prescription. I have wished to keep the Reader in the company of flesh
and blood, persuaded that by so doing I shall interest him. Others who
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pursue a different track will interest him likewise; I do not interfere with
their claim, but wish to prefer a claim of my own. There will also be
found in these volumes little of what is usually called poetic diction; as
much pains has been taken to avoid it as is ordinarily taken to produce it;
this has been done for the reason already alleged, to bring my language
near to the language of men; and further, because the pleasure which I
have proposed to myself to impart, is of a kind very different from that
which is supposed by many persons to be the proper object of poetry.
Without being culpably particular, I do not know how to give my Reader
a more exact notion of the style in which it was my wish and intention to
write, than by informing him that I have at all times endeavoured to look
steadily at my subject; consequently, there is I hope in these Poems little
falsehood of description, and my ideas are expressed in language fitted to
their respective importance. Something must have been gained by this
practice, as it is friendly to one property of all good poetry, namely, good
sense: but it has necessarily cut me off from a large portion of phrases
and figures of speech which from father to son have long been regarded
as the common inheritance of Poets. I have also thought it expedient to
restrict myself still further, having abstained from the use of many
expressions, in themselves proper and beautiful, but which have been
foolishly repeated by bad Poets, till such feelings of disgust are connected
with them as it is scarcely possible by any art of association to
overpower.
If in a poem there should be found a series of lines, or even a single
line, in which the language, though naturally arranged, and according to
the strict laws of metre, does not differ from that of prose, there is a
numerous class of critics, who, when they stumble upon these prosaisms,
as they call them, imagine that they have made a notable discovery, and
exult over the Poet as over a man ignorant of his own profession. Now
these men would establish a canon of criticism which the Reader will
conclude he must utterly reject, if he wishes to be pleased with these
volumes. and it would be a most easy task to prove to him, that not only
the language of a large portion of every good poem, even of the most
elevated character, must necessarily, except with reference to the metre,
in no respect differ from that of good prose, but likewise that some of the
most interesting parts of the best poems will be found to be strictly the
language of prose when prose is well written. The truth of this assertion
might be demonstrated by innumerable passages from almost all the
poetical writings, even of Milton himself. to illustrate the subject in a
general manner, I will here adduce a short composition of Gray, who was
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at the head of those who, by their reasonings, have attempted to widen
the space of separation betwixt Prose and Metrical composition, and was
more than any other man curiously elaborate in the structure of his own
poetic diction.
In vain to me the smiling mornings shine,
And reddening Phœbus lifts his golden fire:
The birds in vain their amorous descant join,
Or cheerful fields resume their green attire.
These ears, alas! for other notes repine; 5
A different object do these eyes require;
My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine;
And in my breast the imperfect joys expire;
Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer,
And new-born pleasure brings to happier men; 10
The fields to all their wonted tribute bear;
To warm their little loves the birds complain.
I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear,
And weep the more because I weep in vain.
It will easily be perceived, that the only part of this Sonnet which is
of any value is the lines printed in Italics; it is equally obvious, that,
except in the rhyme, and in the use of the single word ’fruitless’ for
fruitlessly, which is so far a defect, the language of these lines does in no
respect differ from that of prose.
By the foregoing quotation it has been shown that the language of
Prose may yet be well adapted to Poetry; and it was previously asserted,
that a large portion of the language of every good poem can in no respect
differ from that of good Prose. We will go further. It may be safely
affirmed, that there neither is, nor can be, any essential difference between
the language of prose and metrical composition. We are fond of tracing
the resemblance between Poetry and Painting, and, accordingly, we call
them Sisters: but where shall we find bonds of connexion sufficiently
strict to typify the affinity betwixt metrical and prose composition? They
both speak by and to the same organs; the bodies in which both of them
are clothed may be said to be of the same substance, their affections are
kindred, and almost identical, not necessarily differing even in degree;
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Poetry2 sheds no tears ’such as Angels weep,’ but natural and human
tears; she can boast of no celestial choir that distinguishes her vital juices
from those of prose; the same human blood circulates through the veins
of them both….
Taking up the subject, then, upon general grounds, let me ask, what
is meant by the word Poet? What is a Poet? to whom does he address
himself? and what language is to be expected from him?—He is a man
speaking to men: a man, it is true, endowed with more lively sensibility,
more enthusiasm and tenderness, who has a greater knowledge of
human nature, and a more comprehensive soul, than are supposed to be
common among mankind; a man pleased with his own passions and
volitions, and who rejoices more than other men in the spirit of life that is
in him; delighting to contemplate similar volitions and passions as
manifested in the goings-on of the Universe, and habitually impelled to
create them where he does not find them. to these qualities he has added
a disposition to be affected more than other men by absent things as if
they were present; an ability of conjuring up in himself passions, which
are indeed far from being the same as those produced by real events, yet
(especially in those parts of the general sympathy which are pleasing and
delightful) do more nearly resemble the passions produced by real
events, than anything which, from the motions of their own minds
merely, other men are accustomed to feel in themselves:— whence, and
from practice, he has acquired a greater readiness and power in
expressing what he thinks and feels, and especially those thoughts and
feelings which, by his own choice, or from the structure of his own mind,
arise in him without immediate external excitement.
But whatever portion of this faculty we may suppose even the
greatest Poet to possess, there cannot be a doubt that the language which
it will suggest to him, must often, in liveliness and truth, fall short of that
which is uttered by men in real life, under the actual pressure of those
passions, certain shadows of which the Poet thus produces, or feels to be
produced, in himself.
However exalted a notion we would wish to cherish of the character
of a Poet, it is obvious, that while he describes and imitates passions, his
employment is in some degree mechanical, compared with the freedom
and power of real and substantial action and suffering. So that it will be
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.
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the wish of the Poet to bring his feelings near to those of the persons
whose feelings he describes, nay, for short spaces of time, perhaps, to let
himself slip into an entire delusion, and even confound and identify his
own feelings with theirs; modifying only the language which is thus
suggested to him by a consideration that he describes for a particular
purpose, that of giving pleasure. Here, then, he will apply the principle of
selection which has been already insisted upon. He will depend upon
this for removing what would otherwise be painful or disgusting in the
passion; he will feel that there is no necessity to trick out or to elevate
nature: and, the more industriously he applies this principle, the deeper
will be his faith that no words, which his fancy or imagination can
suggest, will be to be compared with those which are the emanations of
reality and truth.
But it may be said by those who do not object to the general spirit of
these remarks, that, as it is impossible for the Poet to produce upon all
occasions language as exquisitely fitted for the passion as that which the
real passion itself suggests, it is proper that he should consider himself as
in the situation of a translator, who does not scruple to substitute
excellencies of another kind for those which are unattainable by him; and
endeavours occasionally to surpass his original, in order to make some
amends for the general inferiority to which he feels that he must submit.
But this would be to encourage idleness and unmanly despair. Further, it
is the language of men who speak of what they do not understand; who
talk of Poetry as of a matter of amusement and idle pleasure; who will
converse with us as gravely about a taste for Poetry, as they express it, as
if it were a thing as indifferent as a taste for rope-dancing, or Frontiniac
or Sherry. Aristotle, I have been told, has said, that Poetry is the most
philosophic of all writing: it is so: its object is truth, not individual and
local, but general, and operative; not standing upon external testimony,
but carried alive into the heart by passion; truth which is its own
testimony, which gives competence and confidence to the tribunal to
which it appeals, and receives them from the same tribunal. Poetry is the
image of man and nature. The obstacles which stand in the way of the
fidelity of the Biographer and Historian, and of their consequent utility,
are incalculably greater than those which are to be encountered by the
Poet who comprehends the dignity of his art. The Poet writes under one
restriction only, namely, the necessity of giving immediate pleasure to a
human Being possessed of that information which may be expected from
him, not as a lawyer, a physician, a mariner, an astronomer, or a natural
philosopher, but as a Man. Except this one restriction, there is no object
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standing between the Poet and the image of things; between this, and the
Biographer and Historian, there are a thousand.
Nor let this necessity of producing immediate pleasure be considered
as a degradation of the Poet’s art. It is far otherwise. It is an
acknowledgement of the beauty of the universe, an acknowledgement
the more sincere, because not formal, but indirect; it is a task light and
easy to him who looks at the world in the spirit of love: further, it is a
homage paid to the native and naked dignity of man, to the grand
elementary principle of pleasure, by which he knows, and feels, and
lives, and moves. We have no sympathy but what is propagated by
pleasure: I would not be misunderstood; but wherever we sympathize
with pain, it will be found that the sympathy is produced and carried on
by subtle combinations with pleasure. We have no knowledge, that is, no
general principles drawn from the contemplation of particular facts, but
what has been built up by pleasure, and exists in us by pleasure alone.
The Man of science, the Chemist and Mathematician, whatever
difficulties and disgusts they may have had to struggle with, know and
feel this. However painful may be the objects with which the Anatomist’s
knowledge is connected, he feels that his knowledge is pleasure; and
where he has no pleasure he has no knowledge. What then does the Poet?
He considers man and the objects that surround him as acting and reacting upon each other, so as to produce an infinite complexity of pain
and pleasure; he considers man in his own nature and in his ordinary life
as contemplating this with a certain quantity of immediate knowledge,
with certain convictions, intuitions, and deductions, which from habit
acquire the quality of intuitions; he considers him as looking upon this
complex scene of ideas and sensations, and finding everywhere objects
that immediately excite in him sympathies which, from the necessities of
his nature, are accompanied by an overbalance of enjoyment.
To this knowledge which all men carry about with them, and to
these sympathies in which, without any other discipline than that of our
daily life, we are fitted to take delight, the Poet principally directs his
attention. He considers man and nature as essentially adapted to each
other, and the mind of man as naturally the mirror of the fairest and most
interesting properties of nature. and thus the Poet, prompted by this
feeling of pleasure, which accompanies him through the whole course of
his studies, converses with general nature, with affections akin to those,
which, through labour and length of time, the Man of science has raised
up in himself, by conversing with those particular parts of nature which
are the objects of his studies. The knowledge both of the Poet and the
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Man of science is pleasure; but the knowledge of the one cleaves to us as
a necessary part of our existence, our natural and unalienable inheritance;
the other is a personal and individual acquisition, slow to come to us,
and by no habitual and direct sympathy connecting us with our fellowbeings. The Man of science seeks truth as a remote and unknown
benefactor; he cherishes and loves it in his solitude: the Poet, singing a
song in which all human beings join with him, rejoices in the presence of
truth as our visible friend and hourly companion. Poetry is the breath
and finer spirit of all knowledge; it is the impassioned expression which
is in the countenance of all Science. Emphatically may it be said of the
Poet, as Shakespeare hath said of man, ‘that he looks before and after.’
He is the rock of defence for human nature; an upholder and preserver,
carrying everywhere with him relationship and love. In spite of
difference of soil and climate, of language and manners, of laws and
customs: in spite of things silently gone out of mind, and things violently
destroyed; the Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast
empire of human society, as it is spread over the whole earth, and over
all time. The objects of the Poet’s thoughts are everywhere; though the
eyes and senses of man are, it is true, his favourite guides, yet he will
follow wheresoever he can find an atmosphere of sensation in which to
move his wings. Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge—it is as
immortal as the heart of man. If the labours of Men of science should ever
create any material revolution, direct or indirect, in our condition, and in
the impressions which we habitually receive, the Poet will sleep then no
more than at present; he will be ready to follow the steps of the Man of
science, not only in those general indirect effects, but he will be at his
side, carrying sensation into the midst of the objects of the science itself.
The remotest discoveries of the Chemist, the Botanist, or Mineralogist,
will be as proper objects of the Poet’s art as any upon which it can be
employed, if the time should ever come when these things shall be
familiar to us, and the relations under which they are contemplated by
the followers of these respective sciences shall be manifestly and
palpably material to us as enjoying and suffering beings. If the time
should ever come when what is now called science, thus familiarized to
men, shall be ready to put on, as it were, a form of flesh and blood, the
Poet will lend his divine spirit to aid the transfiguration, and will
welcome the Being thus produced, as a dear and genuine inmate of the
household of man.—It is not, then, to be supposed that any one, who
holds that sublime notion of Poetry which I have attempted to convey,
will break in upon the sanctity and truth of his pictures by transitory and
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accidental ornaments, and endeavour to excite admiration of himself by
arts, the necessity of which must manifestly depend upon the assumed
meanness of his subject.
What has been thus far said applies to Poetry in general; but
especially to those parts of composition where the Poet speaks through
the mouths of his characters; and upon this point it appears to authorize
the conclusion that there are few persons of good sense, who would not
allow that the dramatic parts of composition are defective, in proportion
as they deviate from the real language of nature, and are coloured by a
diction of the Poet’s own, either peculiar to him as an individual Poet or
belonging simply to Poets in general; to a body of men who, from the
circumstance of their compositions being in metre, it is expected will
employ a particular language.
It is not, then, in the dramatic parts of composition that we look for
this distinction of language; but still it may be proper and necessary
where the Poet speaks to us in his own person and character. To this I
answer by referring the Reader to the description before given of a Poet.
Among the qualities there enumerated as principally conducing to form a
Poet, is implied nothing differing in kind from other men, but only in
degree. The sum of what was said is, that the Poet is chiefly
distinguished from other men by a greater promptness to think and feel
without immediate external excitement, and a greater power in
expressing such thoughts and feelings as are produced in him in that
manner. But these passions and thoughts and feelings are the general
passions and thoughts and feelings of men. and with what are they
connected? Undoubtedly with our moral sentiments and animal
sensations, and with the causes which excite these; with the operations of
the elements, and the appearances of the visible universe; with storm and
sunshine, with the revolutions of the seasons, with cold and heat, with
loss of friends and kindred, with injuries and resentments, gratitude and
hope, with fear and sorrow. These, and the like, are the sensations and
objects which the Poet describes, as they are the sensations of other men,
and the objects which interest them. The Poet thinks and feels in the spirit
of human passions. How, then, can his language differ in any material
degree from that of all other men who feel vividly and see clearly? It
might be proved that it is impossible. But supposing that this were not the
case, the Poet might then be allowed to use a peculiar language when
expressing his feelings for his own gratification, or that of men like
himself. But Poets do not write for Poets alone, but for men. Unless
therefore we are advocates for that admiration which subsists upon
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ignorance, and that pleasure which arises from hearing what we do not
understand, the Poet must descend from this supposed height; and, in
order to excite rational sympathy, he must express himself as other men
express themselves….
I have said that poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful
feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquillity: the
emotion is contemplated till, by a species of reaction, the tranquillity
gradually disappears, and an emotion, kindred to that which was before
the subject of contemplation, is gradually produced, and does itself
actually exist in the mind. In this mood successful composition generally
begins, and in a mood similar to this it is carried on; but the emotion, of
whatever kind, and in whatever degree, from various causes, is qualified
by various pleasures, 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
overbalance 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….
Nothing would, I know, have so effectually contributed to further
the end which I have in view, as to have shown of what kind the pleasure
is, and how that pleasure is produced, which is confessedly produced by
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metrical composition essentially different from that which I have here
endeavoured to recommend: for the Reader will say that he has been
pleased by such composition; and what more can be done for him? The
power of any art is limited; and he will suspect, that, if it be proposed to
furnish him with new friends, that can be only upon condition of his
abandoning his old friends. Besides, as I have said, the Reader is himself
conscious of the pleasure which he has received from such composition,
composition to which he has peculiarly attached the endearing name of
Poetry; and all men feel an habitual gratitude, and something of an
honourable bigotry, for the objects which have long continued to please
them: we not only wish to be pleased, but to be pleased in that particular
way in which we have been accustomed to be pleased. There is in these
feelings enough to resist a host of arguments; and I should be the less
able to combat them successfully, as I am willing to allow, that, in order
entirely to enjoy the Poetry which I am recommending, it would be
necessary to give up much of what is ordinarily enjoyed. But, would my
limits have permitted me to point out how this pleasure is produced,
many obstacles might have been removed, and the Reader assisted in
perceiving that the powers of language are not so limited as he may
suppose; and that it is possible for poetry to give other enjoyments, of a
purer, more lasting, and more exquisite nature. This part of the subject
has not been altogether neglected, but it has not been so much my
present aim to prove, that the interest excited by some other kinds of
poetry is less vivid, and less 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.