judged or overrated his ability, who believed in the message he had to give, and the manner in which he should give it, a man who shut himself away from men and things in order to commune with Nature, a man who knew his power and worth, yet resisted the world's enticing offers to those who would conform to the spirit of the age. In regard to his own future, Wordsworth was a confirmed optimist; neither the malevolent attacks of critics nor the cold indifference of the public could damp his ardor or shake his belief in himself. If others complained of the treatment the world meted out to Wordsworth, as did Coleridge, De Quincey, and Wilson, the sufferer implored them not to worry, and went his way with a stoical indifference. If ever any man realized the audience of which Milton spoke, it was Wordsworth, for he "fit audience found, though few," and yet the poet continued his work confident that the day would come when his abilities would be recognized. In a letter written to Lady Beaumont, in 1807, the beginning of a period in which the real Wordsworth emerged from the prisonhouse of theory to that philosophic freedom which characterized his best works he appeared to have no doubt as to his mission, and though one poet had declared that the evil men do lives after them, Wordsworth assured himself that the statement was equally applicable to the good. "Trouble not yourself about this present reception; of what moment is that compared with what I trust is their destiny? To console the afflicted; to add sunshine to daylight, by making the happy happier; to teach the young and the gracious of every age to see, to think, and feel, and, therefore, to become more actively and severely virtuous-this is their office, which I trust they will faithfully perform, long after we (that is, all that is mortal of us) are mouldered in our But Wordsworth had more than strength of mind, he had patience in a degree remarkable for one so confident of his powers. One observes in the work of other poets the canker of the heart caused by the world's indifference to their merit. Yet in Wordsworth we are seldom shown the deep emotions of his breast, such emotions as Byron delighted in holding up to the public gaze. We hear nothing of the melancholy death-wail that moaned beneath Keats's eulogies of Beauty, and Nature seldom inspired Wordsworth with those dreams of airy nothings and realms of fancy which were the outcome of Shelley's fantastic mind. Nature, to Wordsworth, stood not as a foundation on which to build hopes of a better and happier sphere, but rather as an embodied Presence demonstrating God's goodness to man. He interpreted Nature's indifference to the tumultous changes of humanity as a striking lesson of Peace and Duty, a lesson repeated to generation after generation, and it was in the tranquillity of Nature that the poet could hear the still small voice of God, for "He had felt the power Of Nature, and already was prepared, By his intense conceptions, to receive Deeply the lesson of love which he, Whom Nature, by whatever means, has taught To feel intensely, cannot but receive!" To Wordsworth, Nature was, indeed, a book full of revelations of God. De Quincey tells us that the poet's library had only about three hundred volumes, and one can plainly observe in his poetry that he had not had the corners rubbed off by reading; but notwithstanding the narrowness of his culture, his readers are given the portrait of a man of rugged honesty untouched by convention. Nature was to Wordsworth an ever-changing book, and, "Thus informed, He had small need of books; for many hung, And many a legend, peopling the dark woods, natural philosophy one may really round the mountains Byron, and Shelley, by reason of the Nourished imagination in her growth, And gave the mind that apprehensive power, By which she is made quick to recognize The moral properties. and scope of things." It is this that places him high among the poets of the nation. Nature as a theme for poetry was nothing new. The romantic School had worked on the subject until it was threadbare. Thomson's Seasons and Keats's Endymion are mainly concerned with scenic description, but it is a description of an entirely different order from Wordsworth's. The Nature school, prior to Wordsworth, was one of elaborate ornamentation, it represented an attempt to paint the lily and outscent the rose, the result being that the whole work was unnatural, more like a bouquet of scented artificial flowers than a simple expression of beauty. It is no wonder that Wordsworth's work was passed unheeded by a public accustomed to the rich narcotics and the showy descriptions of previous Nature poets. The love of Nature is evident in the work of nearly all the poets from Chaucer and Spenser downwards; but until the advent of Wordsworth there had not been one poet who ever dared to treat of Nature through the medium of simple language. He owes his greatness, however, to more than mere descriptive powers; he was the first to extract from Nature a philosophy-a To Shelley Nature was a thing of intoxicating delight, a thing such as dreams are made of, the raison d'être of an ethereal aspiration that had no real counterpart in either heaven or earth. He never found consolation or peace; he more often saw the underlying pathos; and never thought of beauty except as associated with decay. The last line of his Ode to the West Wind "O, wind! If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?" is characteristic of his intense yearning for an everlasting Spring. Keats's interpretation of Nature is one of unlimited joy, but he never deduces any moral or precept; he is content to bathe in the beauty of it all, to turn from the world and himself, and to fade far away, the weariness, the fever, and the fret quite forgotten. It is a state of languor that kills action; it is a state of voluptuous ease akin to that of the lotus-eaters; the heavy scents and gorgeous tints overpower one. It is Wordsworth alone who sees Nature in her truest and best sense. To him she is the Personification of embodied Thought, a thought which precedes action. We do not, as with other poets, grow faint beneath a sirocco which suffocates, we catch from his lines the invigorating breeze of the mountain tops, and it is in the purity and solitude of Nature that one learns the best philosophy "And hark how blithe the throstle sings; He, too, is no mean preacher; Come forth into the light of thingsLet Nature be your teacher. One impulse of a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good Than all the sages can!" It is not surprising that an attempt was made to attach Wordsworth to some particular school of religious thought. The stanzas quoted above were used by Clarkson, in his portraiture of Quakerism, to prove that Wordsworth was a Quaker! Since that time there has raged an endless controversy concerning Wordsworth's beliefs, and each party claims to have discovered some passages in his poetry indicating the religious trend of the poet's mind. The reason why the arguments of all parties concerned have more or less foundation is that Wordsworth believed, not in any sect, but in the principle from which they all sprang. was a transcendentalist, but of the most practical kind. His speculation is high, but never nebulous, and that is why he daily grows in favor with a public wearied with hazy speculation and ignorant conjectures. He Wordsworth, like Aristotle, was a firm believer in the cos-Eternal Energy, Ultimate Principle, or Godand he combined with it a vein of Platonic thought, so that his philosophy was founded on Nature, as representing the eternal Presence, and Man, as the object of Divine instruction. This theism underlies everything that Wordsworth wrote, and he felt it to be "A Motion and a Spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thoughts, And rolls through all things." The poet conceived the soul to be, not a mere tabula rasa on which to record transitory emotions, but only as one state in the Divine plan; he believed in the soul's pre-existence, and also in its immortality: "The soul that rises with us, our life's star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, Not in entire forgetfulness, come From God, who is our home." It is in his religious philosophy that Wordsworth is wonderfully modern. One must remember, in reading the poet's work, that he lived in a period of either narrow orthodox thought, or wild atheistic denunciation. Yet today, in a time of mild toleration and great liberty of thought, we find that Wordsworth is not only up-to-date, but, strange to say, in the vanguard of progressive thought. This, then, was another reason for his early unpopularity. The public of his day were divided into two opposite camps: they applauded with Byron, or believed with Butler, and so long as they were decided on which side they stood, nobody cared. This somewhat intolerant attitude of the public undoubtedly had an effect on Wordsworth. The poet, resolute in everything and devoid of that wish to please which marred the sincerity of Southey, unflinchingly proclaimed his belief, neither suppressing nor emphasizing any one of its tenets. It was hardly probable that a man possessing neither the brilliant personality of Scott, nor the power of trenchant expression of Byron, could force his way to public favor in competition with two such formidable rivals. Had Wordsworth possessed either of the gifts of the other two, it is doubtful whether he would have used them. It was with difficulty that his sister could persuade him to publish at all, and he only did so when urged by financial embarrassment. A temperament that delighted in solitude would hardly be expected to crave publicity, and his slow philosophical method would never have been highly productive under conditions of excitement like those that called forth the mature work of Byron. This being the temperament of Wordsworth, it is not to be wondered at that he loved the mountains, the lonely beauty of which inspired him with lovely thoughts: "While, with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of songs, We see into the life of things." The ever-growing love for the open air, an intelligent love that has been fostered by the reading of Jefferies, Thoreau, and others, has provided a link of association with the poetry of Wordsworth, for the latter is undoubtedly the high priest of Nature. The poet does not question what he sees around him, but stands silently drinking in the great truths presented in the ever-changing scene. Simplicity marks every description. Wordsworth so thoroughly understood the art of portraiture that he never overloaded his canvas with color, or painted the shadows too deep. A quiet harmony pervades the whole of his work, and it is this simplicity that is making him popular with a public nauseated with the gorgeous pageants of his contemporaries. The growth of a nature-lov ing public has brought into prominence one of the hidden merits of Wordsworth. Though lacking in dramatic instinct, and entirely unable to discern what was good poetry and what was not, the poet knew intimately the thing of which he wrote. He observed mankind with no less interest, as many passages from his poems prove to us. He had great hopes in early youth, and he never lost faith, though he afterwards changed his views on the methods advocated for man's regeneration. He saw through the shams that surrounded him, and his observations are very caustic: "The brawls of lawyers in their courts, Before the ermined judge, or that great stage, Where senators, tongue-favored men, perform, Admired and envied." He knew also the price of many men's success in "That voluptuous life, Unfeeling, where the man who is of soul The meanest, thrives the most." By observing Nature he came to a profound belief in the survival of nobility, and, despite the questionable methods adopted by the unscrupulous, he knew there existed a vein of good beneath the sordid dross. The struggle against evil must be productive of good: "For where Hope is, there Love will be." To Wordsworth was vouchsafed that far-reaching vision with which the poetic faculty is so often endowed. The reader is astonished at his close relation to the spirit of this age. Just as his theological outlook was in advance of his time, an outlook which subsequent progress has confirmed, so he foresaw the necessity and fruits of colonization: "The will, the instincts, and appointed needs Of Britain, do invite her to cast off Her swarms, and in succession send them forth; Bound to establish new communities, On every shore whose aspect favors hope Or bold adventure; promising to skill And perseverance their deserts." The last paragraph reads so much like the advertisements of Colonial agents that it is difficult to realize that Words worth wrote in a period fifty years previous to the confederation of the Canadian provinces, and fully twenty years before Botany Bay had ceased to be a convict settlement. The greatest obstacle to the popularity of Wordsworth is undoubtedly the inequality of his verse. As Matthew Arnold so truly pointed out, he suffered from too much of himself, and this prodigality of matter has been an additional drawback to his other failing— an inability to discern good poetry from bad. Matthew Arnold made an attempt to remedy these evils by publishing a volume of selections, but it cannot be said that the experiment is an entire success. To appreciate Wordsworth one has to live with him; no casual acquaintanceship will give the full benefit. A certain outlook, a certain calm philosophy is essential. His abilities vary with his experiences. Nature did not always give a scenic display, but when she did the poet rose to the occasion. There is a pathetic interest attached to Wordsworth's Evening Ode, composed on an evening of extraordinary splendor and beauty. The sunset presented one of those rare and wonderful spectacles which occur once or twice in a lifetime, a spectacle in which Heaven blends with Earth in an enchanting illusion. It was the last of its kind that Wordsworth ever witnessed, though he lived for many years after, and it was also the last occasion on which his muse rose to the sublime height of genius. Had he but known, it was the last spirited effort of his life. Nothing he afterwards wrote approached the heights of this outburst-the words, the metre-they were there but the spirit, the divine afflatus, had fled. The Contemporary Review. After the lapse of many years Wordsworth not only retains his charm, but also has rooted himself deeper into our existence, for to the six excellences of his poetry, enumerated by Coleridge, one must now add a seventh, that of voicing the spirit of the age. He stands as the High Priest of Nature, and in this Nature-loving age his office is an important one. He is the poet who waited, and not in vain, for to-day his audience is a large and ever-widening one, and his popularity is likely to be permanent. He does not depend on novel situations or sounding rhetoric, but is loved for his simple utterance of simple truths. Other poets have pleasing rhythm, rich imagination, or a felicity of diction. He possesses an asset of permanent worth-thought; and hence he satisfies when we are tired with others. He does not offer the rich wines, but the clear spring water. He was a poet whose school was the "fields, the roads, and rural lanes." He was most truly described as one who uttered nothing base. This, indeed, was true praise, for if any man lived out the teaching of Keats's line, "Beauty is Truth, Truth Beauty," it was Wordsworth, and it is because of this truth, taught by his life and works, that he is most surely in the ascendant of popular estimate. Vivit post funera virtus. E. Cecil Roberts. |