is to observe the welcome which Jeffrey gave him— "The case of Mr Wordsworth, we perceive, is now manifestly hopeless; and we give him up as altogether incurable, and beyond the power of criticism. We cannot, indeed, altogether omit taking precautions now and then against the spreading of the malady; but, for himself, though we shall watch the progress of his symptoms as a matter of professional curiosity and instruction, we really think it right not to harass him any longer with nauseous remedies; but rather to throw in cordials and lenitives, and wait in patience for the natural termination of the disorder." If these are the critic's "cordials,' what would have been his "nauseous In the next paragraph, remedies?" he says, "We now see clearly how the case stands; and, making up our minds, though with the most sincere pain and reluctance, to consider him finally lost to the good cause of poetry() shall endeavour to be thankful for the occasional gleams," &c. And what is remarkable, the censure becomes less mitigated, grows more abusive, in proportion as the critic has had time for reflection and re-perusal. In the subsequent year, on the publication of the White Doe of Rylstone, the attack is renewed, with a species of virulence that borders on downright vulgarity. He speaks of the strange extravagances into which people may run, when under the influence of that intoxication which is produced by unrestrained admiration of themselves;" and then draws a parallel, by no means skilfully sustained, between this species of intoxication and that which is generally known by the name :— "This poetical intoxication, to pursue the figure a little further, seems capable of assuming as many forms as the vulgar one which arises from wine; and it appears to require as delicate a management to make a man a good poet by the help of the one, as to make him a good companion by means of the other. In both cases, a little mistake as to the dose or the quality of the inspiring fluid, may make him absolutely outrageous, or lull him over into the most profound stupidity, instead of brightening up the hidden stores of his genius; and truly, we are concerned to say that Mr Wordsworth seems hitherto to have been unlucky in the choice of his liquor-or of his bottleholder. In some of his odes and ethic exhortations, he was exposed to the public in a state of incoherent rapture and glorious delirium, to which we think we have seen a parallel among the humbler lovers of jollity. In the Lyrical Ballads he was exhibited, on the whole, in a vein of very pretty deliration; but in the poem before us, he appears in a state of low and maudlin imbecility, which would not have misbecome Master Silence himself, on the close of a social day. Whether this unhappy result is to be ascribed to any adulteration of his Castalian cups, or to the unlucky choice of his company over them, we cannot presume to say. It may be that he has dashed his Hippocrene with too large an infusion of lake water," &c. Which last ingredient would at least restore, one should think, the sobriety of the patient. After this, and the like attacks, it will never do to point to some pages of commended extracts, as a proof that justice was done to the poet, or as a vindication of the reputation of the critic. The reviewer employed the whole force of his pen, and exercised his critical ingenuity entirely upon the faults of the author of the Excursion. He even made elaborate attempts to bring into ridicule a writer whose contributions to English poetry are, at this moment, more prized by the refined and cultivated classes of the community than those of any other poet since the days of Milton. Nor can we pass from the subject without noticing the extraordinary manner in which critical censure is here expressed. To us, it is incomprehensible how any man could have fallen into such a style— importing, to say the least, so strange a conception of the relationship between critic and poet. "The case of Mr Wordsworth is hopeless-we give him up as incurable." Do critics profess to cure? The critic, as we understand the matter, exercises a not unuseful function in the republic of letters: he assists to preserve, if he does not raise, the standard of taste. But, like all other writers, he makes his appeal to the public; he acts on the public opinion; and indirectly influences the future writer by preparing for him a watchful and enlightened audience. But he exercises no police -medical or otherwise-over authors. He is not responsible for their individual conduct; he has no criminal jurisdiction over them; he is not the pedagogue of poets, who is to chastise them if they break bounds, or play truant. He and the poet both go before the public. Did the Reviewer imagine that it was in his power, or part of his duty, to cure or to reform every errant genius that was brought before him? If so, he must be about as mad, and about as incurable himself, as that sage in Rasselas, who fancied that he had the command of the wind and the clouds, and that on him had devolved the responsibility of preserving the due succession of rain and fine weather of cloud and sunshine. A book comes before the reviewer; it may possibly be the biography of a late contemporary: he pronounces it to be eminently ill-written; some sterling good qualities it may manifest, but as a piece of literary workmanship it is singularly bad. He states this. Does he imagine that the biographer will thank him, or will listen to him, or will study to improve? Not at all. The biographer retorts upon the critic; and, if he writes a second book, will assuredly repeat all the faults of the first in an exaggerated form. But the public, or such portion of it as have perused the criticism, will read the second biography with more attention than they read the first. Then and there come into operation whatever salutary truth the reviewer may have divulged upon the matter. Let us now observe the critical sentences passed by Jeffrey upon some other poets. Perhaps, whilst doing this, we shall have also an opportunity of glancing back with advantage upon his reviews of Wordsworth. It almost amounts to a peculiarity in the manner of our author-it is at least the frequent habit of his mindthat his ideas are kindled and suggested by contrast and opposition, not by similitude, or in harmony with the subject before him. Bring him in the presence of a Grecian temple, and he would discourse most fluently on the complicated beauties, and the greater solemnity, of the Gothic cathedral; if a Turkish mosque were in view, with its glittering minarets, and its swelling dome, he would then become eloquent on the chaste simplicity of the Grecian portico. When he criticises Byron, he complains that all his works are in reality but one work, and that one work has but one character-his own. And therefore he launches into praise on the dramatic versatility of Shakspeare. The author of Lalla Rookh comes before him, the poet of the East, of splendour, of magnificence, of strong emotion, of romantic adventure, and he laments "the want of plainness, simplicity, and repose." His eyes are dazzled by the brilliancy. It is very good poetry, but there is too much of it. "No work, consisting of many pages, should have detached and distinguishable beauties in every one of them. No great work, indeed, should have many beauties: if it were perfect, it would have but one; and that but faintly perceptible, except on a view of the whole. Look, for example, at what is perhaps the most finished and exquisite production of human art-the design and elevation of a Grecian temple," &c. one beauty of which he speaks here must mean, we presume, the harmony of many beauties, and is not incompatible even with an exuberant fancy. The same Shakspeare, whom he quotes as an instance of dramatic versatility, he might also have cited as quite as eminent an example of the richness and abundance of a poetical imagination. When he reviews the poet of our English lakes and mountains, and of solitary meditation, he enlarges on the intellectual advantages of a metropolitan society. When he criticises Burns, he takes the opportunity to read a lecture on gentility!-on the manner in which well-bred gentlemen express, or rather conceal, their passions, whether of love, or of independence. That The author of Lalla Rookh, though he might have been surprised to find his poem giving rise to exactly that train of reflection which the critic took occasion to express, had reason to congratulate himself on the leniency with which he was treated. Justice, and, as we think, not more than justice, was meeted out to this brilliant production. We have great pleasure in quoting the following eloquent tribute of admiration; it recalls gratefully to mind both the critic and the poet. "There is not only a richness and brilliancy of diction and imagery spread over the whole work, that indicate the greatest activity and elegance of fancy in the author; but it is everywhere pervaded, still more strikingly, by a strain of tender and noble feeling, poured out with such warmth and abundance as to steal insensibly on the heart of the reader, and gradually to overflow it with a tide of sympathetic emotion. There are passages, indeed, and these neither few nor brief, over which the very Genius of Poetry seems to have breathed his richest enchantmentwhere the melody of the verse and the beauty of the images conspire so harmoni self-scrutinising discontent which is expressed, and boldly appealed to, as the concealed inmate of every bosom. In dealing with the mere merit of the verse, he seems to have been often borne along by the tide of public applause. At all events, there are here and there extracts quoted with great commendation, which some future Jeffrey may probably point out as illustrative of anything but poetic excellence, as illustrating mainly how the contemporary critic, like the simplest reader, may be carried away by the popular enthusiasm. It is another peculiarity of our author's manner, to take a circuitsometimes of two or three sentences, sometimes of two or three paragraphs ously with the force and tenderness of in which he contrives to express a the emotion, that the whole is blended into one deep and bright stream of sweetness and of feeling, along which the spirit of the reader is borne passively away, through long reaches of delight. Moore's poetry, indeed, where his hap piest vein is opened, realises more exactly than that of any other writer, the splendid account which is given by Comus, of the song of Mr His mother Circe, and the Sirens three, And lap it in Elysium!' And, though it is certainly to be regretted that he should so often have broken the measure with more frivolous strains, or filled up its intervals with a sort of brilliant falsetto, it should never be forgotten that his excellences are at least as peculiar to himself as his faults, and, on the whole, perhaps, more characteristic of his genius." That closing sentence can scarcely be disputed; the excellences of a writer must be more characteristic of his genius than his faults; there was little occasion here for the insertion of his too favourite "perhaps." In his several reviews of Lord Byron's poetry, he makes many remarks which will be always recognised as just and pertinent; but he does not appear to have entered into any earnest investigation of that which constituted its real force and potency-that deep, variety of different or conflicting ideas, leaving the reader to reconcile them how he best may. This manner of writing gives his own mind a pleasant exercise; and, for a careless reader-and most readers are careless-fills the page very agreeably. It saves, too, the trouble of very accurate decision; if one observation is erroneous, or extravagantly expressed, it is neutralised by some other observation;-there is black and white thrown before you on the palette, mix them to your own pleasure; you cannot complain that there is withheld from you any one reasonable view of the case. We do not know whether our space will allow us to give any specimen of the larger circuit, composed of paragraphs, but the smaller will come unavoidably in our way. There is no violent opposition, be it remembered, in the parts; you glide from one point to the other, and find at length you must choose a position for yourself, if you are anxious to maintain one. Of the sentiments of Byron, he says: "There are some which we must ever think it most unfortunate to entertain, and others which it appears improper to have published; and the greater part arc admirable, and cannot but be perused with admiration, even by those to whom they may appear erroneous." *As an instance of this style, when applied to the general estimate of an author, see the commencement of the review of Hardy's Life of Lord Charlemont-" Contribu tions," vol. iv. This is said apropos of the third canto of Childe Harold, which he commences his notice of in the following circuitous manner: "In "The most considerable of these (Lord Byron's recent publications) is the third canto of Childe Harold-a work which has the disadvantage of all continuations, in admitting of little absolute novelty in the plan of the work, or the cast of its character, and must, besides, remind all Lord Byron's readers of the extraordinary effect produced by the sudden blazing forth of his genius, upon their first introduction to that title." (You think he is going to disparage, but read on.) spite of all this, however, we are persuaded that this third part of the poem will not be pronounced inferior to either of the former, and, we think, will probably be ranked above them by those who have been most delighted with the whole. The great success of this singular production, indeed, has always appeared to us an extraordinary proof of its merits; for, with all its genius, it does not belong to a sort of poetry that rises easily to popularity. It has no story, or action-very little variety of character-and a great deal of reasoning and reflection of no very attractive tenor." Take what view you will of the third canto of Childe Harold, the critic has been before you here is praise of all shades; nevertheless, he has pledged himself as little as possible to any decided opinion. In the same paper he reviews Parisina, and here occurs one of those instances to which we have alluded, where the critic seems to have been carried along by the tide of popular applause. Any doubt or hesitation he might have had is fairly overborne by the enthusiasm out of doors; and he extols to the utmost verses which, we may safely say, will never again be quoted for especial admiration. The extract we refer to he ushers in with the following note of quite triumphant applause : "The grand part of this poem, however, is that which describes the execu tion of the rival son; and in which, though there is no pomp, either of lan guage or of sentiment, and everything, on the contrary, is conceived and expressed with studied simplicity and directness, there is a spirit of pathos and poetry to which it would not be easy to find many parallels." This all but unparalleled passage we would very willingly quote entire; but we must content ourselves with a considerable and consecutive portion of it. Assuredly, if Lord Byron had not written better verses than these, the critic would not have found them so faultless: "It is a lovely hour as yet He bends to hear his accents bless And the rings of chestnut hair Curled half down his neck so bare; "The parting prayers are said and over Well, the critic who, in reviewing Moore, calls for "homeliness," who complains that, "though his ornaments are, for the most part, truly and exquisitely beautiful," yet there is, in fact, "too much ornament," and laments the absence of unity of impression-has not a word to throw away-not one single word-in favour of the White Doe of Rylstone, which, whatever faults it possesses, has this charm of simplicity, and has produced on most of its readers a very pleasing and a cherished impression. Still more, the critic who, in reviewing Byron, can quote the lines specimens of composition, of “studied we have just extracted as finished simplicity and directness" of " pathos and of poetry," can also quote as tame, and flat, and ridiculous, these following lines from the White Doe of Rylstone! Francis Norton also is going to certain death-he has nothing to sustain him but his Christian fortitude. He thus takes leave of his sister: "Hope nothing, if I thus may speak, To thee a woman, and thence weak ; Wordsworth seems to have been the "triteness of the incident or the singularly deficient in the inventive lowness of the object;" the critic or constructive faculty of the artist: must have been speaking under the this, we think, rather than any per- influence of annoyances of this kind verse theory upon the subject, was received from other works of the the real cause of the blunder he has same poet. It is quite plain that he made, both here and on some other does not read with an unbiassed occasions. As some palliation for mind, open to genuine impressions. the absurdity of ascribing his own The circumstances of the story here thoughts to this wandering Pedlar, are such as perfectly harmonise with we may remark that the poem is so the sentiments expressed, and the symessentially didactic that, throughout, pathy we are called upon to feel; and we seldom think of any other speaker that sympathy, and the whole pathos than the poet himself. When the of the story, are such as appeal to Pedlar describes his own mode of life every human heart. The same critic or former avocation, we must, of finds no repugnance in the triteness course, recognise him for what he or lowness of the objects when he proclaims himself to be. But the reviews the tales of Crabbe; and moment he launches upon his great there is quite as little room for any and favourite topics, it is Words- such repugnance in this account of the worth only that we hear. The inconunprosperous weaver and the deserted gruity between the imaginary speaker, wife. Here lies the great offence, or and the discourse he delivers, is lost the great oversight, which the Resight of, in a manner not very flatterviewer has committed. A poem came ing perhaps to the art of the poet, before him containing passages of for we forget the speaker entirely, higher excellence than any other on and attend only to the discourse. which he was called upon to exercise The real plot of the Excursion is his critical function — higher, or at -Wordsworth musing amongst his least as high, as any modern work mountains. But as these musings can boast of; it is remarkable also would take place at different times, (as most works of original genius are) and bear different shades of opinion for as glaring faults;-he is not altoand sentiment, some machinery was gether obtuse to the merits, but he necessary to put them together, so fastens on the defects, and exercises that they might be read consecutively. all his wit and ingenuity upon them. If what there is of narrative in the "The Fourth Book (of the Excurpiece will accomplish this, it is well- sion) is also filled," he says, " with it is all that is asked of it. dialogues ethical and theological; and, with the exception of some brilliant and forcible expressions here and there, consists of an exposition of truisms, more cloudly, wordy, and inconceivably prolix, than anything we ever met with." We do not envy that spirit of ridicule which could have enumerated amongst the dramatis persona thus sarcastically sketched, "the wife of an unprosperous weaver." Nor is it possible that Jeffrey could be altogether blind to the beauty and tenderness displayed in the story of the deserted wife. It is, however, a very cold and stinted praise that he afterwards awards to it. "We must say, that there is very considerable pathos in the telling of this simple story; and that they who can get over the repugnance excited by the triteness of its incidents, and by the lowness of its objects, will not fail to be struck with the knowledge of the human heart, and the power he possesses of stirring up its deepest and gentlest sympathies." Now, the most fastidious of readers cannot be annoyed here by "With the exception of some brilliant and forcible expressions here and there!" And this Fourth Book contains that description of the earlier religions of the world, which might be safely pointed out as the finest passage of purely reflective poetry in the volume! Indeed, the whole passage, consisting of many consecutive pages, might be quoted as the perfection of this species of poetry. Every reader of Wordsworth is now as familiar with it, as every reader of Shakspeare with the soliloquy of Hamlet, or the moralising of Jacques. Yet he can characterise the whole of this Fourth |
