teaching concerning corporeal Reality is that there is a world of things, but that this world is not dead or inert, but alive with Spirit. He does not determine the ultimate metaphysical relation of things to this Spirit more than to say that it is their impelling Power. But if he does not deal definitely and ultimately with the relations of so-called matter to Spirit, it is because here he is primarily the poet and not the systematic philosopher. He is not reasoning about Reality, but recording a vision of it. Indeed, in the poetry of Nature considered thus far, he is really not a philosopher at all. He is a poeta poet with mystical insight. He has a vision born of mystical feeling, in which he apprehends a Spirit, or a Presence, which is neither things nor finite minds, but dwells in them. This Presence is A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, He is giving utterance to a refined Theistic view of God, things, and finite minds, rather than to either a Pantheistic or an Idealistic view. And if his intuition of the relations of this Spirit to things and minds does not completely satisfy, it is hardly, in the final analysis, less satisfactory than the conclusions of Philosophy. At least it does not involve the difficulties inherent in Pantheismthe cancellation of the reality of the finite, and of personality in both God and Man. And yet it preserves to us the satisfying truth of the Divine immanence in the world, which constitutes the main strength of Pantheism. And how immeasurably superior is the Poet's teaching to that crude, unphilosophic, unpoetic, Deistic doctrine of God's relation to the world which obtained in the age preceding, which despiritualized Nature and robbed the world of God's presence, conceiving of him as afar off a Creator who, having made his world, withdrew from it, and from his transcendent throne looks down upon a huge machine, running like a wound-up clock, and, as Carlyle remarks, "sees it go!" 1 Lines composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey, 100–102. This poem embodies Wordsworth's prevailing conception of Nature. There is no conception here of individual things possessing souls. It is the Universal Soul that is present in things. The Spiritual unity of Nature is preserved. This is very apparent in the words: Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air, All thinking things, all objects of all thought, Pursuing the analysis of the poem still further, we find that Wordsworth continues to speak of Nature and of her relations to Man. Turning in thought to his sister, to pay her a kindly tribute, he again gives expression to his regard for Nature. She is the faithful friend of Man, and ministers to his need. Her loyalty can never be impeached. She has never been found guilty of treason to the heart that loves her. She so ministers to the mind through her beauty, through the knowledge she imparts, and the thoughts she inspires, through her solaces and joys, that all the evil men can do, and all the dullness and "dreary intercourse of daily life," can neither overcome us, nor disturb our faith in a beneficent order of things. And this prayer I make, Knowing that Nature never did betray The heart that loved her; 't is her privilege, Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb 1 Lines composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey, 97–102. 2 Ibid., 121-134. There are in these lines, either by implication or by explicit statement, essentially all of the dominant Wordsworthian conceptions concerning Nature and her relation to Man contained in the poems already considered, but in a more pronounced form. Here is a creed full of moral and spiritual elevation, and Wordsworth seems to believe it with his whole mind and heart. He smites the hard rock in the wilderness of human life, and from it flows a veritable stream of living water, full of healing for human souls. Nowhere in literature can be found a more refined Spiritualism, and a more indomitable Optimism, than is here expressed. Wordsworth closes this immortal poem with a confession that he had long worshiped at Nature's shrine, and that he came to the banks of the Wye "unwearied in that service," nay, even with a warmer affection for his divine Mistress a "far deeper zeal of holier love." So that the "beauteous forms" which greet his eye and minister to his spirit, as he stands near these waters that roll "from their mountain-springs with a soft inland murmur," are more dear to him than heretofore. Of the poems which constitute the first edition of the " "Lyrical Ballads," this one, so peculiarly characteristic of Wordsworth's poetic genius and faith, was doubtless the last composed. It was written in July, 1798, and is a fitting close to a period of gradual mental and spiritual restoration, in which his former faith in, and love for, both Man and Nature were not only restored but also strengthened and enriched. He has recovered completely from his "moral disease," and has emerged from the trying ordeal, a better self, chastened and subdued, and "with a stronger faith his own." It is a fitting close, also, to a period in which his faith gradually took form — in which it became articulate, and crystallized into a kind of "substance of doctrine," a creed affirming the essential goodness of Man, and the spiritual nature of things; that resolves the Universe into a spiritual kingdom, wherein Love is law, and "all which we behold is full of blessing"; a creed that bridges the chasm between Nature and Man, bringing them together into closest relations, in which the function of the former is to minister to the intellectual, æsthetic, and moral needs of the latter, feeding his soul with truth, beauty, and goodness, fortifying him against all evil, and enabling him to bear the "burthen of the mystery"-"the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world." In conclusion it may be said that, whatever be the final verdict in regard to the literary merit of the "Lyrical Ballads,"1 no one can successfully deny that they represent a noble ethical aim, a lofty conception of the poet's function, a decided growth in mental and spiritual power, a profound love for, and deep insight into, the heart both of Nature and of Man, and a sublime poetical and, in a sense, philosophical faith, that breathes inspiration, hope, and love in such large measure, and with such deep earnestness, that it cannot fail to prove a moral and spiritual tonic to every thoughtful soul who drinks in the simple melody of these songs, and reflects seriously upon their wholesome content. 1 Cf. especially Francis Jeffrey, Poems, in Two Volumes, The Edinburgh Review, IX, 1807-1808; and Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Biographia Literaria, xiv, xvii, xviii, xx, and xxii, New York, 1884. CHAPTER IX GERMANY AND RETURN. POETRY OF NATURE On September 16, 1798, Wordsworth, Dorothy, and Coleridge left England for Germany. Coleridge left the Wordsworths at Hamburg, going to Ratzeburg, and thence to Göttingen. The Wordsworths went to Goslar, where they remained until February 10. The Poet was not idle here, and these winter months witness the production of a goodly number of poems, all of which bear the usual marks concerning Nature. His principal conceptions and beliefs are constantly in evidence. Following a chronological order, we first meet with the poem "There was a Boy," which is an "extract," as Wordsworth called it later, from "The Prelude." It was composed in 1798 and published in 1800 as a separate poem. Later, however, it took its place in the autobiographical work. In his Preface to the edition of 1815 Wordsworth refers to it in a manner which evinces at once its personal character, and also throws light on the development of his imagination under the influence of Nature. "In the series of Poems placed under the head of Imagination," he says, "I have begun with one of the earliest processes of Nature in the development of this faculty. Guided by one of my own primary consciousnesses, I have represented a commutation and transfer of internal feelings, coöperating with external accidents to plant, for immortality, conjoined impressions of sound and sight in the celestial soil of the Imagination." And then, referring to this poem, which tells of a boy of his acquaintance who, with the palms of his hands pressed together, used "to blow mimic hootings to the silent owls," he adds: "The Boy, there introduced, is 1 Prose Works, edited by Knight, II, 215-216. |