A Commentary on Wordsworth's Prelude

Books I-V

Ted Holt, John Gilroy

• Publisher: Taylor & Francis
• Year: 2016
• Print ISBN: 9781138670037
• eBook ISBN: 9781317209102
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: English Literary Criticism
• Index: Literature

First published in 1983, this books aims to guide Wordsworth students through his difficult masterpiece by reading it in continuous sequence and making its sense emerge. The special value of this commentary is that it explains the structure of The Prelude by encouraging study of the poem as a continuous whole rather than selectively looking at individual sections — an approach that has typified modern criticism of the work. This depends upon a close attention to the careful arrangement of the verse paragraphs, all of which make an indispensable contribution to the overall thought pattern, thus leading to a fuller appreciation and understanding of the poem.

Book I

10.4324/9781315617824-2

Lines 1–32

The poem opens with a deep sigh of release. The peaceful liberating influence of the ‘gentle breeze’ (1) is introduced by Wordsworth's own expending breath. The breeze is synonymous with freedom and blows from ‘the green fields and from the clouds/And from the sky’ (2–3). There is an immediate opening out in terms of both height and breadth (‘fields … clouds … sky’), which conveys the exhilaration of having no direction and being totally free. The Poet feels a sympathy with the breeze because it is as homeless and as liberated as himself. It is as though it answers his mood, ‘seems half conscious of the joy it gives’ (4), leading on to his excited recognition, ‘O welcome messenger! O welcome friend!’ (5). Set against this ecstatic mood of peace and gentleness is the harsh and punitive concept of the city as ‘prison’ (8) where he has been a ‘captive’ (6). Words which express restriction, ‘bondage’, ‘walls’ (7), ‘immured’ (8), are placed against notions of absolute freedom. He emerges, like the prisoners in Fidelio, from captivity – ‘Now I am free, enfranchised and at large’ (9). Enfranchised was a word used particularly in connection with freed slaves, and ‘house/Of bondage’ (6–7) reminds us specifically of the Israelites led by Moses out of slavery in Egypt (‘I am the Lord thy God, which have brought thee out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage.’ Exodus 20:2). Potentially enclosing words in the rhetorical questions which follow, ‘dwelling’, ‘vale’ (11), ‘harbour’ (12), are lightly passed over, while the unanswered questions themselves create a sense of numerous possibilities left intact. The commitment involved by making a single choice is excluded.

Although he echoes Paradise Lost in ‘The earth is all before me’ (15), Wordsworth undermines Milton's implicit suggestion that Adam and Eve faced expulsion from the protection of Paradise with trepidation, ‘The world was all before them, where to choose …’ Paradise Lost xii: 646). Instead of being ‘scared’ at liberty (16), Wordsworth welcomes the wilderness. The choice of a ‘wandering cloud’ (18) as guide is appropriate, first of all in that its dissolving form is part of a progressive dissolution of limits from the beginning to the end of the paragraph. Breeze, field, cloud, sky and water contrast with the severe geometry of the city walls (7). More specifically, though, the Exodus theme is continued in the image of God in the pillar of cloud that went before the tribes of Israel in their journey through the desert to the Promised Land (Exodus, 13, 21) – ‘should the guide I chuse/Be nothing better than a wandering cloud/I cannot miss my way’ (17–19). Wordsworth's journey, too, is conceived in terms of moving towards a paradise, so that we can detect from the outset his sense of being especially visited and guided. The ‘gentle breeze’ as ‘messenger’ and ‘friend’ recalls the Holy Spirit which took the form of a wind from heaven (Acts 2:2), while the shaking off of his burden ‘As by miraculous gift’ (22) recalls how the chains of the imprisoned St Peter ‘fell off from his hands’ when the angel appeared (Acts 12: 6–7).

‘I breathe again’ (19) reintroduces the notion of unbridled freedom. The first ‘word’ of the paragraph, ‘Oh’, is itself an opening out, a breath, or non-verbal expression of feeling. It is a revolutionary way to begin an epic poem. The Prelude will constantly revaluate the function of words in this way. In Book III the Poet implies that his whole attempt at writing the poem is no more than to make ‘Breathings for incommunicable powers’ (III: 188). His entire mental state reflects the free upward movement from fields to sky, ‘mountings of the mind’ (20), in contrast with the downward depression of ‘The heavy weight of many a weary day’ (24). No intellectual effort breaks his almost existential state (‘Trances of thought’ (20)). The delightful prospect of ‘Long months of ease and undisturbed delight’ (28) leads him to pose further open questions (29–32). Now, the definite line of ‘road or pathway’ blurs into ‘open field’ (30) and finally into the capricious river-currents (31–2) which will point out a course which is without direction.

Lines 33–54

The mood changes here as we move from directionless freedom to ‘chosen tasks’ (34). Although these are ‘chosen tasks’ rather than obligations, ‘dedicate myself to chosen tasks’ marks a new commitment. What he hopes for now is work (‘active days’ (51)), a noble occupation (51–2), a high purpose, great achievements (53), amounting to a sanctified life (54). He does not exactly want to be a ‘settler’ (36), which has overtones of city-dwelling from which he has just escaped. He wants instead to pursue a kind of middle course (‘drink wild water … pluck green herbs’ (37)) between ‘settling’ on the one hand and ‘tiresome’ (35) lack of direction on the other. What in line 19 was felt as release, a natural breathing, now becomes a self-conscious and artful metaphor for poetic creation, an internal ‘creative breeze’ (43). The elaborate metaphor is one way in which a simple emotion is directed into conscious art. This breeze/breath metaphor is expanded into the storm images which follow. The ‘mild creative breeze’ (43) becomes a ‘tempest’ (46) so that the potential creativity he feels coming from within is excessive, ‘redundant’ (46). He has literally too much inspiration. Inspiration needs to be given a form or a channel into which it can be directed, but here it seems to elude direction, as though it threatens to destroy the few things it has made (‘Vexing its own creation’ (47)). Inspiration blowing free, then, is threatening, capricious, and wayward. We should notice, too, how the joy in the pastoral ‘green fields’ (2) becomes here, ‘prowess in an honorable field’ (52). The image has changed from a pastoral to an epic one since line 52 implies a battlefield. This transition from ease to a state of preparedness suggests that the life of verse (54) will involve strife. What form Wordsworth's work will actually take is still vague. Clearly, however, this paragraph attempts to organise the freedom of the previous one, and it is evident that his aspirations (53) will involve difficulties. The inspiration metaphor suggests that this new-found energy may actually thwart itself in its very struggle to find expression.

Lines 55–67

He now comments on the spontaneity of the previous lines, for his poetry (‘measured strains’ (57)) is more usually the product of emotion recollected in tranquillity, hence – ‘not used to make/A present joy the matter of my song’ (55–6). He had a feeling of being specially ‘singled out’ (62) for ‘holy services’ (63), and it was as though the spontaneous ‘poetic numbers’ (60) ‘clothed’ (61) his spirit in a ‘priestly robe’ (61). This image implies a kind of containment of that freedom which has been present from the beginning. The robe brings a new burden of responsibility, restraining the wayward impulse of the spirit. The last four lines (64-) take up the issue of spontaneity (55–61). It is significant that a paragraph which begins with a consideration of ‘present joy’ (56) as a source of poetry, should end by qualifying this slightly. He was ‘cheared’ by spontaneous expression – ‘My own voice’ (64), but ‘far more’ (64) by ‘the mind's/Internal echo of the imperfect sound’ (64–5). It is the mental reverberations which matter almost more than the experiences themselves (see, for example, lines 417–26). The phrase ‘Internal echo’ (65) suggests a mental depth and space.

Lines 68–94

This paragraph returns from a passionate and immediate engagement with a task to a mood more reminiscent of paragraph one. The emotions are too highly wrought to be sustained and so, ‘not unwilling’ (68), he now gives ‘A respite to this passion’ (69). There is a mood of gradual disengagement and a sinking back into relaxation. Pastoral calm succeeds excitement over epic possibilities. Like some classical shepherd he ‘came erelong/To a green shady place where down I sate/Beneath a tree’ (70–2). The disengagement was deliberate, ‘slackening my thoughts by choice’ (72), as though, having tested his capabilities, he now chose to rest up and luxuriate in a sheer contentment of mind and body. Bodily tension subsided but mental activity continued; ‘On the ground I lay/Passing through many thoughts’ (79–80). His thoughts about where he would live, what he would write, were preoccupying and brought on a mood of reverie. Meanwhile Nature's stillness encouraged this mood of relaxation, the earth became his ‘pillow’ (88), the grove of oaks his ‘bed’ (93), but it was also a ministry which nurtured him (‘soothed’, ‘balanced’ (89–90)) and finally startled him ‘else lost/Entirely’ (90–1) out of his musings.

Lines 95–115

Having already experienced the delight of inspiration he now tried to recover it, ‘my soul/Did once again make trial of the strength/Restored to her afresh’ (101–3). The paragraph deliberately recalls the first one with its unbidden delight in inspiration and its sense of freedom. Hence, ‘bidding then/A farewell to the city left behind’ (97–8), echoes ‘from yon city's walls set free’ (7); ‘Even with the chance equipment of that hour’ (99) recalls ‘ ‘tis shaken off,/That burthen of my own unnatural self (22–3). It is as though he was conscious of trying to re-create the initial situation. The difference is that this time, even with the presence of the breeze (‘nor did she want/Eolian visitations’ (103–4)) inspiration failed him. The image is a Romantic commonplace, the aeolian harp, where the poet became the strung harp from which the breeze of inspiration, sweeping across the strings, produced music (poetry). The phrase ‘slackening my thoughts by choice’ (72) had implied a previous tautness in the strings. That he ‘made trial’ of his strength again suggests that he tautened them as before, only to find that, now, ‘straggling sounds’ (106) gave way to silence. For the time being, however, he was content to justify his lapse back into inactivity (‘Be it so’ (107)). Where previously he had called the creation of poetry ‘holy’ (63) he now says that to have other thoughts than ones of pure and simple ‘present joy’ (109) would be to ‘bend the sabbath of that time/To a servile yoke’ (112–13); in other words, it would be like desecrating the Sabbath on which we are commanded to refrain from servile works. So, first of all, it seemed, activity was ‘holy’, now, it seems, inactivity was holy. Entirely contradictory standards of holiness are being set up. Bending under the yoke reminds us of his being clothed in a priestly robe – as though a poetic vocation was seen as a kind of burden after all, something under which one might be expected to ‘bend’. The ‘servile yoke’ reminds us of its opposite, ‘enfranchised and at large’ (9) where purposeless freedom had been like a liberation from slavery (‘enfranchised’). The failure of inspiration, therefore, seems to produce a kind of rationalisation or even evasion of a problem which has emerged. Yet as Wordsworth lapses finally, even willingly, into inactivity again, there comes a hint of a new purposefulness. Now, instead of taking clouds as his guides and wandering aimlessly through open fields, he pursued a ‘road’ (110). He began to move towards his ‘hermitage’ (115) which possibly has overtones of the reclusive Milton's retirement prior to his writing Paradise Lost. The westering sun (96–7) implies a destiny (see e.g. Stepping Westward). ¹ On the other hand, ‘What need of many words?’ (113) is a reminder of the restraints which language puts upon feeling, pure and simple. One part of him, therefore, appears to be saying that present joy (109) transcends definition or poetic expression. Another part suggests that directionless freedom is inadequate and needs to be channelled into a purpose. The rhythm of the paragraphing is organised in precisely this kind of way.

Lines 116–41

Now, in conformity with his belief that feeling should not be pressed into expression, he will ‘spare to speak’ (116) of what is self-sufficient, ‘complete/Composure’ and happiness entire’ (121–2). But immediately (‘speedily’ (123)), in stark contrast, the longing to be more definite and to give himself to something purposeful returns. The relaxed mood of ‘loitering’ (114) and ‘Composure’ (122) is now replaced by ‘bracing’ (124), and ‘Reading or thinking’ (125) replaces ‘What need of many words?’ (113). There was a sense of urgency (‘timely interference’ (127)) in his original desire to give permanence to his experiences in a poem and so preserve them from ‘decay’ (126). He had intended to ‘fix’ these ‘floating’ mental images (129–31) and invest them moderately with his own feelings (132–3). Now, he finds that only gleams or flashes of inspiration are all he can achieve, and his frustration at being unable to create becomes the theme of the next few paragraphs.

Lines 142–56

Bracing, determination, and grappling are now replaced by yielding (142). His immediate contentment would be to abandon his ambitions for works of ‘humbler industry’ (144). He concentrates on his own imbalance where he is neither ‘sick nor well’ (147). The poet and the lover have the same ‘fits’ (147) (cp. ‘The lunatic, the lover, and the poet/Are of imagination all compact’ – A Midsummer Night's Dream V: i,7). There is a close analogy in Wordsworth's own lyric Strange fits of Passion ² where, in the guise of a lover, he finds that his ‘distress’ is indeed the product of no more than his own ‘Unmanageable thoughts’ (149). The process of vacillating between ‘brooding’ (152) and ‘goadings on’ (153), as though restlessness is intrinsic to even the very symbol of peace itself (i.e. the mother dove (151)), is the pattern of life which Wordsworth traces throughout The Prelude. The poem progresses in terms of what he calls later ‘Tumult and peace’ (VI: 567), so that the contrary states in these first paragraphs are really providing a key to an understanding of the work as a whole.

Lines 157–228

Like Milton, preparing for Paradise Lost, he has made ‘rigorous inquisition’ (159) into his own capacities for undertaking ‘such a glorious work’ (158). Imagination, or the ‘vital soul’ (161) is his ‘first great gift’ (161) unlike what Dr Johnson, for example, saw as first in importance, namely ‘general truths’ (162). ³ For Johnson, depicting objective truths was the aim of every poet and the transforming powers of the living mind were merely decorative ‘extras’. For Wordsworth here, Johnson's general truths have become secondary or ‘Subordinate helpers of the living mind’ (164). He refers to ‘external things’ (165) such as landscapes (‘Forms, images’ (166)) which help him as a poet but is vague about the ‘numerous other aids’ (166). The emphasis, however, on their being won with ‘toil’ (167) together with the ‘rigorousness’ of the self-inquisition brings the notion of effort and definite purpose back into prominence. The choice of an appropriate subject for the great poem becomes the main concern of the rest of the paragraph. Milton had said that Paradise Lost would be a poem that ‘aftertimes … should not willingly let … die,’ ⁴ but Wordsworth has no ‘perfect confidence’ (173) that he can make his own ‘little band of yet remembered names … inmates in the hearts of men/Now living, or to live in times to come’ (172/ 175–6). He considers subjects ranging from a tale of romance ‘by Milton left unsung’ (180) to tales of chivalry, and then loftier epic stories, all of which are similar in that their heroes were defenders of liberty. The long list ensuing enacts on a large scale Wordsworth's own divided impulses between freedom and restraint. The noble themes he seeks in tales of historic struggles for liberty are to be found in a great body of traditional epic whose very weight imposes a tremendous burden upon his freedom. There follows story after story of the noble dead. The ecstatic breathing in of freedom at the opening of Book I recedes ever further. When the ‘soul/Of liberty’ is mentioned now (195–6), it is linked to a phrase ‘fifteen hundred years/Survived’ (196–7), whose weight seems to deny the sense of liberty and brings in other notions of history and tradition instead. Later in the paragraph liberty is ‘stern’ (219). Wordsworth's attempt to escape from tradition by perhaps making up his own story for a poem (220ff.) meets only with ‘deadening admonitions’ (225). It is as though his duty lies in obeying the laws of the received epic, and as if writing this epic can only mean labouring under a terrible sense of responsibility.

Lines 228–71

His ‘last wish’ (228), to write a ‘philosophic’ poem (230), is expressed with passionate feeling (‘I yearn towards …’ (230)). But writing it would involve more mental effort than spontaneity, ‘Thoughtfully fitted to the Orphean lyre’ (234), and he shrinks from such an ‘awful burthen’ (235). He begins to suspect his own motives and suggests that his defaulting is a shirking of responsibility, ‘I … /Take refuge, and beguile myself (235–6). In the same way that morally confused people are unable to distinguish between right and wrong, he, too, is a living ‘mockery’ (239) or imitation of the almost inseparable ‘brotherhood/Of vice and virtue’ (239–40). He is unable in his confused state to distinguish between, first of all, the longing born of impotence and the longing which is healthy (240–2), or between timorousness and prudence, or between commendable circumspection and mere delay. He is in a state of moral confusion where he suspects that he is calling his actual selfishness ‘Humility’ or ‘modest awe’ (245) and can therefore no longer trust these things as virtues (‘themselves/Betray me’ (245–6)). This excessive scrupulousness may be only a selfish excuse for doing nothing and it paralyses his ‘functions’ (248) and ‘beats off/Simplicity and self-presented truth’ (250–1). The point here is that although he is having to make a tremendous struggle to reach it, actual truth, when it presents itself, is clear and simple. His thoughts return to freedom, ‘Ah, better far than this to stray about/Voluptuously … given up/To vacant musing, unreproved neglect’ (252–5). He is thinking here not of a reprehensible neglect but rather of a virtuous, almost holy, abandonment of worldliness. He has all along been intermittently dissatisfied with Vacant musing’ and is still unable to find release in any firm commitment t...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Half Title Page
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Dedication
• Contents
• Preface
• Acknowledgments
• Book I
• Book II
• Book III
• Book IV
• Book V
• Notes