The Victorian Poet (Routledge Revivals)

Poetics and Persona

Joseph Bristow, Joseph Bristow

• Publisher: Routledge
• Year: 2014
• ISBN:
  9781317807704
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literary Criticism in Poetry
• Index: Literature

The practice of poetry in the Victorian period was characterised by an extreme diversity of styles, preoccupations and subject-matter. This anthology attempts to draw out some of the main focuses of interest in the Victorian poet. No Victorian poet produced an overall theory of poetry, yet all accepted it as a natural vehicle of expression, and for some subjects, in particular sexuality, the only literary mode. Indeed, the sexual question was made even more acute by the sudden phenomenon of the 'poetess', and the relation of poetry to gender raised interesting new critical questions. At the same time, the cultural role of the poet came under increasing debate: Victorian poetry was the first contemporary poetry to be studied.

This selection of central texts illustrates these pressures on the Victorian practice of poetry, and the introductory remarks suggest ways in which theory can be related to the understanding key poems themselves.

1
‘What is Poetry?’

Passage 1.1

("from John Keble, 'Sacred Poetry', Quarterly Review, 1825. Compare with passages 1.2 and 4.3, also by Keble. For a fully documented critical account of this article and the place of Keble's poetics within the Praetorian movement, consult G.B. Tennyson, Victorian Devotional Poetry: The Tractarian Mode, Cambridge, Mass., 1981)

If then, in addition to the ordinary difficulties of poetry, all these things are essential to the success of the Christian lyrist — if what he sets before us must be true in substance, and in manner marked by a noble simplicity and confidence in that truth, by a sincere attachment to it, and entire familiarity with it — then we need not wonder that so few should have become eminent in this branch of their art, nor need we have recourse to the disheartening and unsatisfactory solutions which are sometimes given of that circumstance.

'Contemplative piety', says Dr Johnson [in his 'Life of Waller' in Lives of the Poets, 1779-81], 'or the internal intercourse between God and the human soul, cannot be poetical. Man, admitted to implore the mercy of his Creator, and plead the merits of his Redeemer, is already in a higher state than poetry can confer.'

The sentiment is not uncommon among serious, but somewhat fearful, believers; and though we believe it erroneous, we desire to treat it not only with tenderness, but with reverence. They start at the very mention of sacred poetry, as though poetry were in its essence a profane amusement. It is, unquestionably, by far the safer extreme to be too much afraid of venturing with the imagination upon sacred ground. Yet, if it be an error, and a practical error, it may be worth while cautiously to examine the grounds of it. In the generality, perhaps, it is not so much a deliberate opinion, as a prejudice against the use of the art, arising out of its abuse. But the great writer just referred to has endeavoured to establish it by direct reasoning. He argues the point, first, from the nature of poetry, and afterwards from that of devotion.

The essence of poetry is invention; such invention as, by producing something unexpected, surprises and delights. The topics of devotion are few.

It is to be hoped that many men's experience will refute the latter part of this statement. How can the topics of devotion be few, when we are taught to make every part of life, every scene in nature, an occasion — in other words, a topic — of devotion? It might as well be said that connubial love is an unfit subject for poetry, as being incapable for novelty, because, after all, it is only ringing the changes upon one simple affection, which every one understands. The novelty there consists, not in the original topic, but in continually bringing ordinary things, by happy strokes of natural ingenuity, into new associations with the ruling passion.

There's not a bonny flower that springs
By fountain, shaw, or green;
There's not a bonnie bird that sings
But minds me of my Jean.

[Robert Burns, 'I Love My Jean', 1788 (13-16)]

Why need we fear to extend this most beautiful and natural sentiment to 'the intercourse between the human soul and its Maker', possessing, as we do, the very highest warrant for the analogy which subsists between conjugal and divine love?

Novelty, therefore, sufficient for all the purposes of poetry, we may have on sacred subjects. Let us pass to the next objection.

Poetry pleases by exhibiting an idea more grateful to the mind than things themselves afford. This effect proceeds from the display of those parts of nature which attract, and the concealment of those which repel, the imagination; but religion must be shown as it is, suppression and addition equally corrupt it; and, such as it is, it is known already.

A fallacy may be apprehended in both parts of this statement. There are, surely, real landscapes which delight the mind as sincerely and intensely as the most perfect description could; and there are family groups which give a more exquisite sensation of domestic happiness than anything in Milton, or even Shakespeare. It is partly by association with these, the treasures of the memory, and not altogether by mere excitement of the imagination, that poetry does her work. By the same rule sacred pictures and sacred songs cannot fail to gratify the mind which is at all exercised in devotion; recalling, as they will, whatever of highest perfection in that way she can remember in herself, or has learned from others.

There again, it is not the religious doctrine itself, so much as the effect of it upon the human mind and heart, which the sacred poet has to describe. What is said of suppression and addition may be true enough with regard to the former, but is evidently incorrect when applied to the latter: it being an acknowledged difficulty in all devotional writings, and not in devotional verse only, to keep clear of the extreme of languor on the one hand, and debasing rapture on the other. This requires a delicacy in the perception and enunciation of truth, of which the most earnest believer may be altogether destitute. And since, probably, no man's condition, in regard to eternal things, is exactly like that of any other man, and yet it is the business of the sacred poet to sympathize with all, his store of subjects is clearly inexhaustible, and his powers of discrimination — in other words, of suppression and addition — are kept in continual exercise.

Nor is he, by any means, so straitly limited in the other and more difficult branch of his art, the exhibition of religious doctrine itself, as is supposed in the following statement:

Whatever is great, desirable, or tremendous, is comprised in the name of the Supreme Being. Omnipotence cannot be exalted; infinity cannot be amplified; perfection cannot be improved.

True: all perfection is implied in the name of GOD; and so all the beauties and luxuries of spring are comprised in one word. But is it not the very office of poetry to develop and display the particulars of such complex ideas? in such a way, for example, as the idea of GOD's omnipresence is developed from the 139th Psalm? and thus detaining the mind for a while, to force or help her to think steadily on truths which she would hurry unprofitably over, how strictly soever they may be implied in the language which she uses. It is really surprising that this great and acute critic did not perceive that the objection applies as strongly against any kind of composition of which the Divine Nature is the subject, as against devotional poems.

We forbear to press the consideration that, even if the objection were allowed in respect of natural religion, it would not hold against the devotional composition of a Christian; the object of whose worship has condescended also to become the object of description, affection, and sympathy, in the literal sense of these words. But this is, perhaps, too solemn and awful an argument for this place; and therefore we pass on to the concluding statement of the passage under consideration, in which the writer turns his view downwards, and argues against sacred poetry from the nature of man, as he had done before from the nature of GOD.

The employments of pious meditation are faith, thanks-giving, repentance and supplication. Faith, invariably uniform, cannot be invested by fancy with decorations. Thanksgiving, the most joyful of all holy effusions, yet addressed to a Being without passions, is confined to a few modes, and is to be felt rather than expressed.

What we have said of the variations of the devout affections, as they exist in various persons, is sufficient, we apprehend, to answer this. But the rest of the paragraph requires some additional reflection:

Repentance, trembling in the presence of the Judge, is not at leisure for cadences and epithets.

This is rather invidiously put, and looks as if the author had not entire confidence in the truth of what he was saying. Indeed, it may well be questioned; since many of the more refined passions, it is certain, naturally express themselves in poetical language. But repentance is not merely a passion, nor is its only office to tremble in the presence of the Judge. So far from it, that one great business of sacred poetry, as of sacred music, is to quiet and sober the feelings of the penitent — to make his compunction as much of 'a reasonable service' as possible.

To proceed:

Supplication of man may diffuse itself through many topics of persuasion: but supplication to God can only cry for mercy.

Certainly, this would be true, if the abstract nature of the Deity were alone considered. But if we turn to the sacred volume, which corrects so many of our erring anticipations, we find there that, whether in condescension to our infirmities, or for those wise purposes, we are furnished with inspired precedents for addressing ourselves to God in all the various tones, and by all the various topics, which we should use to a good and wise man standing in the highest and nearest relation to us. This is so palpably the case throughout the scriptures, that it is quite surprising how a person of so much serious thought as Dr Johnson could have failed to recollect it when arguing on the subject of prayer. In fact, there is a simple test, by which, perhaps, the whole of his reasoning on Sacred Poetry might be fairly and decisively tried. Let the reader, as he goes over it, bear in mind the Psalms of David, and consider whether every one of his statements and arguments is not there practically refuted.

It is not, then, because sacred subjects are peculiarly unapt for poetry, that so few sacred poets are popular. We have already glanced at some of the causes to which we attribute it — we ought to add another, which strikes us as important. Let us consider how the case stands with regard to books of devotion in prose.

We may own it reluctantly, but must it not be owned? that if two new publications meet the eye at once, of which no more is known than the one is what is familiarly called a good book, the other a work of mere literature, nine readers out of ten will take up the second rather than the first? If this be allowed, whatever accounts for it will contribute to account also for the comparative failure of devotional poetry. For this sort of coldness and languor in the reader must act upon the author in more ways than one. The large class who write for money and applause will of course be carried, by the tide of popularity, towards some other subject. Men of more sincere minds, either from true or false delicacy, will have little heart to expose their retired thoughts to the risk of mockery or neglect; and, if they do venture, will be checked every moment, like an eager but bashful musician before a strange audience, not knowing how far the reader's feelings will harmonize with their own. This leaves the field open, in a great measure, to harder and more enthusiastic spirits; who offending continually, in their several ways, against delicacy, the one by wildness, the other by coarseness, aggravate the evil which they wished to cure; till the sacred subject itself comes at last to blame due to the indifference of the reader and the indiscretion of the writer.

Such, we apprehend, would be a probable account of the condition of sacred poetry, in a country where religion was coldly acknowledged, and literature earnestly pursued. How far the description may apply to England and English literature, in their various changes since the Reformation — how far it may hold true of our own times — is an inquiry which would lead us too far at present; but it is surely worth considering. It goes deeper than any question of mere literary curiosity. It is a sort of test of the genuineness of those pretensions, which many of us are, perhaps, too forward to advance, to a higher state of morality and piety, as well as knowledge and refinement, than has been known elsewhere or in other times.

Those who, in spite of such difficulties, desire in earnest to do good by the poetical talent, which they happen to possess, have only, it should seem, the following alternative. Either they must veil, as it were, the sacredness of the subject — not necessarily by allegory, for it may be done in a thousand other ways — and so deceive the world of taste into devotional reading —

Succhi amari intanto ei beve,
E dall' inganno sua vita riceve —
[Meanwhile he drinks bitter juices
And he receives his life from the deceit]¹

or else, directly avowing that their subject as well as purpose is devotion, they must be content with a smaller number of readers; a disadvantage, however, compensated by the fairer chance of doing good in each.

Passage 1.2

(from John Keble, Keble's Lectures on Poetry, 1832-1841, trans. Edward Kershaw Francis, 1912. Keble's lectures were originally delivered in Latin at the University of Oxford. A further extract from these lectures is given in Passage 4.3)

To begin with, then we are all so framed by nature that we experience great relief, when carried away by any strong current of thought or feeling, if we are at last able, whether by speech or gesture or in any other way, to find an expression for it. This is most clearly seen in the case of those who, even when alone, utter and croon to themselves, under the influence of strong emotion. Illustrations are to be found again and again in Tragedy: where nothing is commoner than to represent the most important characters detailing their deeds and their schemes aloud to themselves. And such freedom (though too often abused) would assuredly not be tolerated on any terms, were not the audience conscious from their own experience of a certain natural propriety therein.

What need to spend time on this? In all languages, those common forms of lament, of exclamation, even of cursing, do not they all point the same way? Such curses are indeed impious and profane, the utterance of depraved and wicked men, but at least they serve to demonstrate how relevant to the stay of passion and speech and expression, yielding outlet as it were to the spirit.

But such utterance was suitable only in men uncivilized and scarcely removed from savagery: they would, almost like wild beasts, shout out aloud with every uncouth outcry, at once and in any way, whatever came into their minds. Yet there lingers, I believe, even in the most abandoned a higher and better instinct, which counsels silence as to many things: and, if they are willing to obey the instinct, they will rather die than declare openly what is in their mind. We may note too that men so wrought upon — I mean, for instance, by vanity, grief, and other like human emotions — very often exhibit excessive shamefacedness, being overquick and sensitive in their sense of shame as in everything else: especially such as 'live the lives of freeborn citizens in a happy country, conditions which', as Cicero justly notes of the citizens of Rome, 'give men's minds a more delicate sensibility' [Letters, 5:21].

Not very far removed from these, yet not exactly the same, appears clearly to be the case of lofty souls in whom, as in the youthful Nisus of Virgil,

The restless mind is bent on some great emprise.

[Virgil, Aeneid, trans. John Conington (9.186)]

Some great emprise — something that is great, yet still vague and undecided, of which the outline and the details have yet to be filled in. All recognize this experience whose minds have at any time been overwhelmed in pondering, more closely than of wont, on the vicissitudes of human affairs, on the marvellous ordered symmetry of the universe, or last of all, on the holy vision of true and divine goodness.

The mind indeed, oppressed and overcome by a crowd of great thoughts, pressing in upon it at one and the same time, knew not where to turn, and sought for some such relief and solace for itself as tears give to the worn-out body. And thus to feel the same craving as is ascribed to men torn by violent passion; but there was this difference, the latter shrunk, through shame, from any speech: the former feeling of higher and nobler, and therefore is neither able nor willing to be expressed in the speech of daily life.

I say therefore that the Almighty power, which governs and harmonizes, not heaven and earth only, but also the hearts of men, has furnished amplest comfort for sufferers of either kind in the gift of poetry. I will not now take pains to consider what poetry fully means: even were I able to define it exactly, this is not the fitting opportunity: there are two points only, and points which no one will traverse, which it should wish to be allowed to assume as axiomatic; the first, that poetry, of whatever kind, is, in one way or other, closely associated with measure and a definite rhythm of sound; the second, that its chief aim is to recall, to renew, and bring vividly before us pictures of absent objects: partly it has to draw out and bring to light things cognate or similar to each other it represents, however slight the connexion may be; partly it has to systematize and explain the connexion between them: in a word, it is the handmaid to Imagination and Fancy. In both of these processes it exhibits, assuredly, wonderful efficacy in soothing men's emotions and steadying the balance of their mind. For while we linger over language and rhythm, it occupies our minds and diverts them from cares and troubles: when, further, it gives play to Imagination, summons before us the past, forecasts the future, in brief, paints all things in the hues which the mind itself desires, we feel that it is sparing and merciful to the emotions that seethe within us, and that, for a while, we enjoy at least that solace which Dido once fruitlessly craved, to her woe:

a transient grace

To give this madness breathing-space

[Aeneid (4.433)]

But how can the needs of modest reserve, and that becoming shrinking from publicity before noticed, be better served than if a troubled or enthusiastic spirit is able to express its wishes by those indirect methods best known to poets? At...