I will not swear to understand precisely what Coleridge means here, though I believe that I do. But at any rate, and on the principle that of two hypotheses, each in itself adequate, we should choose the simpler, I suggest in all modesty that we shall do better with our own than with Coleridge"s, which has the further disadvantage of being scarcely amenable to positive evidence. We can say with historical warrant that Sappho struck the lyre, and argue therefrom, still within close range of correction, that her singing responded to the instrument: whereas to a.s.sert that Sappho"s mind "was balanced by a spontaneous effort which strove to hold in check the workings of pa.s.sion" is to say something for which positive evidence will be less handily found, whether to contradict or to support.
Yet if you choose to prefer Coleridge"s explanation, no great harm will be done: since Coleridge, who may be presumed to have understood it, promptly goes on to deduce that,
as the elements of metre owe their existence to a state of increased excitement, so the metre itself should be accompanied by the natural language of excitement.
which is precisely where we found ourselves, save that where Coleridge uses the word "excitement" we used the word "emotion."
Shall we employ an ill.u.s.tration before proceeding?--some sentence easily handled, some commonplace of the moralist, some copybook maxim, I care not what. "Contentment breeds Happiness"--That is a proposition with which you can hardly quarrel; sententious, sedate, obviously true; provoking delirious advocacy as little as controversial heat; in short a very fair touchstone. Now hear how the lyric treats it, in these lines of Dekker--
Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?
O sweet content!
Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplex"d?
O punishment!
Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vex"d To add to golden numbers golden numbers?
O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace; Honest labour wears a lovely face; Then hey, nonny nonny--hey, nonny nonny!
Canst drink the waters of the crystal spring?
O sweet content!
Swim"st thou in wealth, yet sink"st in thine own tears?
O punishment!
Then he that patiently want"s burden bears No burden bears, but is a king, a king!
O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace; Honest labour wears a lovely face; Then hey, nonny nonny--hey, nonny nonny!
There, in lines obviously written for music, you have our sedate sentence, "Contentment breeds Happiness," converted to mere emotion. Note (to use Coleridge"s word) the "excitement" of it. There are but two plain indicative sentences in the two stanzas--(1) "Honest labour wears a lovely face" (used as a refrain), and (2) "Then he that patiently want"s burden bears no burden bears, but is a king, a king!" (heightened emotionally by inversion and double repet.i.tion). Mark throughout how broken is the utterance; ant.i.thetical question answered by exclamations: both doubled and made more ant.i.thetical in the second stanza: with cunning reduplicated inversions to follow, and each stanza wound up by an outburst of emotional nonsense--"hey, nonny nonny--hey, nonny nonny!"--as a man might skip or whistle to himself for want of thought.
Now (still keeping to our same subject of Contentment) let us _prosify_ the lyrical order of language down to the lowest pitch to which genius has been able to reduce it and still make n.o.ble verse. You have all read Wordsworth"s famous Introduction to the "Lyrical Ballads," and you know that Wordsworth"s was a genius working on a theory that the languages of verse and of prose are identical. You know, too, I dare say, into what ba.n.a.lities that theory over and over again betrayed him: ba.n.a.lities such as--
His widowed mother, for a second mate Espoused the teacher of the village school: Who on her offspring zealously bestowed Needful instruction.
--and the rest. Nevertheless Wordsworth was a genius; and genius working persistently on a narrow theory will now and again "bring it off" (as they say). So he, amid the flat waste of his later compositions, did undoubtedly "bring it off" in the following sonnet:--
These times strike monied worldlings with dismay: Ev"n rich men, brave by nature, taint the air With words of apprehension and despair; While tens of thousands, thinking on the affray, Men unto whom sufficient for the day And minds not stinted or untill"d are given, Sound healthy children of the G.o.d of Heaven, Are cheerful as the rising sun in May.
What do we gather hence but firmer faith That every gift of n.o.ble origin Is breath"d upon by Hope"s perpetual breath; That Virtue and the faculties within Are vital; and that riches are akin To fear, to change, to cowardice, and death?
Here, I grant, are no repet.i.tions, no inversions. The sentences, though metrical, run straightforwardly, verb following subject, object verb, as in strict prose. In short here you have verse reduced to the order and structure of prose as nearly as a man of genius, working on a set theory, could reduce it while yet maintaining its proper emotional key. But first let me say that you will find very few like instances of success even in Wordsworth; and few indeed to set against innumerable pa.s.sages wherein either his verse defies his theory and triumphs, or succ.u.mbs to it and, succ.u.mbing, either drops sheer to bathos or spreads itself over dead flats of commonplace. Let me tell you next that the instances you will find in other poets are so few and so far between as to be negligible; and lastly that even such verse as the above has only to be compared with a pa.s.sage of prose and its emotional pitch is at once betrayed. Take this, for example, from Jeremy Taylor:--
Since all the evil in the world consists in the disagreeing between the object and the appet.i.te, as when a man hath what he desires not, or desires what he hath not, or desires amiss, he that compares his spirit to the present accident hath variety of instance for his virtue, but none to trouble him, because his desires enlarge not beyond his present fortune: and a wise man is placed in a variety of chances, like the nave or centre of a wheel in the midst of all the circ.u.mvolutions and changes of posture, without violence or change, save that it turns gently in compliance with its changed parts, and is indifferent which part is up, and which is down; for there is some virtue or other to be exercised whatever happens--either patience or thanksgiving, love or fear, moderation or humility, charity or contentedness.
Or, take this from Samuel Johnson:--
The fountain of contentment must spring up in the mind; and he who has so little knowledge of human nature as to seek happiness by changing anything but his own disposition, will waste his life in fruitless efforts and multiply the griefs which he purposes to remove.
Now, to be frank, I do not call that first pa.s.sage very good prose. Like much of Jeremy Taylor"s writing it is prose tricked out with the trappings and odds-and-ends of verse. It starts off, for example, with a brace of heroics--"Since all the evil in the world consists"..."between the object and the appet.i.te." You may say, further, that the simile of the wheel, though proper enough to prose, is poetical too: that Homer might have used it ("As in a wheel the rim turns violently, while the nave, though it turns also, yet seems to be at rest"--something of that sort). Nevertheless you will agree with me that, in exchanging Wordsworth for Taylor and Johnson, we have relaxed something with the metre, something that the metre kept taut; and this something we discover to be the emotional pitch.
But let me give you another ill.u.s.tration, supplied (I dare say quite unconsciously) by one who combined a genuine love of verse--in which, however, he was no adept--with a sure instinct for beautiful prose.
Contentment was a favourite theme with Isaak Walton: "The Compleat Angler" is packed with praise of it: and in "The Compleat Angler" occurs this well-known pa.s.sage:--
But, master, first let me tell you, that very hour which you were absent from me, I sat down under a willow tree by the waterside, and considered what you had told me of the owner of that pleasant meadow in which you then had left me; that he had a plentiful estate, and not a heart to think so; that he had at this time many law-suits depending, and that they both damped his mirth and took up so much of his time and thoughts that he had no leisure to take the sweet content that I, who pretended no t.i.tle to them, took in his fields: for I could there sit quietly; and looking on the water, see some fishes sport themselves in the silver streams, others leaping at flies of several shapes and colours; looking on the hills, I could behold them spotted with woods and groves; looking down the meadows, could see, here a boy gathering lilies and lady-smocks, and there a girl cropping culverlocks and cowslips, all to make garlands suitable to this present month of May.
These and many other field-flowers so perfumed the air that I thought that very meadow like that field in Sicily of which Diodorus speaks, where the perfumes arising from the place make all dogs that hunt in it to fall off and lose their hottest scent. I say, as I thus sat, joying in my own happy condition, and pitying this poor rich man that owned this and many other pleasant groves and meadows about me, I did thankfully remember what my Saviour said, that the meek possess the earth; or rather they enjoy what the others possess and enjoy not; for Anglers and meek quiet-spirited men are free from those high, those restless thoughts which corrode the sweets of life; and they, and they only can say as the poet has happily exprest it:
"Hail, blest estate of lowliness!
Happy enjoyments of such minds As, rich in self-contentedness, Can, like the reeds in roughest winds, By yielding make that blow but small At which proud oaks and cedars fall."
There you have a pa.s.sage of felicitous prose culminating in a stanza of trite and fifth-rate verse. Yes, Walton"s instinct is sound; for he is keying up the pitch; and verse, even when mediocre in quality, has its pitch naturally set above that of prose. So, if you will turn to your Walton and read the page following this pa.s.sage, you will see that, still by a sure instinct, he proceeds from this sc.r.a.p of reflective verse to a mere rollicking "catch":
Man"s life is but vain, for "tis subject to pain And sorrow, and short as a bubble; "Tis a hodge-podge of business and money and care, And care, and money and trouble...
--which is even worse rubbish, and yet a step upwards in emotion because Venator actually sings it to music. "Ay marry, sir, this is music indeed," approves Brother Peter; "this cheers the heart."
In this and the preceding lecture, Gentlemen, I have enforced at some length the opinion that to understand the many essential differences between verse and prose we must constantly bear in mind that verse, being metrical, keeps the character originally imposed on it by musical accompaniment and must always, however far the remove, be referred back to its origin and to the emotion which music excites.
Mr George Bernard Shaw having to commit his novel "Cashel Byron"s Profession" to paper in a hurry, chose to cast it in blank verse as being more easily and readily written so: a performance which brilliantly illuminates a half-truth. Verse--or at any rate, unrhymed iambic verse--is easier to write than prose, if you care to leave out the emotion which makes verse characteristic and worth writing. I have little doubt that, had he chosen to attempt it, Mr Shaw would have found his story still more ductile in the metre of "Hiawatha." But the experiment proves nothing: or no more than that, all fine art costing labour, it may cost less if burlesqued in a category not its own.
Let me take an example from a work with which you are all familiar--"The Student"s Handbook to the University and Colleges of Cambridge." On p. 405 we read:--
The Medieval and Modern Languages Tripos is divided into ten sections, A, A2, B, C, D, E, F, G, H and I. A student may take either one or two sections at the end of his second year of residence, and either one or two more sections at the end of his third or fourth year of residence; or he may take two sections at the end of his third year only. Thus this Tripos can be treated either as a divided or as an undivided Tripos at the option of the candidate.
Now I do not hold that up to you for a model of prose. Still, lucidity rather than emotion being its aim, I doubt not that the composer spent pains on it; more pains than it would have cost him to convey his information metrically, thus:--
There is a Tripos that aspires to blend The Medieval and the Modern tongues In one red burial (Sing Heavenly Muse!) Divided into sections A, A2, B, C, D, E, F, G and H and I.
A student may take either one or two (With some restrictions mention"d in a footnote) At th" expiration of his second year: Or of his third, or of his fourth again Take one or two; or of his third alone Take two together. Thus this tripos is (Like nothing in the Athanasian Creed) Divisible or indivisible At the option of the candidate--Gadzooks!
This method has even some advantage over the method of prose in that it is more easily memorised; but it has, as you will admit, the one fatal flaw that it imports emotion into a theme which does not properly admit of emotion, and that so it offends against our first rule of writing--that it should be appropriate.
Now if you accept the argument so far as we have led it--that verse is by nature more emotional than prose--certain consequences would seem to follow: of which the first is that while the capital difficulty of verse consists in saying ordinary things the capital difficulty of prose consists in saying extraordinary things; that while with verse, keyed for high moments, the trouble is to manage the intervals, with prose the trouble is to manage the high moments.
Let us dwell awhile on this difference, for it is important. You remember my quoting to you in my last lecture these lines of Milton"s:--
Up to a hill anon his steps he reared From whose high top to ken the prospect round, If cottage were in view, sheep-cote or herd; But cottage, herd, or sheep-cote, none he saw.
We agreed that these were good lines, with the accent of poetry: but we allowed it to be a highly exalted way of telling how So-and-so climbed a hill for a better view but found none. Now obviously this exaltation does not arise immediately out of the action described (which is as ordinary as it well could be), but is _derivative_. It borrows its wings, its impetus, from a previous high moment, from the emotion proper to that moment, from the speech proper to that emotion: and these sustain us across to the next height as with the glide of an aeroplane. Your own sense will tell you at once that the pa.s.sage would be merely bombastic if the poet were starting to set forth how So-and-so climbed a hill for the view--just that, and nothing else: as your own sense tells you that the swoop is from one height to another. For if bathos lay ahead, if Milton had but to relate how the Duke of York, with twenty thousand men, "marched up a hill and then marched down again," he certainly would not use diction such as:--
Up to a hill anon his steps he reared.
Even as it is, I think we must all detect a certain artificiality in the pa.s.sage, and confess to some relief when Satan is introduced to us, ten lines lower down, to revivify the story. For let us note that, in the nature of things, the more adorned and involved our style (and Milton"s is both ornate and involved) the more difficulty we must find with these flat pedestrian intervals. Milton may "bring it off," largely through knowing how to dodge the interval and contrive that it shall at any rate be brief: but, as Bagehot noted, when we come to Tennyson and find Tennyson in "Enoch Arden" informing us of a fish-jowter, that:--
Enoch"s white horse, and Enoch"s ocean-spoil In ocean-smelling osier--
(_i.e._ in a fish-basket)
--and his face Rough-reddened with a thousand winter gales, Not only to the market town were known, But in the leafy lanes beyond the down Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp And peac.o.c.k yewtree of the lonely Hall Whose Friday fare was Enoch"s ministering,
why, then we feel that the vehicle is altogether too pompous for its load, and those who make speech too pompous for its content commit, albeit in varying degrees, the error of Defoe"s religious lady who, seeing a bottle of over-ripe beer explode and cork and froth fly up to the ceiling, cried out, "O, the wonders of Omnipotent Power!" The poet who commends fresh fish to us as "ocean-spoil" can cast no stone at his brother who writes of them as "the finny denizens of the deep," or even at his cousin the journalist, who exalts the oyster into a "succulent bivalve"--
The feathered tribes on pinions cleave the air; Not so the mackerel, and, still less, the bear!