146

WORDSWORTH'S MISTICISM.

THE political articles in The National
Review mostly appear to have been written
in a depressed state of mind. Mr. Traill,
for instance, in the course of an inquiry as to
whether the recent national self-congratula-
tions are well founded, takes a gloomy view.
of the English representative system.
Amongst the literary articles, Mr. Hogben's
on "The Mystical Side of Wordsworth
one of the best. His conclusion is as follows:
"Wordsworth's mystical leanings are natural
outgoings of his individuality, not mere ten-
tative movements of artificial life, and they
are, emphatically, all in the direction of
loftier intuition and more earnest life.
Ruskin has somewhere called Wordsworth
'the poet of Rightness,' and we assuredly
wrong him and ourselves if we relegate his
mysticism to the realm of mere conjecture
and wavering indolence of ronson.
Lot us
not readily put aside his own belief in the use
of what is so finely felt that words can
scarcely claim kinship therewith at all, and
which memory holds rather through the
knowledge that now is not as then, than be-
cause of its distinct ability to transcribe the
past:-
Grey 1867

Deem not profitless those fleeting moods
Of shadowy exultation; not for this,
That they are kindred to our purer mind
And intellectual life; but that the soul,
Remembering how she felt, but what she felt
Remembering not, retains an obscure sense
Of possible sublimity. National

It is, of course, even now, a certainty, but it grows clearer year by year, that Wordsworth's poetry-in spite of the mass of his common-place work, if you will-is of quite perennial value. And it is to speak of no remote cause of this to say that his poetry is of that order which, if it does not anticipate science, nevertheless finds new and closer relationships to each coming truth, as though it had waited thorofor. If we will admit it, indeed, this very charm of casy adjustment, and this strange deep perspective in outlook, -where is no cul de sac, but the rich endless unfolding of nature and being-are them. selves testimonies to the largeness of a life whose voice-despite all our hewers of wood and drawers of water-must ever be

Like sighings of illimitable forests,
And waves of an unfathomable sea.'

The Two Elements in Wordsworth.

Nowhere is there so perplexed a mixture as in Wordsworth's own poetry, of work touched with intense and individual power, with work of almost no character at all. He has much conventional sentiment and some of that insincere poetic diction, against which his most t serious critical efforts were directed; the reaction in his political ideas, consequent on the excesses of 1795, makes him at times a mere declaimer on moral and social topics; and he seems s ›metimes to force an unwilling pen and write by rule. By making the most of thesa blemishes it is possible to obscure the true aesthetic value of his work, just as his life also -a life of much quiet delicacy and independence-might easily be placed in the false focus and made to appear a somewhat tame theme in illustration of the more obvious parochial virtues. And those who wish to understand This influence, and experience his peculiar savours must bear with patience the presence of an alien element in Wordsworth's work, which never coalesced with what is really delightful in it, nor underwent his special power. Who that values his writings most has not felt the intrusion there, from time to time, of something tedious and prosaic? Of all poets equally great, he would gain most by a skilfully made anthology. Such a selection would show, in truth, not so much what he was, or to himself or others seemed to be, as what, by the more energetic and fertile quality in his writings, he was ever tending to become. And the mixture in his work as it actually stands is so perplexed that one fears to miss the least promising composition even, lest some precious morsel should be lying hidden within the few perfect lines, the phrase, the single word, perhaps, to which he often works up mechanically through a poem, almost the whole of which may be tame enough. He who thought that in all creative work the larger part was given passively to the recipient mind, who waited so dutifully upon the gift, to whom so large a measure was sometimes given, had his times also of desertion and relapse, and he has permitted the impress of these, too, to remain in his work. And this duality there-the fitfulness with which the higher qualities manifest themselves in it-gives the effect in his poetry of a power not altogether his own, or under his control, whica comes and goes when it will, lifting or lowering a matter, poor in itself; 80 that this old fancy, which made the poet's art an enthusiasm, seems almost literally true of

WORDSWORTH.

I.

HAWKSHEAD.

Of.

DEDICATING to Wordsworth his Oxford lectures on poetry, Keble used the phrase ad sanctiora erigeret, language which Wordsworth might with rightful pride accept as a deserved tribute. To lift his reader towards holier things had ever been his aim. poetry the highest office is to set forth the best possibilities of human nature, to articulate what, in the depths of man's being, is pure, is holy, is truest. To this Wordsworth earnestly devoted his life and faculties; and having faculties strong, clear, penetrating, all quickened and refined by poetic sensibility, the devotion resulted in a life-work which is a priceless mental treasure to the scores of millions who speak to-day the English tongue, an inexhaustible treasure, to enrich the hundreds of millions of coming generations.

A

To the heart the poet speaks out of a heart that is fuller than most men's with the loves of the heart; and being blessed with a musical throat he is listened to as the privileged mouth-piece of his fellows. Through an ear of finer sensitiveness he hears cadences of diviner movement, and thus becomes a voice for the sincerest, deepest truth of feeling. To the heart-throb of the poet we hearken, because it is an echo, a rhythmic echo, to that within our own breast. With delicate, palpitating cords, L wrought out of the finest tissue of the brain, he twines himself around our being; and we, with the joy and freedom of the most disinterested gratitude, help him to tighten these cords. Not a Scotsman in any part of the globe but feels that Burns is a dear brother to whom he owes a debt that he would on no account be rid of. All whose speech is English are better, manlier men because three hundred years ago William Shakespeare lived and wrote, and acted on the stage. On entering the most hallowed precinct in Europe, the little church by the Avon at Stratford, we are sanctified by reverential awe; about us is an atmosphere spiritualized by a transcendent presence. When looking at the cathedral of Florence, who thinks of the priests who dedicated it?

ན