It is not true * * * that the highest species
of poetry is the reflective; it is a gross
fallacy, that because certain opinions are
acute or profound, the expression of them
by the imagination must be eminently beautiful.
Whenever the mind of the artist suffers itself
to be occupied, during its periods of creation,
by any other predominant motive than the
desire of beauty, the result is false in
art.
Now there is undoubtedly no reason why he
may not find beauty in those moods of emotion,
which arise from the combinations of reflective
thought; and it is possible that he may delineate
these with fidelity, and not be led astray
by any suggestions of a poetical mood. But
though possible, it is hardly probable; for
a man whose reveries take a reasoning turn,
and who is accustomed to measure his ideas
by their logical relations rather than the
congruity of the sentiments to which they
refer, will be apt to mistake the pleasure
he has in knowing a thing to be true, for
the pleasure he would have in knowing it
to be beautiful, and so will pile his thoughts
in a rhetorical battery, that they may convince,
instead of letting them flow in a natural
course of contemplation, that they may enrapture.
It would not be difficult to shew, by reference
to the most admired poems of Wordsworth,
that he is frequently chargeable with this
error; and that much has been said by him
which is good as philosophy, powerful as
rhetoric, but false as poetry. * * *
[Hallam next contrasts the poetry of Wordsworth
to that of Keats and Shelley.]
* * * They are both poets of sensation rather
than reflection. Susceptible of the slightest
impulse from external nature, their fine
organs trembled into emotion at colors, and
sounds, and movements, unperceived or unregarded
by duller temperaments. Rich and clear were
their perceptions of visible forms; full
and deep their feelings of music. So vivid
was the delight attending the simple exertions
of eye and ear, that it became mingled more
and more with their active trains of thought,
and tended to absorb their whole being into
the energy of sense. Other poets seek for
images to illustrate their conceptions; these
men had no need to seek; they lived in a
world of images; for the most important and
extensive portion of their life consisted
in those emotions which are immediately conversant
with the sensation. Like the hero of Goethe's
novel,
>> note 1 they
would hardly have been affected by what is called the pathetic parts of a
book; but the merely beautiful passages, "those from which the spirit
of the author looks clearly and mildly forth," would have melted them
to tears. Hence they are not descriptive, they are picturesque. They are
not smooth and negatively harmonious; they are full of deep and varied melodies.
This powerful tendency of imagination to
a life of immediate sympathy with the external
universe, is not nearly so liable to false
views of art as the opposite disposition
of purely intellectual contemplation. For
where beauty is constantly passing before "that
inward eye, which is the bliss of solitude;"
>> note 2 where
the soul seeks it as a perpetual and necessary refreshment to the sources
of activity and intuition; where all other sacred ideas of our nature, the
idea of good, the idea of perfection, the idea of truth, are habitually contemplated
thought the medium of this predominant mood, so that they assume its colour,
and are subject to its peculiar laws, there is little danger that the ruling
passion of the whole mind will cease to direct its creative operations, or
the energetic principle of love for the beautiful sink, even for a brief
period, to a level of a mere notion in the understanding.
* * * Mr. Tennyson belongs decidedly to
the class we have already described as Poets
of Sensation. He sees all the forms of nature
with the "eruditus oculus,"
>> note 3 and
his ear has a fairy fineness. There is a strange earnestness in his worship
of beauty which throws a charm over his impassioned song, more easily felt
than described, and not to be escaped by those who have once felt it. * * *
We have remarked five distinctive excellencies
of his own manner. First, his luxuriance
of imagination, and at the same time his
control over it. Secondly, his power of embodying
himself in ideal characters, or rather moods
of character, with such extreme accuracy
of adjustment, that the circumstances of
narration seem to have a natural correspondence
with the predominant feeling, and, as it
were, to be evolved from it by assimilative
force. Thirdly, his vivid, picturesque delineation
of objects, and the peculiar skill with which
he holds all of them fused, to borrow a metaphor
from science, in a medium of strong emotion.
Fourthly, the variety of his lyrical measures,
and exquisite modulation of harmonious words
and cadences to the swell and fall of the
feelings expressed. Fifthly, the elevated
habits of thought, implied in these compositions,
and imparting a mellow soberness of tone,
more impressive to our minds, than if the
author had drawn up a set of opinions in
verse, and sought to instruct the understanding
rather than communicate the love of beauty
to the heart.