His only guide in this most difficult hour was the need and impulse of his own nature. He felt that in the solitude of Nature there was peace, and there only was a life of plain living and high thinking possible. All he knew was that the common ideals of life did not satisfy him, and he exclaimed

The wealthiest man amongst us is the best;

No grandeur now in nature or in book

Delights us.

He had learned the great lesson of living, not for things temporal, but for things eternal; he had set himself above all to be true to his own self, and he had the rare daring of being absolutely faithful to the voice of this supreme conviction. Any greatness which attaches to Wordsworth's character directly springs from this spiritual honesty of purpose. The noblest qualities of his poetry, all the qualities indeed which differentiate and distinguish it, and give it a lofty isolation in English literature, were the natural result of this temper of spirit and method of life. There, far from the fevered life of cities, where the free winds blew, and the spacious silence taught serenity; there, in the daily contemplation of simple life and natural beauty among his own mountains, the bonds of custom fell from Wordsworth's spirit, and he became enfranchised with a glorious liberty. Strength returned to him, clearness and resoluteness of spirit, sanity and joy of mind. The great lesson which he was consecrated to expound was the nobleness of unworldly and simple life, and such lessons could only be learned, much less taught, by a life which was itself infinitely removed from the vulgar scramble for wealth, and the insane thirst for social power. It is not too much to say that it is to

Dora Wordsworth that England owes the precious gift of her brother's genius. She recognised it when he himself was dubious; she taught him how to collect his powers and develop them; she encouraged him when almost every other voice was hostile; and, finally, she taught him that serene confidence in himself, and in his mission, which made him say to his few friends, when the public contempt and apathy of his time seemed universal and unbearable: "Make yourselves at rest respecting me; I speak the truths the world must feel at last."

CHAPTER XII.

SOME CHARACTERISTICS OF WORDSWORTH'S POETRY

WE

E have seen how Wordsworth began his poetic career with certain clearly defined and original views on the art of poetic expression. If he had been a less self-contained and self-confident man, he would hardly have dared to put forth these views with such perfect indifference to the current of popular taste which prevailed in the beginning of the century. But the truth is that Wordsworth was not a student of books. De Quincey says that his library did not exceed three hundred volumes, and many of these were in a very incomplete condition. He was imperfectly acquainted with English literature as a whole, and almost entirely ignorant of the poets of his own day. He was acquainted with the poetry of Scott and Southey, but he thought little of it. At a moment when Byron was dazzling society, and his poems were selling by thousands, Wordsworth had scarcely glanced at them; nor is there any sign that the tragic force of Byron stirred so much as a ripple in the calm of Wordsworth's mind. He certainly knew little of Shelley, and nothing of Keats. The only poet of his time who had anything to do with the shaping of his taste was Coleridge. From Coleridge he may have learned something of the spell of melody, for a greater master of lyrical melody than Coleridge never lived. But in the main it may be said that Wordsworth stood

alone. He had no mentors-he copied no models. With the solitary exceptions of "Laodamia," which was inspired by a re-perusal of Virgil in middle life, and the "Ode on Intimations of Immortality," which owes its suggestion, perhaps, to certain beautiful lines of Henry Vaughan, the Silurist, it is impossible to trace the origin of any considerable poem of Wordsworth's to literary sources. The effects of this limitation of literary culture in Wordsworth are twofold: we find that both the great qualities and the great defects of his genius are liberally displayed in his writings. A solitary man possessed by a theory is sure to exaggerate the importance of his theory, and to write many things which he would not have written had his views been corrected by a more generous commerce with the world. Nothing else can account for the almost ludicrous complacency with which he calls our attention to such a poem as the "Idiot Boy," and tells us he never "wrote anything with so much glee." On the other hand, the best poems of Wordsworth could only have been written by a man nourished in solitary contemplation, and indifferent to the literary standards of his time. Because he owes his inspiration not to literature but to Nature, he is able to rise into a region of profound thought and emotion, to which the greatest of literary guides could not have conducted him; and, for the same reason, all that he has written has its own distinctive note, and bears the stamp of a dominant individuality.

When we endeavour to ascertain the characteristics of a poet's work, what we really mean is the characteristics of his style, and his peculiar moral and emotional interest. Turning first, then, to the style of Wordsworth, it seems to be generally admitted that the period in which his really memorable work was done may be

limited to about twenty years (1798-1818). For what Wordsworth overlooked, and what all inventors of poetic theories and formulæ have always overlooked, is that the art of poetic expression is an indefinable gift, which can neither be obtained by obedience to any rules of composition, nor obscured by any defects of literary culture. It is something in the poet which is spontaneous and natural, which the world can neither give nor take away. The absolute fulness of the gift makes itself felt at once in the verses of an imperfectly educated rustic like Burns; and the limitation and frequent absence of the gift is equally apparent in the brilliant lines of a thoroughly cultured poet like Pope. When we speak of the inspiration of the poet we use no vain phrase; for that indefinable charm which dwells in the poetry of a true poet is something that the poet cannot produce at will, nor retain according to his pleasure. It is a gift of illumination and power, an inspiration which visits him irregularly, a sort of diviner soul which possesses him and purges him, and which is as independent even of character as it is of culture or knowledge. The poet may, indeed, seek to fit himself for the high tasks of the muse, as both Milton and Wordsworth did; but even then it by no means follows that when the lamp is cleansed and trimmed the sacred flame will kindle. And in no poet is the truth of these remarks more obvious than in Wordsworth. During these twenty years the genius of Wordsworth was in its prime. He is so far true to his theory of poetry that he uses the simplest words, and often chooses the homeliest subjects; but his words have a compactness, a melody, a subtle charm of emotion, which make them enter into the secret places of the human spirit, and cling to the memory