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Prefaces and Prologues to Famous Books written by Charles W. Eliot

C >> Charles W. Eliot >> Prefaces and Prologues to Famous Books




Having thus explained a few of my reasons for writing in verse, and
why I have chosen subjects from common life, and endeavoured to bring
my language near to the real language of men, if I have been too
minute in pleading my own cause, I have at the same time been treating
a subject of general interest; and for this reason a few words shall
be added with reference solely to these particular poems, and to some
defects which will probably be found in them. I am sensible that my
associations must have sometimes been particular instead of general,
and that, consequently, giving to things a false importance, I
may have sometimes written upon unworthy subjects; but I am less
apprehensive on this account, than that my language may frequently
have suffered from those arbitrary connexions of feelings and ideas
with particular words and phrases, from which no man can altogether
protect himself. Hence I have no doubt, that, in some instances,
feelings, even of the ludicrous, may be given to my Readers by
expressions which appeared to me tender and pathetic. Such faulty
expressions, were I convinced they were faulty at present, and that
they must necessarily continue to be so, I would willingly take
all reasonable pains to correct. But it is dangerous to make these
alterations on the simple authority of a few individuals, or even of
certain classes of men; for where the understanding of an Author is
not convinced, or his feelings altered, this cannot be done without
great injury to himself: for his own feelings are his stay and
support; and, if he set them aside in one instance, he may be induced
to repeat this act till his mind shall lose all confidence in itself,
and become utterly debilitated. To this it may be added, that the
critic ought never to forget that he is himself exposed to the same
errors as the Poet, and, perhaps, in a much greater degree: for
there can be no presumption in saying of most readers, that it is not
probable they will be so well acquainted with the various stages of
meaning through which words have passed, or with the fickleness or
stability of the relations of particular ideas to each other; and,
above all, since they are so much less interested in the subject, they
may decide lightly and carelessly.

Long as the Reader has been detained, I hope he will permit me to
caution him against a mode of false criticism which has been applied
to Poetry, in which the language closely resembles that of life and
nature. Such verses have been triumphed over in parodies, of which Dr.
Johnson's stanza is a fair specimen:--

I put my hat upon my head
And walked into the Strand,
And there I met another man
Whose hat was in his hand.

Immediately under these lines let us place one of the most justly
admired stanzas of the 'Babes in the Wood,'

These pretty Babes with hand in hand
Went wandering up and down;
But never more they saw the Man
Approaching from the Town.

In both these stanzas the words, and the order of the words, in no
respect differ from the most unimpassioned conversation. There are
words in both, for example, 'the Strand,' and 'the Town,' connected
with none but the most familiar ideas; yet the one stanza we admit
as admirable, and the other as a fair example of the superlatively
contemptible. Whence arises this difference? Not from the metre, not
from the language, not from the order of the words; but the _matter_
expressed in Dr. Johnson's stanza is contemptible. The proper method
of treating trivial and simple verses, to which Dr. Johnson's stanza
would be a fair parallelism, is not to say, this is a bad kind of
poetry, or, this is not poetry; but, this wants sense; it is neither
interesting in itself nor can _lead_ to anything interesting; the
images neither originate in that sane state of feeling which arises
out of thought, nor can excite thought or feeling in the Reader. This
is the only sensible manner of dealing with such verses. Why trouble
yourself about the species till you have previously decided upon the
genus? Why take pains to prove than an ape is not a Newton, when it is
self-evident that he is not a man?

One request I must make of my reader, which is, that in judging
these Poems he would decide by his own feelings genuinely, and not
by reflection upon what will probably be the judgement of others.
How common is it to hear a person say, I myself do not object to this
style of composition, or this or that expression, but, to such and
such classes of people it will appear mean or ludicrous! This mode
of criticism, so destructive of all sound unadulterated judgement, is
almost universal: let the Reader then abide, independently, by his own
feelings, and, if he finds himself affected, let him not suffer such
conjectures to interfere with his pleasure.

If an Author, by any single composition, has impressed us with
respect for his talents, it is useful to consider this as affording
a presumption, that on other occasions where we have been displeased,
he, nevertheless, may not have written ill or absurdly; and further,
to give him so much credit for this one composition as may induce
us to review what has displeased us, with more care than we should
otherwise have bestowed upon it. This is not only an act of justice,
but, in our decisions upon poetry especially, may conduce, in a high
degree, to the improvement of our own taste; for an _accurate_ taste
in poetry, and in all the other arts, as Sir Joshua Reynolds has
observed, is an _acquired_ talent, which can only be produced by
thought and a long continued intercourse with the best models of
composition. This is mentioned, not with so ridiculous a purpose as to
prevent the most inexperienced Reader from judging for himself (I
have already said that I wish him to judge for himself), but merely to
temper the rashness of decision, and to suggest, that, if Poetry be a
subject on which much time has not been bestowed, the judgement may be
erroneous; and that, in many cases, it necessarily will be so.

Nothing would, I know, have so effectually contributed to further the
end which I have in view, as to have shown of what kind the pleasure
is, and how that pleasure is produced, which is confessedly produced
by metrical composition essentially different from that which I have
here endeavoured to recommend: for the Reader will say that he has
been pleased by such composition; and what more can be done for him?
The power of any art is limited; and he will suspect, that, if it
be proposed to furnish him with new friends, that can be only upon
condition of his abandoning his old friends. Besides, as I have said,
the Reader is himself conscious of the pleasure which he has received
from such composition, composition to which he has peculiarly attached
the endearing name of Poetry; and all men feel an habitual gratitude,
and something of an honourable bigotry, for the objects which have
long continued to please them: we not only wish to be pleased, but to
be pleased in that particular way in which we have been accustomed
to be pleased. There is in these feelings enough to resist a host of
arguments; and I should be the less able to combat them successfully,
as I am willing to allow, that, in order entirely to enjoy the Poetry
which I am recommending, it would be necessary to give up much of what
is ordinarily enjoyed. But, would my limits have permitted me to point
out how this pleasure is produced, many obstacles might have been
removed, and the Reader assisted in perceiving that the powers of
language are not so limited as he may suppose; and that it is possible
for poetry to give other enjoyments, of a purer, more lasting,
and more exquisite nature. This part of the subject has not been
altogether neglected, but it has not been so much my present aim to
prove, that the interest excited by some other kinds of poetry is less
vivid, and less worthy of the nobler powers of the mind, as to offer
reasons for presuming, that if my purpose were fulfilled, a species of
poetry would be produced, which is genuine poetry; in its nature well
adapted to interest mankind permanently, and likewise important in the
multiplicity and quality of its moral relations.

From what has been said, and from a perusal of the Poems, the Reader
will be able clearly to perceive the object which I had in view: he
will determine how far it has been attained; and, what is a much
more important question, whether it be worth attaining: and upon the
decision of these two questions will rest my claim to the approbation
of the Public.


[Footnote 1: It is worth while here to observe, that the affecting
parts of Chaucer are almost always expressed In language pure and
universally intelligible even to this day.]

[Footnote 2: I here use the word 'Poetry' (though against my own
judgement) as opposed to the word Prose, and synonymous with metrical
composition. But much confusion has been introduced into criticism
by this contradistinction of Poetry and Prose, instead of the more
philosophical one of Poetry and Matter of Fact, or Science. The only
strict antithesis to Prose is Metre; nor is this, in truth, a _strict_
antithesis, because lines and passages of metre so naturally occur in
writing prose, that it would be scarcely possible to avoid them, even
were it desirable.]




APPENDIX TO LYRICAL BALLADS

(1802)


Perhaps, as I have no right to expect that attentive perusal, without
which, confined, as I have been, to the narrow limits of a preface, my
meaning cannot be thoroughly understood, I am anxious to give an exact
notion of the sense in which the phrase poetic diction has been used;
and for this purpose, a few words shall here be added, concerning the
origin and characteristics of the phraseology, which I have condemned
under that name.

The earliest poets of all nations generally wrote from passion excited
by real events; they wrote naturally, and as men: feeling powerfully
as they did, their language was daring, and figurative. In succeeding
times, Poets, and Men ambitious of the fame of Poets, perceiving the
influence of such language, and desirous of producing the same effect
without being animated by the same passion, set themselves to a
mechanical adoption of these figures of speech, and made use of them,
sometimes with propriety, but much more frequently applied them
to feelings and thoughts with which they had no natural connexion
whatsoever. A language was thus insensibly produced, differing
materially from the real language of men in _any situation_. The
Reader or Hearer of this distorted language found himself in a
perturbed and unusual state of mind: when affected by the genuine
language of passion he had been in a perturbed and unusual state of
mind also: in both cases he was willing that his common judgement and
understanding should be laid asleep, and he had no instinctive and
infallible perception of the true to make him reject the false; the
one served as a passport for the other. The emotion was in both cases
delightful, and no wonder if he confounded the one with the other,
and believed them both to be produced by the same, or similar causes.
Besides, the Poet spake to him in the character of a man to be looked
up to, a man of genius and authority. Thus, and from a variety of
other causes, this distorted language was received with admiration;
and Poets, it is probable, who had before contented themselves for the
most part with misapplying only expressions which at first had
been dictated by real passion, carried the abuse still further, and
introduced phrases composed apparently in the spirit of the original
figurative language of passion, yet altogether of their own invention,
and characterized by various degrees of wanton deviation from good
sense and nature.

It is indeed true, that the language of the earliest Poets was felt to
differ materially from ordinary language, because it was the language
of extraordinary occasions; but it was really spoken by men, language
which the Poet himself had uttered when he had been affected by the
events which he described, or which he had heard uttered by those
around him. To this language it is probable that metre of some sort
or other was early superadded. This separated the genuine language of
Poetry still further from common life, so that whoever read or heard
the poems of these earliest Poets felt himself moved in a way in which
he had not been accustomed to be moved in real life, and by causes
manifestly different from those which acted upon him in real life.
This was the great temptation to all the corruptions which have
followed: under the protection of this feeling succeeding Poets
constructed a phraseology which had one thing, it is true, in common
with the genuine language of poetry, namely, that it was not heard in
ordinary conversation; that it was unusual. But the first Poets, as
I have said, spake a language which, though unusual, was still the
language of men. This circumstance, however, was disregarded by their
successors; they found that they could please by easier means:
they became proud of modes of expression which they themselves had
invented, and which were uttered only by themselves. In process of
time metre became a symbol or promise of this unusual language, and
whoever took upon him to write in metre, according as he possessed
more or less of true poetic genius, introduced less or more of this
adulterated phraseology into his compositions, and the true and the
false were inseparately interwoven until, the taste of men becoming
gradually perverted, this language was received as a natural language:
and at length, by the influence of books upon men, did to a certain
degree really become so. Abuses of this kind were imported from one
nation to another, and with the progress of refinement this diction
became daily more and more corrupt, thrusting out of sight the plain
humanities of nature by a motley masquerade of tricks, quaintnesses,
hieroglyphics, and enigmas.

It would not be uninteresting to point out the causes of the pleasure
given by this extravagant and absurd diction. It depends upon a great
variety of causes, but upon none, perhaps, more than its influence in
impressing a notion of the peculiarity and exaltation of the Poet's
character, and in flattering the Reader's self-love by bringing
him nearer to a sympathy with that character; an effect which is
accomplished by unsettling ordinary habits of thinking, and thus
assisting the Reader to approach to that perturbed and dizzy state
of mind in which if he does not find himself, he imagines that he is
_balked_ of a peculiar enjoyment which poetry can and ought to bestow.

The sonnet quoted from Gray, in the Preface, except the lines printed
in italics, consists of little else but this diction, though not of
the worst kind; and indeed, if one may be permitted to say so, it is
far too common in the best writers both ancient and modern. Perhaps
in no way, by positive example could more easily be given a notion
of what I mean by the phrase _poetic diction_ than by referring to a
comparison between the metrical paraphrase which we have of passages
in the Old and New Testament, and those passages as they exist in
our common Translation. See Pope's _Messiah_ throughout; Prior's 'Did
sweeter sounds adorn my flowing tongue,' &c. &c. 'Though I speak with
the tongues of men and of angels,' &c. &c, 1st Corinthians, ch. xiii.
By way of immediate example take the following of Dr. Johnson:

Turn on the prudent Ant thy heedless eyes,
Observe her labours, Sluggard, and be wise;
No stern command, no monitory voice,
Prescribes her duties, or directs her choice;
Yet, timely provident, she hastes away
To snatch the blessings of a plenteous day;
When fruitful Summer loads the teeming plain,
She crops the harvest, and she stores the grain.
How long shall sloth usurp thy useless hours,
Unnerve thy vigour, and enchain thy powers?
While artful shades thy downy couch enclose,
And soft solicitation courts repose,
Amidst the drowsy charms of dull delight,
Year chases year with unremitted flight,
Till Want now following, fraudulent and slow,
Shall spring to seize thee, like an ambush'd foe.

From this hubbub of words pass to the original 'Go to the Ant, thou
Sluggard, consider her ways, and be wise: which having no guide,
overseer, or ruler, provideth her meat in the summer, and gathereth
her food in the harvest. How long wilt thou sleep, O Sluggard?
when wilt thou arise out of thy sleep? Yet a little sleep, a little
slumber, a little folding of the hands to sleep. So shall thy poverty
come as one that travelleth, and thy want as an armed man' Proverbs,
ch. vi.

One more quotation, and I have done. It is from Cowper's Verses
supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk:

Religion! what treasure untold
Resides in that heavenly word!
More precious than silver and gold,
Or all that this earth can afford
But the sound of the church-going bell
These valleys and rocks never heard,
Ne'er sighed at the sound of a knell,
Or smiled when a sabbath appeared
Ye winds, that have made me your sport
Convey to this desolate shore
Some cordial endearing report
Of a land I must visit no more
My friends, do they now and then send
A wish or a thought after me?
O tell me I yet have a friend,
Though a friend I am never to see

This passage is quoted as an instance of three different styles of
composition. The first four lines are poorly expressed, some Critics
would call the language prosaic; the fact is, it would be bad prose,
so bad, that it is scarcely worse in metre. The epithet 'church-going'
applied to a bell, and that by so chaste a writer as Cowper, is an
instance of the strange abuses which Poets have introduced into their
language, till they and their Readers take them as matters of course,
if they do not single them out expressly as objects of admiration.
The two lines 'Ne'er sighed at the sound,' &c., are, in my opinion, an
instance of the language of passion wrested from its proper use, and,
from the mere circumstance of the composition being in metre, applied
upon an occasion that does not justify such violent expressions; and I
should condemn the passage, though perhaps few Readers will agree with
me, as vicious poetic diction. The last stanza is throughout admirably
expressed: it would be equally good whether in prose or verse, except
that the Reader has an exquisite pleasure in seeing such natural
language so naturally connected with metre. The beauty of this stanza
tempts me to conclude with a principle which ought never to be
lost sight of, and which has been my chief guide in all I have
said,--namely, that in works of _imagination and sentiment_, for of
these only have I been treating, in proportion as ideas and feelings
are valuable, whether the composition be in prose or in verse, they
require and exact one and the same language. Metre is but adventitious
to composition, and the phraseology for which that passport is
necessary, even where it may be graceful at all will be little valued
by the judicious.




PREFACE TO POEMS

(1815)


The powers requisite for the production of poetry are: first, those
of Observation and Description,--i.e. the ability to observe with
accuracy things as they are in themselves, and with fidelity to
describe them, unmodified by any passion or feeling existing in the
mind of the describer; whether the things depicted be actually present
to the senses, or have a place only in the memory. This power, though
indispensable to a Poet, is one which he employs only in submission
to necessity, and never for a continuance of time: as its exercise
supposes all the higher qualities of the mind to be passive, and in
a state of subjection to external objects, much in the same way as
a translator or engraver ought to be to his original. 2ndly,
Sensibility,--which, the more exquisite it is, the wider will be the
range of a poet's perceptions; and the more will he be incited to
observe objects, both as they exist in themselves and as re-acted upon
by his own mind. (The distinction between poetic and human sensibility
has been marked in the character of the Poet delineated in the
original preface.) 3rdly, Reflection,--which makes the Poet acquainted
with the value of actions, images, thoughts, and feelings; and assists
the sensibility in perceiving their connexion with each other. 4thly,
Imagination and Fancy,--to modify, to create, and to associate. 5thly,
Invention,--by which characters are composed out of materials supplied
by observation; whether of the Poet's own heart and mind, or of
external life and nature; and such incidents and situations produced
as are most impressive to the imagination, and most fitted to do
justice to the characters, sentiments, and passions, which the Poet
undertakes to illustrate. And, lastly, Judgement, to decide how
and where, and in what degree, each of these faculties ought to be
exerted; so that the less shall not be sacrificed to the greater; nor
the greater, slighting the less, arrogate, to its own injury, more
than its due. By judgement, also, is determined what are the laws and
appropriate graces of every species of composition.[3]

The materials of Poetry, by these powers collected and produced, are
cast, by means of various moulds, into divers forms. The moulds may be
enumerated, and the forms specified, in the following order. 1st, The
Narrative,--including the Epopoeia, the Historic Poem, the Tale, the
Romance, the Mock-heroic, and, if the spirit of Homer will tolerate
such neighbourhood, that dear production of our days, the metrical
Novel. Of this Class, the distinguishing mark is, that the Narrator,
however liberally his speaking agents be introduced, is himself the
source from which everything primarily flows. Epic Poets, in order
that their mode of composition may accord with the elevation of their
subject, represent themselves as _singing_ from the inspiration of the
Muse, 'Anna virumque _cano_;' but this is a fiction, in modern times,
of slight value: the _Iliad_ or the _Paradise Lost_ would gain little
in our estimation by being chanted. The other poets who belong to this
class are commonly content to _tell_ their tale;--so that of the
whole it may be affirmed that they neither require nor reject the
accompaniment of music.

2ndly, The Dramatic,--consisting of Tragedy, Historic Drama, Comedy,
and Masque, in which the Poet does not appear at all in his own
person, and where the whole action is carried on by speech and
dialogue of the agents; music being admitted only incidentally and
rarely. The Opera may be placed here, inasmuch as it proceeds by
dialogue; though depending, to the degree that it does, upon music, it
has a strong claim to be ranked with the lyrical. The characteristic
and Impassioned Epistle, of which Ovid and Pope have given examples,
considered as a species of monodrama, may, without impropriety, be
placed in this class.

3rdly, The Lyrical,--containing the Hymn, the Ode, the Elegy, the
Song, and the Ballad; in all which, for the production of their _full_
effect, an accompaniment of music is indispensable.

4thly, The Idyllium,--descriptive chiefly either of the processes and
appearances of external nature, as the _Seasons_ of Thomson; or
of characters, manners, and sentiments, as are Shenstone's
_Schoolmistress, The Cotter's Saturday Night_ of Burns, _The Twa Dogs_
of the same Author; or of these in conjunction with the appearances
of Nature, as most of the pieces of Theocritus, the _Allegro_ and
_Penseroso_ of Milton, Beattie's _Minstrel_, Goldsmith's _Deserted
Village_. The Epitaph, the Inscription, the Sonnet, most of
the epistles of poets writing in their own persons, and all
loco-descriptive poetry, belonging to this class.

5thly, Didactic,--the principal object of which is direct instruction;
as the Poem of Lucretius, the _Georgics_ of Virgil, _The Fleece_ of
Dyer, Mason's _English Garden_, &c.

And, lastly, philosophical Satire, like that of Horace and Juvenal;
personal and occasional Satire rarely comprehending sufficient of the
general in the individual to be dignified with the name of poetry.

Out of the three last has been constructed a composite order, of which
Young's _Night Thoughts_, and Cowper's _Task_, are excellent examples.

It is deducible from the above, that poems apparently miscellaneous,
may with propriety be arranged either with reference to the powers of
mind _predominant_ in the production of them; or to the mould in which
they are cast; or, lastly, to the subjects to which they relate. From
each of these considerations, the following Poems have been divided
into classes; which, that the work may more obviously correspond with
the course of human life, and for the sake of exhibiting in it the
three requisites of a legitimate whole, a beginning, a middle, and an
end, have been also arranged, as far as it was possible, according to
an order of time, commencing with Childhood, and terminating with
Old Age, Death, and Immortality. My guiding wish was, that the small
pieces of which these volumes consist, thus discriminated, might be
regarded under a two-fold view; as composing an entire work within
themselves, and as adjuncts to the philosophical Poem, _The Recluse_.
This arrangement has long presented itself habitually to my own mind.
Nevertheless, I should have preferred to scatter the contents of these
volumes at random, if I had been persuaded that, by the plan adopted,
anything material would be taken from the natural effect of the
pieces, individually, on the mind of the unreflecting Reader. I trust
there is a sufficient variety in each class to prevent this; while,
for him who reads with reflection, the arrangement will serve as a
commentary unostentatiously directing his attention to my purposes,
both particular and general. But, as I wish to guard against the
possibility of misleading by this classification, it is proper first
to remind the Reader, that certain poems are placed according to
the powers of mind, in the Author's conception, predominant in the
production of them; _predominant_, which implies the exertion of other
faculties in less degree. Where there is more imagination than fancy
in a poem, it is placed under the head of imagination, and _vice
versa_. Both the above classes might without impropriety have been
enlarged from that consisting of 'Poems founded on the Affections;'
as might this latter from those, and from the class 'proceeding from
Sentiment and Reflection.' The most striking characteristics of each
piece, mutual illustration, variety, and proportion, have governed me
throughout.