Incidentally, while preparing his ultimate solemn effect, Lamb has
inspired you with a new, intensified vision of the wistful beauty of
children--their imitativeness, their facile and generous emotions,
their anxiety to be correct, their ingenuous haste to escape from
grief into joy. You can see these children almost as clearly and as
tenderly as Lamb saw them. For days afterwards you will not be able to
look upon a child without recalling Lamb's portrayal of the grace of
childhood. He will have shared with you his perception of beauty. If
you possess children, he will have renewed for you the charm which
custom does very decidedly stale. It is further to be noticed that the
measure of his success in picturing the children is the measure of his
success in his main effect. The more real they seem, the more touching
is the revelation of the fact that they do not exist, and never have
existed. And if you were moved by the reference to their "pretty dead
mother," you will be still more moved when you learn that the girl who
would have been their mother is not dead and is not Lamb's.

As, having read the essay, you reflect upon it, you will see how its
emotional power over you has sprung from the sincere and unexaggerated
expression of actual emotions exactly remembered by someone who had an
eye always open for beauty, who was, indeed, obsessed by beauty. The
beauty of old houses and gardens and aged virtuous characters, the
beauty of children, the beauty of companionships, the softening beauty
of dreams in an arm-chair--all these are brought together and mingled
with the grief and regret which were the origin of the mood. Why is
_Dream Children_ a classic? It is a classic because it transmits to
you, as to generations before you, distinguished emotion, because it
makes you respond to the throb of life more intensely, more justly,
and more nobly. And it is capable of doing this because Charles Lamb
had a very distinguished, a very sensitive, and a very honest mind.
His emotions were noble. He felt so keenly that he was obliged to find
relief in imparting his emotions. And his mental processes were so
sincere that he could neither exaggerate nor diminish the truth. If
he had lacked any one of these three qualities, his appeal would have
been narrowed and weakened, and he would not have become a classic.
Either his feelings would have been deficient in supreme beauty,
and therefore less worthy to be imparted, or he would not have had
sufficient force to impart them; or his honesty would not have been
equal to the strain of imparting them accurately. In any case, he
would not have set up in you that vibration which we call pleasure,
and which is super-eminently caused by vitalising participation in
high emotion. As Lamb sat in his bachelor arm-chair, with his brother
in the grave, and the faithful homicidal maniac by his side, he
really did think to himself, "This is beautiful. Sorrow is beautiful.
Disappointment is beautiful. Life is beautiful. _I must tell them_. I
must make them understand." Because he still makes you understand he
is a classic. And now I seem to hear you say, "But what about Lamb's
famous literary style? Where does that come in?"




CHAPTER VI

THE QUESTION OF STYLE


In discussing the value of particular books, I have heard people
say--people who were timid about expressing their views of literature
in the presence of literary men: "It may be bad from a literary point
of view, but there are very good things in it." Or: "I dare say
the style is very bad, but really the book is very interesting and
suggestive." Or: "I'm not an expert, and so I never bother my head
about good style. All I ask for is good matter. And when I have got
it, critics may say what they like about the book." And many other
similar remarks, all showing that in the minds of the speakers
there existed a notion that style is something supplementary to,
and distinguishable from, matter; a sort of notion that a writer who
wanted to be classical had first to find and arrange his matter, and
then dress it up elegantly in a costume of style, in order to please
beings called literary critics.

This is a misapprehension. Style cannot be distinguished from matter.
When a writer conceives an idea he conceives it in a form of words.
That form of words constitutes his style, and it is absolutely
governed by the idea. The idea can only exist in words, and it can
only exist in one form of words. You cannot say exactly the same thing
in two different ways. Slightly alter the expression, and you slightly
alter the idea. Surely it is obvious that the expression cannot
be altered without altering the thing expressed! A writer, having
conceived and expressed an idea, may, and probably will, "polish it
up." But what does he polish up? To say that he polishes up his
style is merely to say that he is polishing up his idea, that he has
discovered faults or imperfections in his idea, and is perfecting it.
An idea exists in proportion as it is expressed; it exists when it
is expressed, and not before. It expresses itself. A clear idea is
expressed clearly, and a vague idea vaguely. You need but take your
own case and your own speech. For just as science is the development
of common-sense, so is literature the development of common daily
speech. The difference between science and common-sense is simply one
of degree; similarly with speech and literature. Well, when you "know
what you think," you succeed in saying what you think, in making
yourself understood. When you "don't know what to think,"
your expressive tongue halts. And note how in daily life the
characteristics of your style follow your mood; how tender it is when
you are tender, how violent when you are violent. You have said to
yourself in moments of emotion: "If only I could write--," etc. You
were wrong. You ought to have said: "If only I could _think_--on this
high plane." When you have thought clearly you have never had any
difficulty in saying what you thought, though you may occasionally
have had some difficulty in keeping it to yourself. And when you
cannot express yourself, depend upon it that you have nothing precise
to express, and that what incommodes you is not the vain desire to
express, but the vain desire to _think_ more clearly. All this just to
illustrate how style and matter are co-existent, and inseparable, and
alike.

You cannot have good matter with bad style. Examine the point more
closely. A man wishes to convey a fine idea to you. He employs a form
of words. That form of words is his style. Having read, you say: "Yes,
this idea is fine." The writer has therefore achieved his end. But in
what imaginable circumstances can you say: "Yes, this idea is fine,
but the style is not fine"? The sole medium of communication between
you and the author has been the form of words. The fine idea has
reached you. How? In the words, by the words. Hence the fineness must
be in the words. You may say, superiorly: "He has expressed himself
clumsily, but I can _see_ what he means." By what light? By something
in the words, in the style. That something is fine. Moreover, if the
style is clumsy, are you sure that you can see what he means? You
cannot be quite sure. And at any rate, you cannot see distinctly.
The "matter" is what actually reaches you, and it must necessarily be
affected by the style.

Still further to comprehend what style is, let me ask you to think
of a writer's style exactly as you would think of the gestures and
manners of an acquaintance. You know the man whose demeanour is
"always calm," but whose passions are strong. How do you know that his
passions are strong? Because he "gives them away" by some small, but
important, part of his demeanour, such as the twitching of a lip or
the whitening of the knuckles caused by clenching the hand. In other
words, his demeanour, fundamentally, is not calm. You know the man
who is always "smoothly polite and agreeable," but who affects you
unpleasantly. Why does he affect you unpleasantly? Because he is
tedious, and therefore disagreeable, and because his politeness is
not real politeness. You know the man who is awkward, shy, clumsy, but
who, nevertheless, impresses you with a sense of dignity and force.
Why? Because mingled with that awkwardness and so forth _is_ dignity.
You know the blunt, rough fellow whom you instinctively guess to be
affectionate--because there is "something in his tone" or "something
in his eyes." In every instance the demeanour, while perhaps seeming
to be contrary to the character, is really in accord with it. The
demeanour never contradicts the character. It is one part of the
character that contradicts another part of the character. For, after
all, the blunt man _is_ blunt, and the awkward man _is_ awkward, and
these characteristics are defects. The demeanour merely expresses
them. The two men would be better if, while conserving their good
qualities, they had the superficial attributes of smoothness and
agreeableness possessed by the gentleman who is unpleasant to you. And
as regards this latter, it is not his superficial attributes which are
unpleasant to you; but his other qualities. In the end the character
is shown in the demeanour; and the demeanour is a consequence of the
character and resembles the character. So with style and matter.
You may argue that the blunt, rough man's demeanour is unfair to his
tenderness. I do not think so. For his churlishness is really
very trying and painful, even to the man's wife, though a moment's
tenderness will make her and you forget it. The man really is
churlish, and much more often than he is tender. His demeanour is
merely just to his character. So, when a writer annoys you for ten
pages and then enchants you for ten lines, you must not explode
against his style. You must not say that his style won't let his
matter "come out." You must remember the churlish, tender man. The
more you reflect, the more clearly you will see that faults and
excellences of style are faults and excellences of matter itself.

One of the most striking illustrations of this neglected truth is
Thomas Carlyle. How often has it been said that Carlyle's matter
is marred by the harshness and the eccentricities of his style? But
Carlyle's matter is harsh and eccentric to precisely the same degree
as his style is harsh and eccentric. Carlyle was harsh and eccentric.
His behaviour was frequently ridiculous, if it were not abominable.
His judgments were often extremely bizarre. When you read one of
Carlyle's fierce diatribes, you say to yourself: "This is splendid.
The man's enthusiasm for justice and truth is glorious." But you also
say: "He is a little unjust and a little untruthful. He goes too far.
He lashes too hard." These things are not the style; they are the
matter. And when, as in his greatest moments, he is emotional and
restrained at once, you say: "This is the real Carlyle." Kindly notice
how perfect the style has become! No harshnesses or eccentricities
now! And if that particular matter is the "real" Carlyle, then that
particular style is Carlyle's "real" style. But when you say "real"
you would more properly say "best." "This is the best Carlyle." If
Carlyle had always been at his best he would have counted among the
supreme geniuses of the world. But he was a mixture. His style is the
expression of the mixture. The faults are only in the style because
they are in the matter.

You will find that, in classical literature, the style always follows
the mood of the matter. Thus, Charles Lamb's essay on _Dream Children_
begins quite simply, in a calm, narrative manner, enlivened by a
certain quippishness concerning the children. The style is grave when
great-grandmother Field is the subject, and when the author passes
to a rather elaborate impression of the picturesque old mansion it
becomes as it were consciously beautiful. This beauty is intensified
in the description of the still more beautiful garden. But the real
dividing point of the essay occurs when Lamb approaches his elder
brother. He unmistakably marks the point with the phrase: "_Then, in
somewhat a more heightened tone_, I told how," etc. Henceforward the
style increases in fervour and in solemnity until the culmination of
the essay is reached: "And while I stood gazing, both the children
gradually grew fainter to my view, receding and still receding till
nothing at last but two mournful features were seen in the uttermost
distance, which, without speech, strangely impressed upon me the
effects of speech...." Throughout, the style is governed by the
matter. "Well," you say, "of course it is. It couldn't be otherwise.
If it were otherwise it would be ridiculous. A man who made love as
though he were preaching a sermon, or a man who preached a sermon as
though he were teasing schoolboys, or a man who described a death as
though he were describing a practical joke, must necessarily be either
an ass or a lunatic." Just so. You have put it in a nutshell. You have
disposed of the problem of style so far as it can be disposed of.

But what do those people mean who say: "I read such and such an author
for the beauty of his style alone"? Personally, I do not clearly know
what they mean (and I have never been able to get them to explain),
unless they mean that they read for the beauty of sound alone. When
you read a book there are only three things of which you may be
conscious: (1) The significance of the words, which is inseparably
bound up with the thought. (2) The look of the printed words on the
page--I do not suppose that anybody reads any author for the visual
beauty of the words on the page. (3) The sound of the words, either
actually uttered or imagined by the brain to be uttered. Now it is
indubitable that words differ in beauty of sound. To my mind one
of the most beautiful words in the English language is "pavement."
Enunciate it, study its sound, and see what you think. It is also
indubitable that certain combinations of words have a more beautiful
sound than certain other combinations. Thus Tennyson held that the
most beautiful line he ever wrote was:

The mellow ouzel fluting in the elm.

Perhaps, as sound, it was. Assuredly it makes a beautiful succession
of sounds, and recalls the bird-sounds which it is intended to
describe. But does it live in the memory as one of the rare great
Tennysonian lines? It does not. It has charm, but the charm is merely
curious or pretty. A whole poem composed of lines with no better
recommendation than that line has would remain merely curious or
pretty. It would not permanently interest. It would be as insipid as a
pretty woman who had nothing behind her prettiness. It would not live.
One may remark in this connection how the merely verbal felicities of
Tennyson have lost our esteem. Who will now proclaim the _Idylls of
the King_ as a masterpiece? Of the thousands of lines written by
him which please the ear, only those survive of which the matter is
charged with emotion. No! As regards the man who professes to read an
author "for his style alone," I am inclined to think either that he
will soon get sick of that author, or that he is deceiving himself and
means the author's general temperament--not the author's verbal style,
but a peculiar quality which runs through all the matter written by
the author. Just as one may like a man for something which is always
coming out of him, which one cannot define, and which is of the very
essence of the man.

In judging the style of an author, you must employ the same canons
as you use in judging men. If you do this you will not be tempted
to attach importance to trifles that are negligible. There can be no
lasting friendship without respect. If an author's style is such
that you cannot _respect_ it, then you may be sure that, despite
any present pleasure which you may obtain from that author, there is
something wrong with his matter, and that the pleasure will soon cloy.
You must examine your sentiments towards an author. If when you have
read an author you are pleased, without being conscious of aught but
his mellifluousness, just conceive what your feelings would be after
spending a month's holiday with a merely mellifluous man. If an
author's style has pleased you, but done nothing except make you
giggle, then reflect upon the ultimate tediousness of the man who can
do nothing but jest. On the other hand, if you are impressed by what
an author has said to you, but are aware of verbal clumsinesses in his
work, you need worry about his "bad style" exactly as much and exactly
as little as you would worry about the manners of a kindhearted,
keen-brained friend who was dangerous to carpets with a tea-cup in his
hand. The friend's antics in a drawing-room are somewhat regrettable,
but you would not say of him that his manners were bad. Again, if
an author's style dazzles you instantly and blinds you to everything
except its brilliant self, ask your soul, before you begin to admire
his matter, what would be your final opinion of a man who at the first
meeting fired his personality into you like a broadside. Reflect
that, as a rule, the people whom you have come to esteem communicated
themselves to you gradually, that they did not begin the entertainment
with fireworks. In short, look at literature as you would look at
life, and you cannot fail to perceive that, essentially, the style
is the man. Decidedly you will never assert that you care nothing for
style, that your enjoyment of an author's matter is unaffected by his
style. And you will never assert, either, that style alone suffices
for you.

If you are undecided upon a question of style, whether leaning to
the favourable or to the unfavourable, the most prudent course is to
forget that literary style exists. For, indeed, as style is understood
by most people who have not analysed their impressions under the
influence of literature, there _is_ no such thing as literary style.
You cannot divide literature into two elements and say: This is matter
and that style. Further, the significance and the worth of
literature are to be comprehended and assessed in the same way as the
significance and the worth of any other phenomenon: by the exercise
of common-sense. Common-sense will tell you that nobody, not even a
genius, can be simultaneously vulgar and distinguished, or beautiful
and ugly, or precise and vague, or tender and harsh. And common-sense
will therefore tell you that to try to set up vital contradictions
between matter and style is absurd. When there is a superficial
contradiction, one of the two mutually-contradicting qualities is of
far less importance than the other. If you refer literature to the
standards of life, common-sense will at once decide which quality
should count heaviest in your esteem. You will be in no danger of
weighing a mere maladroitness of manner against a fine trait of
character, or of letting a graceful deportment blind you to a
fundamental vacuity. When in doubt, ignore style, and think of the
matter as you would think of an individual.




CHAPTER VII

WRESTLING WITH AN AUTHOR


Having disposed, so far as is possible and necessary, of that
formidable question of style, let us now return to Charles Lamb, whose
essay on _Dream Children_ was the originating cause of our inquiry
into style. As we have made a beginning of Lamb, it will be well to
make an end of him. In the preliminary stages of literary culture,
nothing is more helpful, in the way of kindling an interest and
keeping it well alight, than to specialise for a time on one author,
and particularly on an author so frankly and curiously "human" as
Lamb is. I do not mean that you should imprison yourself with Lamb's
complete works for three months, and read nothing else. I mean that
you should regularly devote a proportion of your learned leisure to
the study of Lamb until you are acquainted with all that is important
in his work and about his work. (You may buy the complete works in
prose and verse of Charles and Mary Lamb, edited by that unsurpassed
expert Mr. Thomas Hutchison, and published by the Oxford University
Press, in two volumes for four shillings the pair!) There is no reason
why you should not become a modest specialist in Lamb. He is the very
man for you; neither voluminous, nor difficult, nor uncomfortably
lofty; always either amusing or touching; and--most important--himself
passionately addicted to literature. You cannot like Lamb without
liking literature in general. And you cannot read Lamb without
learning about literature in general; for books were his hobby, and he
was a critic of the first rank. His letters are full of literariness.
You will naturally read his letters; you should not only be infinitely
diverted by them (there are no better epistles), but you should
receive from them much light on the works.

It is a course of study that I am suggesting to you. It means a
certain amount of sustained effort. It means slightly more resolution,
more pertinacity, and more expenditure of brain-tissue than are
required for reading a newspaper. It means, in fact, "work." Perhaps
you did not bargain for work when you joined me. But I do not think
that the literary taste can be satisfactorily formed unless one is
prepared to put one's back into the affair. And I may prophesy to
you, by way of encouragement, that, in addition to the advantages of
familiarity with masterpieces, of increased literary knowledge, and
of a wide introduction to the true bookish atmosphere and "feel" of
things, which you will derive from a comprehensive study of Charles
Lamb, you will also be conscious of a moral advantage--the very
important and very inspiring advantage of really "knowing something
about something." You will have achieved a definite step; you will be
proudly aware that you have put yourself in a position to judge as an
expert whatever you may hear or read in the future concerning Charles
Lamb. This legitimate pride and sense of accomplishment will stimulate
you to go on further; it will generate steam. I consider that this
indirect moral advantage even outweighs, for the moment, the direct
literary advantages.

Now, I shall not shut my eyes to a possible result of your diligent
intercourse with Charles Lamb. It is possible that you may be
disappointed with him. It is--shall I say?--almost probable that you
will be disappointed with him, at any rate partially. You will have
expected more joy in him than you have received. I have referred in
a previous chapter to the feeling of disappointment which often comes
from first contacts with the classics. The neophyte is apt to find
them--I may as well out with the word--dull. You may have found Lamb
less diverting, less interesting, than you hoped. You may have had
to whip yourself up again and again to the effort of reading him. In
brief, Lamb has not, for you, justified his terrific reputation. If
a classic is a classic because it gives _pleasure_ to succeeding
generations of the people who are most keenly interested in
literature, and if Lamb frequently strikes you as dull, then evidently
there is something wrong. The difficulty must be fairly fronted,
and the fronting of it brings us to the very core of the business of
actually forming the taste. If your taste were classical you would
discover in Lamb a continual fascination; whereas what you in fact do
discover in Lamb is a not unpleasant flatness, enlivened by a vague
humour and an occasional pathos. You ought, according to theory, to be
enthusiastic; but you are apathetic, or, at best, half-hearted. There
is a gulf. How to cross it?

To cross it needs time and needs trouble. The following considerations
may aid. In the first place, we have to remember that, in coming
into the society of the classics in general and of Charles Lamb in
particular, we are coming into the society of a mental superior. What
happens usually in such a case? We can judge by recalling what happens
when we are in the society of a mental inferior. We say things of
which he misses the import; we joke, and he does not smile; what makes
him laugh loudly seems to us horseplay or childish; he is blind to
beauties which ravish us; he is ecstatic over what strikes us as
crude; and his profound truths are for us trite commonplaces. His
perceptions are relatively coarse; our perceptions are relatively
subtle. We try to make him understand, to make him see, and if he is
aware of his inferiority we may have some success. But if he is not
aware of his inferiority, we soon hold our tongues and leave him alone
in his self-satisfaction, convinced that there is nothing to be done
with him. Every one of us has been through this experience with a
mental inferior, for there is always a mental inferior handy, just
as there is always a being more unhappy than we are. In approaching a
classic, the true wisdom is to place ourselves in the position of the
mental inferior, aware of mental inferiority, humbly stripping off all
conceit, anxious to rise out of that inferiority. Recollect that
we always regard as quite hopeless the mental inferior who does
not suspect his own inferiority. Our attitude towards Lamb must be:
"Charles Lamb was a greater man than I am, cleverer, sharper, subtler,
finer, intellectually more powerful, and with keener eyes for beauty.
I must brace myself to follow his lead." Our attitude must resemble
that of one who cocks his ear and listens with all his soul for a
distant sound.

To catch the sound we really must listen. That is to say, we must read
carefully, with our faculties on the watch. We must read slowly and
perseveringly. A classic has to be wooed and is worth the wooing.
Further, we must disdain no assistance. I am not in favour of studying
criticism of classics before the classics themselves. My notion is to
study the work and the biography of a classical writer together, and
then to read criticism afterwards. I think that in reprints of the
classics the customary "critical introduction" ought to be put at
the end, and not at the beginning, of the book. The classic should
be allowed to make his own impression, however faint, on the virginal
mind of the reader. But afterwards let explanatory criticism be read
as much as you please. Explanatory criticism is very useful; nearly
as useful as pondering for oneself on what one has read! Explanatory
criticism may throw one single gleam that lights up the entire
subject.

My second consideration (in aid of crossing the gulf) touches the
quality of the pleasure to be derived from a classic. It is never a
violent pleasure. It is subtle, and it will wax in intensity, but
the idea of violence is foreign to it. The artistic pleasures of
an uncultivated mind are generally violent. They proceed from
exaggeration in treatment, from a lack of balance, from attaching too
great an importance to one aspect (usually superficial), while quite
ignoring another. They are gross, like the joy of Worcester sauce on
the palate. Now, if there is one point common to all classics, it is
the absence of exaggeration. The balanced sanity of a great mind makes
impossible exaggeration, and, therefore, distortion. The beauty of a
classic is not at all apt to knock you down. It will steal over you,
rather. Many serious students are, I am convinced, discouraged in the
early stages because they are expecting a wrong kind of pleasure. They
have abandoned Worcester sauce, and they miss it. They miss the coarse
_tang_. They must realise that indulgence in the _tang_ means the
sure and total loss of sensitiveness--sensitiveness even to the _tang_
itself. They cannot have crudeness and fineness together. They must
choose, remembering that while crudeness kills pleasure, fineness ever
intensifies it.




CHAPTER VIII

SYSTEM IN HEADING


You have now definitely set sail on the sea of literature. You are
afloat, and your anchor is up. I think I have given adequate warning
of the dangers and disappointments which await the unwary and the
sanguine. The enterprise in which you are engaged is not facile, nor
is it short. I think I have sufficiently predicted that you will
have your hours of woe, during which you may be inclined to send to
perdition all writers, together with the inventor of printing. But if
you have become really friendly with Lamb; if you know Lamb, or even
half of him; if you have formed an image of him in your mind, and can,
as it were, hear him brilliantly stuttering while you read his essays
or letters, then certainly you are in a fit condition to proceed and
you want to know in which direction you are to proceed. Yes, I have
caught your terrified and protesting whisper: "I hope to heaven he
isn't going to prescribe a Course of English Literature, because I
feel I shall never be able to do it!" I am not. If your object in life
was to be a University Extension Lecturer in English literature,
then I should prescribe something drastic and desolating. But as your
object, so far as I am concerned, is simply to obtain the highest and
most tonic form of artistic pleasure of which you are capable, I shall
not prescribe any regular course. Nay, I shall venture to dissuade
you from any regular course. No man, and assuredly no beginner, can
possibly pursue a historical course of literature without wasting a
lot of weary time in acquiring mere knowledge which will yield neither
pleasure nor advantage. In the choice of reading the individual must
count; caprice must count, for caprice is often the truest index to
the individuality. Stand defiantly on your own feet, and do not excuse
yourself to yourself. You do not exist in order to honour literature
by becoming an encyclopaedia of literature. Literature exists for your
service. Wherever you happen to be, that, for you, is the centre of
literature.

Still, for your own sake you must confine yourself for a long time
to recognised classics, for reasons already explained. And though you
should not follow a course, you must have a system or principle. Your
native sagacity will tell you that caprice, left quite unfettered,
will end by being quite ridiculous. The system which I recommend is
embodied in this counsel: Let one thing lead to another. In the sea of
literature every part communicates with every other part; there are no
land-locked lakes. It was with an eye to this system that I originally
recommended you to start with Lamb. Lamb, if you are his intimate, has
already brought you into relations with a number of other prominent
writers with whom you can in turn be intimate, and who will be
particularly useful to you. Among these are Wordsworth, Coleridge,
Southey, Hazlitt, and Leigh Hunt. You cannot know Lamb without knowing
these men, and some of them are of the highest importance. From the
circle of Lamb's own work you may go off at a tangent at various
points, according to your inclination. If, for instance, you are drawn
towards poetry, you cannot, in all English literature, make a better
start than with Wordsworth. And Wordsworth will send you backwards
to a comprehension of the poets against whose influence Wordsworth
fought. When you have understood Wordsworth's and Coleridge's _Lyrical
Ballads_, and Wordsworth's defence of them, you will be in a position
to judge poetry in general. If, again, your mind hankers after an
earlier and more romantic literature, Lamb's _Specimens of English
Dramatic Poets Contemporary with Shakspere_ has already, in an
enchanting fashion, piloted you into a vast gulf of "the sea which is
Shakspere."

Again, in Hazlitt and Leigh Hunt you will discover essayists inferior
only to Lamb himself, and critics perhaps not inferior. Hazlitt
is unsurpassed as a critic. His judgments are convincing and his
enthusiasm of the most catching nature. Having arrived at Hazlitt or
Leigh Hunt, you can branch off once more at any one of ten thousand
points into still wider circles. And thus you may continue up and down
the centuries as far as you like, yea, even to Chaucer. If you chance
to read Hazlitt on _Chaucer and Spenser_, you will probably put
your hat on instantly and go out and buy these authors; such is his
communicating fire! I need not particularise further. Commencing with
Lamb, and allowing one thing to lead to another, you cannot fail to be
more and more impressed by the peculiar suitability to your needs of
the Lamb entourage and the Lamb period. For Lamb lived in a time of
universal rebirth in English literature. Wordsworth and Coleridge
were re-creating poetry; Scott was re-creating the novel; Lamb was
re-creating the human document; and Hazlitt, Coleridge, Leigh Hunt,
and others were re-creating criticism. Sparks are flying all about the
place, and it will be not less than a miracle if something combustible
and indestructible in you does not take fire.

I have only one cautionary word to utter. You may be saying to
yourself: "So long as I stick to classics I cannot go wrong." You can
go wrong. You can, while reading naught but very fine stuff, commit
the grave error of reading too much of one kind of stuff. Now there
are two kinds, and only two kinds. These two kinds are not prose and
poetry, nor are they divided the one from the other by any differences
of form or of subject. They are the inspiring kind and the informing
kind. No other genuine division exists in literature. Emerson, I
think, first clearly stated it. His terms were the literature of
"power" and the literature of "knowledge." In nearly all great
literature the two qualities are to be found in company, but one
usually predominates over the other. An example of the exclusively
inspiring kind is Coleridge's _Kubla Khan_. I cannot recall any
first-class example of the purely informing kind. The nearest approach
to it that I can name is Spencer's _First Principles_, which, however,
is at least once highly inspiring. An example in which the inspiring
quality predominates is _Ivanhoe_; and an example in which the
informing quality predominates is Hazlitt's essays on Shakespeare's
characters. You must avoid giving undue preference to the kind in
which the inspiring quality predominates or to the kind in which the
informing quality predominates. Too much of the one is enervating; too
much of the other is desiccating. If you stick exclusively to the
one you may become a mere debauchee of the emotions; if you stick
exclusively to the other you may cease to live in any full sense. I do
not say that you should hold the balance exactly even between the two
kinds. Your taste will come into the scale. What I say is that neither
kind must be neglected.

Lamb is an instance of a great writer whom anybody can understand and
whom a majority of those who interest themselves in literature can
more or less appreciate. He makes no excessive demand either on the
intellect or on the faculty of sympathetic emotion. On both sides of
Lamb, however, there lie literatures more difficult, more recondite.
The "knowledge" side need not detain us here; it can be mastered by
concentration and perseverance. But the "power" side, which comprises
the supreme productions of genius, demands special consideration.
You may have arrived at the point of keenly enjoying Lamb and yet be
entirely unable to "see anything in" such writings as _Kubla Khan_ or
Milton's _Comus_; and as for _Hamlet_ you may see nothing in it but a
sanguinary tale "full of quotations." Nevertheless it is the supreme
productions which are capable of yielding the supreme pleasures, and
which _will_ yield the supreme pleasures when the pass-key to them
has been acquired. This pass-key is a comprehension of the nature of
poetry.




CHAPTER IX

VERSE


There is a word, a "name of fear," which rouses terror in the heart
of the vast educated majority of the English-speaking race. The
most valiant will fly at the mere utterance of that word. The most
broad-minded will put their backs up against it. The most rash will
not dare to affront it. I myself have seen it empty buildings that had
been full; and I know that it will scatter a crowd more quickly than
a hose-pipe, hornets, or the rumour of plague. Even to murmur it is
to incur solitude, probably disdain, and possibly starvation, as
historical examples show. That word is "poetry."

The profound objection of the average man to poetry can scarcely
be exaggerated. And when I say the average man, I do not mean the
"average sensual man"--any man who gets on to the top of the omnibus;
I mean the average lettered man, the average man who does care a
little for books and enjoys reading, and knows the classics by name
and the popular writers by having read them. I am convinced that not
one man in ten who reads, reads poetry--at any rate, knowingly. I
am convinced, further, that not one man in ten who goes so far as
knowingly to _buy_ poetry ever reads it. You will find everywhere men
who read very widely in prose, but who will say quite callously,
"No, I never read poetry." If the sales of modern poetry, distinctly
labelled as such, were to cease entirely to-morrow not a publisher
would fail; scarcely a publisher would be affected; and not a poet
would die--for I do not believe that a single modern English poet
is living to-day on the current proceeds of his verse. For a country
which possesses the greatest poetical literature in the world this
condition of affairs is at least odd. What makes it odder is that,
occasionally, very occasionally, the average lettered man will have
a fit of idolatry for a fine poet, buying his books in tens of
thousands, and bestowing upon him immense riches. As with Tennyson.
And what makes it odder still is that, after all, the average lettered
man does not truly dislike poetry; he only dislikes it when it takes
a certain form. He will read poetry and enjoy it, provided he is not
aware that it is poetry. Poetry can exist authentically either in
prose or in verse. Give him poetry concealed in prose and there is a
chance that, taken off his guard, he will appreciate it. But show him
a page of verse, and he will be ready to send for a policeman. The
reason of this is that, though poetry may come to pass either in prose
or in verse, it does actually happen far more frequently in verse than
in prose; nearly all the very greatest poetry is in verse; verse is
identified with the very greatest poetry, and the very greatest poetry
can only be understood and savoured by people who have put themselves
through a considerable mental discipline. To others it is an
exasperating weariness. Hence chiefly the fearful prejudice of the
average lettered man against the mere form of verse.

The formation of literary taste cannot be completed until that
prejudice has been conquered. My very difficult task is to suggest
a method of conquering it. I address myself exclusively to the large
class of people who, if they are honest, will declare that, while they
enjoy novels, essays, and history, they cannot "stand" verse. The case
is extremely delicate, like all nervous cases. It is useless to employ
the arts of reasoning, for the matter has got beyond logic; it is
instinctive. Perfectly futile to assure you that verse will yield a
higher percentage of pleasure than prose! You will reply: "We believe
you, but that doesn't help us." Therefore I shall not argue. I shall
venture to prescribe a curative treatment (doctors do not argue); and
I beg you to follow it exactly, keeping your nerve and your calm. Loss
of self-control might lead to panic, and panic would be fatal.

First: Forget as completely as you can all your present notions about
the nature of verse and poetry. Take a sponge and wipe the slate of
your mind. In particular, do not harass yourself by thoughts of metre
and verse forms. Second: Read William Hazlitt's essay "On Poetry in
General." This essay is the first in the book entitled _Lectures on
the English Poets_. It can be bought in various forms. I think
the cheapest satisfactory edition is in Routledge's "New Universal
Library" (price 1s. net). I might have composed an essay of my own on
the real harmless nature of poetry in general, but it could only have
been an echo and a deterioration of Hazlitt's. He has put the truth
about poetry in a way as interesting, clear, and reassuring as anyone
is ever likely to put it. I do not expect, however, that you will
instantly gather the full message and enthusiasm of the essay. It
will probably seem to you not to "hang together." Still, it will leave
bright bits of ideas in your mind. Third: After a week's interval read
the essay again. On a second perusal it will appear more persuasive to
you.

Fourth: Open the Bible and read the fortieth chapter of Isaiah. It
is the chapter which begins, "Comfort ye, comfort ye, my people," and
ends, "They shall run and not be weary, and they shall walk and not
faint." This chapter will doubtless be more or less familiar to you.
It cannot fail (whatever your particular _ism_) to impress you, to
generate in your mind sensations which you recognise to be of a lofty
and unusual order, and which you will admit to be pleasurable. You
will probably agree that the result of reading this chapter (even if
your particular _ism_ is opposed to its authority) is finer than the
result of reading a short story in a magazine or even an essay by
Charles Lamb. Now the pleasurable sensations induced by the fortieth
chapter of Isaiah are among the sensations usually induced by
high-class poetry. The writer of it was a very great poet, and what
he wrote is a very great poem. Fifth: After having read it, go back to
Hazlitt, and see if you can find anything in Hazlitt's lecture which
throws light on the psychology of your own emotions upon reading
Isaiah.

Sixth: The next step is into unmistakable verse. It is to read one of
Wordsworth's short narrative poems, _The Brothers_. There are editions
of Wordsworth at a shilling, but I should advise the "Golden Treasury"
Wordsworth (2s. 6d. net), because it contains the famous essay by
Matthew Arnold, who made the selection. I want you to read this poem
aloud. You will probably have to hide yourself somewhere in order to
do so, for, of course, you would not, as yet, care to be overheard
spouting poetry. Be good enough to forget that _The Brothers_ is
poetry. _The Brothers_ is a short story, with a plain, clear plot.
Read it as such. Read it simply for the story. It is very important
at this critical stage that you should not embarrass your mind with
preoccupations as to the _form_ in which Wordsworth has told his
story. Wordsworth's object was to tell a story as well as he could:
just that. In reading aloud do not pay any more attention to the metre
than you feel naturally inclined to pay. After a few lines the metre
will present itself to you. Do not worry as to what kind of metre it
is. When you have finished the perusal, examine your sensations....

Your sensations after reading this poem, and perhaps one or two other
narrative poems of Wordsworth, such as _Michael_, will be different
from the sensations produced in you by reading an ordinary, or even a
very extraordinary, short story in prose. They may not be so sharp, so
clear and piquant, but they will probably be, in their mysteriousness
and their vagueness, more impressive. I do not say that they will be
diverting. I do not go so far as to say that they will strike you as
pleasing sensations. (Be it remembered that I am addressing myself
to an imaginary tyro in poetry.) I would qualify them as being
"disturbing." Well, to disturb the spirit is one of the greatest aims
of art. And a disturbance of spirit is one of the finest pleasures
that a highly-organised man can enjoy. But this truth can only be
really learnt by the repetitions of experience. As an aid to the more
exhaustive examination of your feelings under Wordsworth, in order
that you may better understand what he was trying to effect in you,
and the means which he employed, I must direct you to Wordsworth
himself. Wordsworth, in addition to being a poet, was unsurpassed as a
critic of poetry. What Hazlitt does for poetry in the way of creating
enthusiasm Wordsworth does in the way of philosophic explanation. And
Wordsworth's explanations of the theory and practice of poetry are
written for the plain man. They pass the comprehension of nobody, and
their direct, unassuming, and calm simplicity is extremely persuasive.
Wordsworth's chief essays in throwing light on himself are the
"Advertisement," "Preface," and "Appendix" to _Lyrical Ballads_; the
letters to Lady Beaumont and "the Friend" and the "Preface" to the
Poems dated 1815. All this matter is strangely interesting and of
immense educational value. It is the first-class expert talking at
ease about his subject. The essays relating to _Lyrical Ballads_ will
be the most useful for you. You will discover these precious documents
in a volume entitled _Wordsworth's Literary Criticism_ (published by
Henry Frowde, 2s. 6d.), edited by that distinguished Wordsworthian
Mr. Nowell C. Smith. It is essential that the student of poetry should
become possessed, honestly or dishonestly, either of this volume or
of the matter which it contains. There is, by the way, a volume of
Wordsworth's prose in the Scott Library (1s.). Those who have not
read Wordsworth on poetry can have no idea of the naive charm and the
helpful radiance of his expounding. I feel that I cannot too strongly
press Wordsworth's criticism upon you.

Between Wordsworth and Hazlitt you will learn all that it behoves you