There is more of music than painting in this kind of writing.
There is no other music but Shelley’s which seems to me likely to bring healing to the madness of the modern Saul. For this reason I hope that Professor Herford’s fine edition of the shorter poems (arranged for the first time in chronological order) will encourage men and women to turn to Shelley again. Professor Herford promises us a companion volume on the same lines, containing the dramas and longer poems, if sufficient interest is shown in his book. The average reader will probably be content with Mr. Hutchinson’s cheap and perfect “Oxford Edition” of Shelley. But the scholar, as well as the lover of a beautiful page, will find in Professor Herford’s edition a new pleasure in old verse.
[XII.—The Wisdom of Coleridge]
[(1) Coleridge as Critic]
Coleridge was the thirteenth child of a rather queer clergyman. The Rev. John Coleridge was queer enough in having thirteen children: he was queerer still in being the author of a Latin grammar in which he renamed the “ablative” the “quale-quare-quidditive case.” Coleridge was thus born not only with an unlucky number, but trailing clouds of definitions. He was in some respects the unluckiest of all Englishmen of literary genius. He leaves on us an impression of failure as no other writer of the same stature does. The impression may not be justified. There are few writers who would not prefer the magnificent failure of a Coleridge to their own little mole-hill of success. Coleridge was a failure in comparison not with ordinary men, but only with the immense shadow of his own genius. His imperfection is the imperfection of a demi-god. Charles Lamb summed up the truth about his genius as well as about his character in that final phrase, “an archangel a little damaged.” This was said at a time when the archangel was much more than a little damaged by the habit of laudanum; but even then Lamb wrote: “His face, when he repeats his verses, hath its ancient glory.” Most of Coleridge’s great contemporaries were aware of that glory. Even those who were afterwards to be counted among his revilers, such as Hazlitt and De Quincey, had known what it was to be disciples at the feet of this inspired ruin. They spoke not only of his mind, but even of his physical characteristics—his voice and his hair—as though these belonged to the one man of his time whose food was ambrosia. Even as a boy at Christ’s Hospital, according to Lamb, he used to make the “casual passer through the Cloisters stand still, intranced with admiration (while he weighed the disproportion between the speech and the garb of the young Mirandola), to hear thee unfold, in thy deep and sweet intonations, the mysteries of Iamblichus, or Plotinus … or reciting Homer in the Greek, or Pindar—while the walls of the old Grey Friars re-echoed to the accents of the inspired charity-boy!”
It is exceedingly important that, as we read Coleridge, we should constantly remember what an archangel he was in the eyes of his contemporaries. Christabel and Kubla Kahn we could read, no doubt, in perfect enjoyment even if we did not know the author’s name. For the rest, there is so much flagging of wing both in his verse and in his prose that, if we did not remind ourselves what flights he was born to take, we might persuade ourselves at times that there was little in his work but the dull flappings and slitherings of a penguin. His genius is intermittent and comes arbitrarily to an end. He is inspired only in fragments and aphorisms. He was all but incapable of writing a complete book or a complete poem at a high level. His irresponsibility as an author is described in that sentence in which he says: “I have laid too many eggs in the hot sands of this wilderness, the world, with ostrich carelessness and ostrich oblivion.” His literary plans had a ludicrous way of breaking down. It was characteristic of him that, in 1817, when he projected a complete edition of his poems, under the title Sibylline Leaves, he omitted to publish Volume I. and published only Volume II. He would announce a lecture on Milton, and then give his audience “a very eloquent and popular discourse on the general character of Shakespeare.” His two finest poems he never finished. He wrote not by an act of the will but according to the wind, and when the wind dropped he came to earth. It was as though he could soar but was unable to fly. It is this that differentiates him from other great poets or critics. None of them has left such a record of unfulfilled purposes. It is not that he did not get through an enormous amount of work, but that, like the revellers in Mr. Chesterton’s poem, he “went to Birmingham by way of Beachy Head,” and in the end he did not get to Birmingham. Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch gives an amusing account of the way in which Biographia Literaria came to be written. Originally, in 1815, it was conceived as a preface—to be “done in two, or at farthest three days”—to a collection of some “scattered and manuscript poems.” Two months later the plan had changed. Coleridge was now busy on a preface to an Autobiographia Literaria, sketches of my literary Life and Opinions. This in turn developed into “a full account (raisonné) of the controversy concerning Wordsworth’s poems and theory,” with a “disquisition on the powers of Association … and on the generic difference between the Fancy and the Imagination.” This ran to such a length that he decided not to use it as a preface, but to amplify it into a work in three volumes. He succeeded in writing the first volume, but he found himself unable to fill the second. “Then, as the volume obstinately remained too small, he tossed in Satyrane, an epistolary account of his wanderings in Germany, topped up with a critique of a bad play, and gave the whole painfully to the world in July, 1817.” It is one of the ironies of literary history that Coleridge, the censor of the incongruous in literature, the vindicator of the formal purpose as opposed to the haphazard inspiration of the greatest of writers, a missionary of the “shaping imagination,” should himself have given us in his greatest book of criticism an incongruous, haphazard, and shapeless jumble. It is but another proof of the fact that, while talent cannot safely ignore what is called technique, genius almost can. Coleridge, in spite of his formlessness, remains the wisest man who ever spoke in English about literature. His place is that of an oracle among controversialists.
Even so, Biographia Literaria is a disappointing book. It is the porch, but it is not the temple. It may be that, in literary criticism, there can be no temple. Literary criticism is in its nature largely an incitement to enter, a hint of the treasures that are to be found within. Persons who seek rest in literary orthodoxy are always hoping to discover written upon the walls of the porch the ten commandments of good writing. It is extremely easy to invent ten such commandments—it was done in the age of Racine and in the age of Pope—but the wise critic knows that in literature the rules are less important than the “inner light.” Hence, criticism at its highest is not a theorist’s attempt to impose iron laws on writers: it is an attempt to capture the secret of that “inner light” and of those who possess it and to communicate it to others. It is also an attempt to define the conditions in which the “inner light” has most happily manifested itself, and to judge new writers of promise according to the measure in which they have been true to the spirit, though not necessarily to the technicalities, of the great tradition. Criticism, then, is not the Roman father of good writing: it is the disciple and missionary of good writing. The end of criticism is less law-giving than conversion. It teaches not the legalities, but the love, of literature. Biographia Literaria does this in its most admirable parts by interesting us in Coleridge’s own literary beginnings, by emphasizing the strong sweetness of great poets in contrast to the petty animosities of little ones, by pointing out the signs of the miracle of genius in the young Shakespeare, and by disengaging the true genius of Wordsworth from a hundred extravagances of theory and practice. Coleridge’s remarks on the irritability of minor poets—“men of undoubted talents, but not of genius,” whose tempers are “rendered yet more irritable by their desire to appear men of genius”—should be written up on the study walls of everyone commencing author. His description, too, of his period as “this age of personality, this age of literary and political gossiping, when the meanest insects are worshipped with sort of Egyptian superstition if only the brainless head be atoned for by the sting of personal malignity in the tail,” conveys a warning to writers that is not of an age but for all time. Coleridge may have exaggerated the “manly hilarity” and “evenness and sweetness of temper” of men of genius. But there is no denying that, the smaller the genius, the greater is the spite of wounded self-love. “Experience informs us,” as Coleridge says, “that the first defence of weak minds is to recriminate.” As for Coleridge’s great service to Wordsworth’s fame, it was that of a gold-washer. He cleansed it from all that was false in Wordsworth’s reaction both in theory and in practice against “poetic diction.” Coleridge pointed out that Wordsworth had misunderstood the ultimate objections to eighteenth-century verse. The valid objection to a great deal of eighteenth-century verse was not, he showed, that it was written in language different from that of prose, but that it consisted of “translations of prose thoughts into poetic language.” Coleridge put it still more strongly, indeed, when he said that “the language from Pope’s translation of Homer to Darwin’s Temple of Nature may, notwithstanding some illustrious exceptions, be too faithfully characterized as claiming to be poetical for no better reason than that it would be intolerable in conversation or in prose.” Wordsworth, unfortunately, in protesting against the meretricious garb of mean thoughts, wished to deny verse its more splendid clothing altogether. If we accepted his theories we should have to condemn his Ode, the greatest of his sonnets, and, as Coleridge put it, “two-thirds at least of the marked beauties of his poetry.” The truth is, Wordsworth created an engine that was in danger of destroying not only Pope but himself. Coleridge destroyed the engine and so helped to save Wordsworth. Coleridge may, in his turn, have gone too far in dividing language into three groups—language peculiar to poetry, language peculiar to prose, and language common to both, though there is much to be said for the division; but his jealousy for the great tradition in language was the jealousy of a sound critic. “Language,” he declared, “is the armoury of the human mind; and at once contains the trophies of its past, and the weapons of its future conquests.”
He, himself, wrote idly enough at times: he did not shrink from the phrase, “literary man,” abominated by Mr. Birrell. But he rises in sentence after sentence into the great manner, as when he declares: