Memoirs of William Wordsworth
9781465684516
213 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
William Wordsworth is the father of a new school of Poetry, and his name marks an era in the literature of England, which is full of deep interest to the philosophical inquirer. He began his career with profound convictions respecting the nature and functions of poetry; its dignity as an art, and the immense capabilities it afforded for the utterance of sublime and ennobling truths, and for the furtherance of human liberty and happiness. He saw, too, that the old Harp of the Bards was profaned by the touch of uninspired, and even frivolous hands; and he determined, if possible, to rescue it from their keeping, and restore it once again to its divine uses, and ancient melody. To accomplish this grand object, he devoted all his faculties and culture, and was so deeply impressed with the idea that this was his especial mission upon earth, that he retired amongst the mountains and lakes of Westmoreland—a solemn and lonely man—holding converse with the Invisible through the Visible forms of Nature, and thus fitting himself for the priestly office to which he aspired. And in all the years of his noviciate—through all the time when, by universal acclamation, he stood crowned with the sacred laurels of the Bard—and his mission was accredited by all men—he never for a moment flagged in his purpose, or stooped to the garlands of fame,—but gathering his prophet’s mantle around him, he pursued his undeviating course, alike regardless of applause, condemnation, and persecution. He had looked well into his own heart, before he set out on his perilous enterprise; had measured well his own strength of purpose, and capability of performance; knew, in short, what he had to do, and did it. To appreciate fully, however, the historical position of William Wordsworth, and the value of his labours, it will be necessary to take a retrospective view of the literature which preceded him, or at least to state its leading characteristics. The grand old era of Shakspeare and his cotemporaries had long since passed away, and the noble music of Milton’s song had ceased to thrill the hearts and souls of men. The brilliant, half inspired writers in the reign of Queen Anne, who came to represent the national mind at the close of our Augustan epoch, had formed a school of Poetry in England,—at once witty and sententious, profound and hollow; without heart or genius; and with nothing but talent and culture to recommend it. Pope, who may be considered the head of this school, set the seal of his intellect upon the cotemporary and subsequent literature of that era. He had rivals whom he stung to silence, and covered with contempt by his satires, and imitators whom he fondled and despised. Pope and his compeers were, however, kings and priests of song, compared with the herd of twangsters who succeeded them. The fancy and wit, the philosophy and refinement of Pope, were sunk and lost in the barrel grinding of these imitators of his style; and Poetry was stripped of its subjective attributes, and lived only as a mechanical form.—This at all events is true of the writers professedly of the Pope school; and the few exceptions, for upwards of fifty years after his death, owe what little fame they possess to their own little originality.
