When England first took up arms against the French revolution, Wordsworth’s feeling, as we have seen, had been one of unmixed sorrow and shame. Bloody5 and terrible as the revolution had become, it was still in some sort representative of human freedom; at any rate it might still seem to contain possibilities of progress such as the retrograde despotisms with which England allied6 herself could never know. But the conditions of the contest changed before long. France had not the wisdom, the courage, the constancy to play to the end the part for which she had seemed chosen among the nations. It was her conduct towards Switzerland which decisively altered Wordsworth’s view. He saw her valiant7 spirit of self-defence corrupted8 into lust9 of glory; her eagerness for the abolition10 of unjust privilege turned into a contentment with equality of degradation11 under a despot’s heel. “One man, of men the meanest too,”—for such the First Consul12 must needs appear to the moralist’s eye,—was
Raised up to sway the world—to do, undo13;
With mighty14 nations for his underlings.
And history herself seemed vulgarized by the repetition of her ancient tales of war and overthrow15 on a scale of such apparent magnitude, but with no glamour16 of distance to hide the baseness of the agencies by which the destinies of Europe were shaped anew. This was an occasion that tried the hearts of men; it was not easy to remain through all those years at once undazzled and untempted, and never in the blackest hour to despair of human virtue17.
In his tract18 on The Convention of Cintra, 1808, Wordsworth has given the fullest expression to this undaunted temper:—
“Oppression, its own blind and predestined enemy, has poured
this of blessedness upon Spain—that the enormity of the outrages20
of which she has been the victim has created an object of love
and of hatred21, of apprehensions22 and of wishes, adequate (if
that be possible) to the utmost demands of the human spirit.
The heart that serves in this cause, if it languish23, must
languish from its own constitutional weakness, and not through
want of nourishment24 from without. But it is a belief propagated
in books, and which passes currently among talking
men as part of their familiar wisdom, that the hearts of the
many are constitutionally weak, that they do languish, and
are slow to answer to the requisitions of things. I entreat25
those who are in this delusion26 to look behind them and
about them for the evidence of experience. Now this, rightly
understood, not only gives no support to any such belief,
but proves that the truth is in direct opposition27 to it. The
history of all ages—tumults28 after tumults, wars foreign or
civil, with short or with no breathing-places from generation to
generation; the senseless weaving and interweaving of factions29,
vanishing, and reviving, and piercing each other like the
Northern Lights; public commotions30, and those in the breast
of the individual; the long calenture to which the Lover is subject;
the blast, like the blast of the desert, which sweeps perennially31
through a frightful32 solitude33 of its own making in the
mind of the Gamester; the slowly quickening, but ever quickening,
descent of appetite down which the Miser34 is propelled; the
agony and cleaving35 oppression of grief; the ghost-like hauntings
of shame; the incubus36 of revenge; the life-distemper of ambition . . .
these demonstrate incontestably that the passions of
men, (I mean the soul of sensibility in the heart of man), in all
quarrels, in all contests, in all quests, in all delights, in all
employments which are either sought by men or thrust upon
them, do immeasurably transcend37 their objects. The true
sorrow of humanity consists in this—not that the mind of
man fails, but that the cause and demands of action and of
life so rarely correspond with the dignity and intensity38 of
human desires; and hence, that which is slow to languish is too
easily turned aside and abused. But, with the remembrance of
what has been done, and in the face of the interminable evils
which are threatened, a Spaniard can never have cause to complain
of this while a follower39 of the tyrant40 remains41 in arms
upon the Peninsula.”
It was passages such as this, perhaps, which led Canning to declare that Wordsworth’s pamphlet was the finest piece of political eloquence42 which had appeared since Burke. And yet if we compare it with Burke, or with the great Greek exemplar of all those who would give speech the cogency43 of act,—we see at once the causes of its practical failure. In Demosthenes the thoughts and principles are often as lofty as any patriot44 can express; but their loftiness, in his speech, as in the very truth of things, seemed but to add to their immediate45 reality. They were beaten and inwoven into the facts of the hour; action seemed to turn, on them as on its only possible pivot46; it was as though Virtue and Freedom hung armed in heaven above the assembly, and in the visible likeness47 of immortal48 ancestors beckoned49 upon an urgent way. Wordsworth’s mood of mind, on the other hand, as he has depicted50 it in two sonnets52 written at the same time as his tract, explains why it was that that appeal was rather a solemn protest than an effective exhortation54. In the first sonnet51 he describes the surroundings of his task,—the dark wood and rocky cave, “the hollow vale which foaming55 torrents56 fill with omnipresent murmur:”—
Here mighty Nature! In this school sublime57
I weigh the hopes and fears of suffering Spain;
For her consult the auguries58 of time,
And through the human heart explore my way,
And look and listen, gathering59 whence I may
Triumph, and thoughts no bondage60 can restrain.
And then he proceeds to conjecture61 what effect his tract will produce:—
I dropped my pen, and listened to the wind,
That sang of trees uptorn and vessels62 tost;
A midnight harmony, and wholly lost
To the general sense of men, by chains confined
Of business, care, or pleasure,—or resigned
To timely sleep. Thought I, the impassioned strain
Which without aid of numbers I sustain
Like acceptation from the world will find.
This deliberate and lonely emotion was fitter to inspire grave poetry than a pamphlet appealing to an immediate crisis. And the sonnets dedicated63 To Liberty (1802–16) are the outcome of many moods like these.
It is little to say of these sonnets that they are the most permanent record in our literature of the Napoleonic war. For that distinction they have few competitors. Two magnificent songs of Campbell’s, an ode of Coleridge’s, a few spirited stanzas64 of Byron’s— strangely enough there is little besides these that lives in the national memory, till we come to the ode which summed up the long contest a generation later, when its great captain passed away. But these Sonnets to Liberty are worthy65 of comparison with the noblest passages of patriotic66 verse or prose which all our history has inspired—the passages where Shakespeare brings his rays to focus on “this earth, this realm, this England,”—or where the dread67 of national dishonour68 has kindled69 Chatham to an iron glow,—or where Milton rises from the polemic70 into the prophet, and Burke from the partisan71 into the philosopher. The armoury of Wordsworth, indeed, was not forged with the same fire as that of these “invincible knights72 of old.” He had not swayed senates, nor directed policies, nor gathered into one ardent73 bosom74 all the spirit of a heroic age. But he had deeply felt what it is that makes the greatness of nations; in that extremity75 no man was more staunch than he; no man more unwaveringly disdained76 unrighteous empire, or kept the might of moral forces more steadfastly77 in view. Not Stein could place a manlier78 reliance on “a few strong instincts and a few plain rules;” not Fichte could invoke79 more convincingly the “great allies” which work with “Man’s unconquerable mind.”
Here and there, indeed, throughout these sonnets are scattered80 strokes of high poetic81 admiration82 or scorn which could hardly be overmatched in AEschylus. Such is the indignant correction—
Call not the royal Swede unfortunate,
Who never did to Fortune bend the knee!
or the stern touch which closes a description of Flamininus’ proclamation at the Isthmian games, according liberty to Greece,—
A gift of that which is not to be given
By all the blended powers of Earth and Heaven!
Space forbids me to dwell in detail on these noble poems,—on the well-known sonnets to Venice, to Milton, &c.; on the generous tributes to the heroes of the contest,—Schill, Hoffer, Toussaint, Palafox; or on the series which contrast the instinctive83 greatness of the Spanish people at bay, with Napoleon’s lying promises and inhuman84 pride. But if Napoleon’s career afforded to Wordsworth a poetic example, impressive as that of Xerxes to the Greeks, of lawless and intoxicated85 power, there was need of some contrasted figure more notable than Hoffer or Palafox from which to draw the lessons which great contests can teach of unselfish valour. Was there then any man, by land or sea, who might serve as the poet’s type of the ideal hero? To an Englishman, at least, this question carries its own reply. For by a singular destiny England, with a thousand years of noble history behind her, has chosen for her best-loved, for her national hero, not an Arminius from the age of legend, not a Henri Quatro from the age of chivalry86, but a man whom men still living have seen and known. For indeed England and all the world as to this man were of one accord; and when in victory, on his ship Victory, Nelson passed away, the thrill which shook mankind was of a nature such as perhaps was never felt at any other death,— so unanimous was the feeling of friends and foes87 that earth had lost her crowning example of impassioned self-devotedness and of heroic honour.
And yet it might have seemed that between Nelson’s nature and Wordsworth’s there was little in common. The obvious limitations of the great Admiral’s culture and character were likely to be strongly felt by the philosophic88 poet. And a serious crime, of which Nelson was commonly, though, as now appears, erroneously, 4 supposed to be guilty, was sure to be judged by Wordsworth with great severity.
4 The researches of Sir Nicholas Nicolas, (Letters and Despatches of Lord Nelson, vol. vii. Appendix), have placed Lord Nelson’s connexion with Lady Hamilton in an unexpected light.]
Wordsworth was, in fact, hampered89 by some such feelings of disapproval90. He even tells us, with that naive91 affectionateness which often makes us smile, that he has had recourse to the character of his own brother John for the qualities in which the great Admiral appeared to him to have been deficient92. But on these hesitations93 it would be unjust to dwell. I mention them only to bring out the fact that between these two men, so different in outward fates,—between “the adored, the incomparable Nelson” and the homely94 poet, “retired as noontide dew,”—there was a moral likeness so profound that the ideal of the recluse95 was realized in the public life of the hero, and, on the other hand, the hero himself is only seen as completely heroic when his impetuous life stands out for us from the solemn background of the poet’s calm. And surely these two natures taken together make the perfect Englishman. Nor is there any portrait fitter than that of The Happy Warrior96 to go forth97 to all lands as representing the English character at its height—a figure not ill-matching with “Plutarch’s men.”
For indeed this short poem is in itself a manual of greatness; there is a Roman majesty98 in its simple and weighty speech. And what eulogy99 was ever nobler than that passage where, without definite allusion100 or quoted name, the poet depicts101, as it were, the very summit of glory in the well-remembered aspect of the Admiral in his last and greatest hour?
Whose powers shed round him. In the common strife102,
Or mild concerns of ordinary life.
A constant influence, a peculiar103 grace:
But who, if he be called upon to face
Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined
Great issues, good or bad for human kind,
Is happy as a Lover, and attired104
With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired.
Or again, where the hidden thought of Nelson’s womanly tenderness, of his constant craving105 for the green earth and home affections in the midst of storm and war, melts the stern verses into a sudden change of tone:—
He who, though thus endued106 as with a sense
And faculty107 for storm and turbulence108.
Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans
To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes;
Sweet images! Which, wheresoe’er he be,
Are at his heart; and such fidelity109
It is his darling passion to approve;—
More brave for this, that he hath much to love.
Compare with this the end of the Song at Brougham Castle, where, at the words “alas! The fervent110 harper did not know—” the strain changes from the very spirit of chivalry to the gentleness of Nature’s calm. Nothing can be more characteristic of Wordsworth than contrasts like this. They teach us to remember that his accustomed mildness is the fruit of no indolent or sentimental111 peace; and that, on the other hand, when his counsels are sternest, and “his voice is still for war,” this is no voice of hardness or of vainglory, but the reluctant resolution of a heart which fain would yield itself to other energies, and have no message but of love.
There is one more point in which the character of Nelson has fallen in with one of the lessons which Wordsworth is never tired of enforcing, the lesson that virtue grows by the strenuousness112 of its exercise, that it gains strength as it wrestles113 with pain and difficulty, and converts the shocks of circumstance into an energy of its proper glow. The Happy Warrior is one,
Who, doomed114 to go in company with Pain,
And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable115 train!
Turns his necessity to glorious gain;
In face of these doth exercise a power
Which is our human nature’s highest dower;
Controls them and subdues116, transmutes117, bereaves118
Of their bad influence, and their good receives;
By objects which might force the soul to abate119
Her feeling, rendered more compassionate;—
and so further, in words which recall the womanly tenderness, the almost exaggerated feeling for others’ pain, which showed itself memorably120 in face of the blazing Orient, and in the harbour at Teneriffe, and in the cockpit at Trafalgar.
In such lessons as these,—such lessons as The Happy Warrior or the Patriotic Sonnets teach,—there is, of course, little that is absolutely novel. We were already aware that the ideal hero should be as gentle as he is brave, that he should act always from the highest motives121, nor greatly care for any reward save the consciousness of having done his duty. We were aware that the true strength of a nation is moral and not material; that dominion122 which rests on mere4 military force is destined19 quickly to decay, that the tyrant, however admired and prosperous, is in reality despicable, and miserable, and alone; that the true man should face death itself rather than parley123 with dishonour. These truths are admitted in all ages; yet it is scarcely stretching language to say that they are known to but few men. Or at least, though in a great nation there be many who will act on them instinctively124, and approve them by a self-surrendering faith, there are few who can so put them forth in speech as to bring them home with a fresh conviction and an added glow; who can sum up, like AEschylus, the contrast between Hellenic freedom and barbarian125 despotism in “one trump’s peal53 that set all Greeks aflame;” can thrill, like Virgil, a world-wide empire with the recital126 of the august simplicities127 of early Rome.
To those who would know these things with a vital knowledge—a conviction which would remain unshaken were the whole world in arms for wrong—it is before all things necessary to strengthen the inner monitions by the companionship of these noble souls. And If a poet, by strong concentration of thought, by striving in all things along the upward way, can leave us in a few pages as it were a summary of patriotism128, a manual of national honour, he surely has his place among his country’s benefactors129 not only by that kind of courtesy which the nation extends to men of letters of whom her masses take little heed130, but with a title as assured as any warrior or statesman, and with no less direct a claim.
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1
bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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2
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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7
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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8
corrupted
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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9
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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10
abolition
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| n.废除，取消 | |
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degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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consul
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| n.领事；执政官 | |
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13
undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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14
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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16
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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18
tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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outrages
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| 引起…的义愤，激怒( outrage的第三人称单数 ) | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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languish
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| vi.变得衰弱无力，失去活力，（植物等）凋萎 | |
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nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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tumults
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| 吵闹( tumult的名词复数 )； 喧哗； 激动的吵闹声； 心烦意乱 | |
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factions
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| 组织中的小派别，派系( faction的名词复数 ) | |
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commotions
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| n.混乱，喧闹，骚动( commotion的名词复数 ) | |
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perennially
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| adv.经常出现地；长期地；持久地；永久地 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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cleaving
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| v.劈开，剁开，割开( cleave的现在分词 ) | |
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incubus
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| n.负担；恶梦 | |
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transcend
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| vt.超出，超越(理性等)的范围 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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cogency
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| n.说服力；adj.有说服力的 | |
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patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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pivot
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| v.在枢轴上转动；装枢轴，枢轴；adj.枢轴的 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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53
peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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exhortation
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| n.劝告，规劝 | |
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55
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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auguries
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| n.（古罗马）占卜术，占卜仪式( augury的名词复数 )；预兆 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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61
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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62
vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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64
stanzas
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| 节，段( stanza的名词复数 ) | |
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65
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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66
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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67
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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69
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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70
polemic
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| n.争论，论战 | |
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71
partisan
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| adj.党派性的；游击队的；n.游击队员；党徒 | |
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72
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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73
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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74
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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75
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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76
disdained
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| 鄙视( disdain的过去式和过去分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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77
steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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78
manlier
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| manly（有男子气概的）的比较级形式 | |
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79
invoke
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| v.求助于(神、法律)；恳求，乞求 | |
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80
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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81
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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82
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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83
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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84
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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85
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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86
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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87
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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88
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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89
hampered
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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91
naive
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| adj.幼稚的，轻信的；天真的 | |
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92
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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93
hesitations
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| n.犹豫( hesitation的名词复数 )；踌躇；犹豫（之事或行为）；口吃 | |
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94
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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95
recluse
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| n.隐居者 | |
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96
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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97
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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98
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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99
eulogy
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| n.颂词；颂扬 | |
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100
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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101
depicts
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| 描绘，描画( depict的第三人称单数 )； 描述 | |
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102
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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103
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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104
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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106
endued
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| v.授予，赋予（特性、才能等）( endue的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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108
turbulence
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| n.喧嚣，狂暴，骚乱，湍流 | |
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109
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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110
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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111
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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112
strenuousness
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113
wrestles
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的第三人称单数 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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114
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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115
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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116
subdues
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| 征服( subdue的第三人称单数 )； 克制； 制服 | |
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117
transmutes
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| v.使变形，使变质，把…变成…( transmute的第三人称单数 ) | |
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118
bereaves
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| v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的第三人称单数 )；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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119
abate
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| vi.(风势，疼痛等)减弱，减轻，减退 | |
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120
memorably
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| 难忘的 | |
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121
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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122
dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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123
parley
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| n.谈判 | |
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124
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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125
barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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126
recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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127
simplicities
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| n.简单，朴素，率直( simplicity的名词复数 ) | |
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128
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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129
benefactors
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| n.捐助者，施主( benefactor的名词复数 )；恩人 | |
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130
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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