CHAPTER XVII.

POETIC AND UNPOETIC WORDS.

Words depending for their Meanings on Association not necessarily Prosaic; nor those depending on Comparison necessarily Poetic-The Latter necessitate Imagination to originate, and, at first, to interpret them, but after being used become Conventional-This the Natural Tendency of all Words—Poets can always cause Words to seem Poetic. First, by selecting those representing Poetic Associations-This applies to Conventional Words-Second, by arranging Words imaginatively so as to suggest New Comparisons or Pictures-Why English of Anglo-Saxon Origin is preferred by our Poets-Have Familiar AssociationsSounds fit Sense-Are used by us in Different Senses-Figures represented in Compound Words Apparent-In General more SignificantWhy the English Language is fitted to remain Poetic.

IT

T is natural that some may suppose that the principles unfolded in the last chapter would carry with them the inference that series of words and sentences like "Their cultivated conversation and attire interfered with the effects of their depravity," or "His integrity is impaired by severe temptation," the meanings of which, as has been said, are determined by the associations which we have with the terms used, would be classed as prose; and that series of words and sentences like "Their finery threw a veil over their grossness," and "His uprightness bends before some pressing blast," the meanings of which are determined by the comparisons embodied in the expressions, would be classed as poetry. In fact, when men speak of poetic language, do they not almost invariably

refer to language of the latter kind, i. e., to words and phrases full of comparisons and figures? Let us weigh this question carefully and detect, if we can, just how much truth and how much error is in the idea underlying it.

In contrasting the sentences quoted above, two things claim our notice; first, that expressions of the comparative kind, like "His uprightness bends before some pressing blast," call forth a greater effort of the imagination both to compose and to interpret them; and second, that these expressions call forth a greater effort of the imagination when first produced or heard than afterwards. In fact, if often used to represent the same idea, there comes to be a time when any number of terms like uprightness, pressing, bends, and blast suggest no pictures whatsoever, except to one in search of them. They become at last no more significant than words depending for their meanings on association; and often less so. In reading them, we are conscious of no more than could be gained from unsuggestive arbitrary symbols. Even, therefore, though in the main poetic language were confined to these words embodying comparisons, this of itself would not suffice to keep the words in such a condition that men would recognize the pictures in them.

When words pass thus from the language of imagination where they start, into that of mere conventionality, they move according to a natural tendency exemplified in every phase of intellectual development. The unfamiliar never can be understood by us till classified on the ground of likeness to some other thing that we have known before. The earliest name assigned to the unfamiliar object represents this fact. The Indian's "horse that breathes forth fire," the "iron horse," the "locomotive,"― all, at first, present the mind with pictures. But after a

little, men select and agree to use some single term for the object, and, when the term is uttered, it calls to mind this object and no other. In this way, words in every language are constantly becoming more exact in meaning, and not only so, but they are constantly accumulating. Different shades of meaning are perpetually assuming definite shape in forms of thought; as, indeed, is needed where the thought of each succeeding age is constantly becoming more complex as well as comprehensive. Of course, as words become exact in meaning, they have less in them suggestive of a different meaning. So, as a language grows conventional and scientific, it loses much of its imaginative and poetic force. When men have arbitrary symbols to express precisely what they wish to say, their fancies do not search for others to suggest what, at best, can but vaguely picture it. We hear them speak of engines and of locomotives, not of "horses breathing fire."

The question now arises: Amid circumstances like these must poetry succumb? If not, in what way can the poet overcome them? Certainly in one way only-by recognizing his conditions, and making the most of the material at his disposal. He must use a special poetic diction. In doing this two things are incumbent on him. The first is to choose from the mass of language words that have poetic associations. All our words convey definite meanings not only, but accompanying suggestions; and some of these are very unpoetic. Particular sights or sounds in the material world, or concepts in the mind, are instantly represented to the imagination, as well as presented to the understanding, when these words are heard. For this reason, therefore, though they do not in themselves embody comparisons, they are sufficiently representative, for a part, at least, of the purposes of poetry.

It is words like these, though not suggested in a like connection, that Grant Allen mentions in his "Physiological Esthetics," when, carrying out his theory that "the purpose of poetry" is "the production of massive pleasurable emotion," because it "depends for its effect upon the unbroken succession of beautiful ideas and images," he says that terms like violet, palfrey, and ruby, because suggesting what is more pleasing, are more poetic than terms like cabbage, donkey, and chalk; and terms, in the sphere of light, like scarlet, crimson, pink, orange, golden, green, blue, azure, purple, and violet, are more poetic than gray, brown, dun, black, bay, and drab. So brilliant, sparkling, sheeny, polished, lustrous, luminous, twinkling, glancing, silvery, pearly, are more poetic, he says, than dull, dingy, rough, turbid; and rounded, curling, graceful, lithe, flowing, are more poetic than straight, stiff, awk ward, and upright; and, in the sphere of sound, terms like clear, ringing, silvery, musical, sweet, melodious, mellow, rich, low, are more poetic than shrill, hoarse, grating, harsh, loud, and croaking; and, in the sphere of touch, terms like soft, waxen, fleecy, smooth, delicate, slender, are more poetic than hard, rough, harsh, tough, and coarse; and, in the sphere of smell, terms like fragrant, sweet, perfumed, scented, odorous, are more poetic than stench and stinking; and, in the sphere of taste, terms like luscious, melting, honeyed, sugared, are more poetic than bitter, sour, biting, acid, acrid; and, in the sphere of organic sensations, terms like cool, fresh, buoyant, warm, easy, pure, are more poetic than hot, close, weary, cold, and chilly.

Most of the words thus instanced,-only a small propor tion of those in Mr. Allen's lists,-depend but little for their poetic or unpoetic effects, on any comparison suggested by their origin or expressed in the passage in

which they are placed. They depend for these mainly upon the ideas that they conventionally represent-ideas invariably associated with them, whenever they are heard. This fact is enough to show us that the distinction between poetry and prose lies deeper than can be determined solely by the etymological character of the phraseology.

But there is a second thing incumbent on the poet in view of the present unpoetic tendencies of language. He must choose from the mass of language words that embody poetic comparisons,—choose them not only negatively, by excluding terms too scientific or colloquial, which, with material and mean associations, break the spell of the ideal and spiritual; but positively, by going back in imagination to the view-point of the child, and (either because arranging old words so as to reveal the pictures in them, or because originating new expressions of his own) by substituting for the commonplace that which is worthy of an art which should be æsthetic. Wordsworth did not exclude the unpoetic, disenchanting comparison, when in his otherwise beautiful, She was a Phantom of Delight, he wrote of his love:

And now I see with eye serene

The very pulse of the machine.

And Shelley did go back to the view-point of the child when he wrote:

And multitudes of dense, white, fleecy clouds

Were wandering in thick flocks along the mountains,
Shepherded by the slow, unwilling wind.

-Prometheus Unbound, ii., I.

Only a moment's thought will reveal to us that the principles just unfolded are closely related-in connection,