CHAPTER 17 AND 18

As far then as Mr. Wordsworth in his preface contended, and most ably contended, for a reformation in

our poetic diction, as far as he has evinced the truth of passion, and the dramatic propriety of those

figures and metaphors in the original poets, which, stripped of their justifying reasons, and converted

into mere artifices of connection or ornament, constitute the characteristic falsity in the poetic style of

the moderns; and as far as he has, with equal acuteness and clearness, pointed out the process by which

this change was effected, and the resemblances between that state into which the reader's mind is

thrown by the pleasurable confusion of thought from an unaccustomed train of words and images; and

that state which is induced by the natural language of impassioned feeling; he undertook a useful task,

and deserves all praise, both for the attempt and for the execution. The provocations to this

remonstrance in behalf of truth and nature were still of perpetual recurrence before and after the

publication of this preface. I cannot likewise but add, that the comparison of such poems of merit, as

have been given to the public within the last ten or twelve years, with the majority of those produced

previously to the appearance of that preface, leave no doubt on my mind, that Mr. Wordsworth is fully

justified in believing his efforts to have been by no means ineffectual.

My own differences from certain supposed parts of Mr. Wordsworth's theory ground themselves on the

assumption, that his words had been rightly interpreted, as purporting that the proper diction for poetry

in general consists altogether in a language taken, with due exceptions, from the mouths of men in real

life, a language which actually constitutes the natural conversation of men under the influence of

natural feelings. My objection is, first, that in any sense this rule is applicable only to certain classes of

poetry; secondly, that even to these classes it is not applicable, except in such a sense, as hath never by

any one (as far as I know or have read,) been denied or doubted; and lastly, that as far as, and in that

degree in which it is practicable, it is yet as a rule useless, if not injurious, and therefore either need not,

or ought not to be practised.

soil, in which they can attain their maturity, are less under restraint, and speak a plainer and more

emphatic language; because in that condition of life our elementary feelings coexist in a state of greater

simplicity, and consequently may be more accurately contemplated, and more forcibly communicated;

because the manners of rural life germinate from those elementary feelings; and from the necessary

character of rural occupations are more easily comprehended, and are more durable; and lastly,

because in that condition the passions of men are incorporated with the beautiful and permanent forms

of nature."

I am convinced, that for the human soul to prosper in rustic life a certain vantage-ground is prerequisite.

It is not every man that is likely to be improved by a country life or by country labours. Education, or

original sensibility, or both, must pre-exist, if the changes, forms, and incidents of nature are to prove a

sufficient stimulant. And where these are not sufficient, the mind contracts and hardens by want of

stimulants: and the man becomes selfish, sensual, gross, and hard- hearted.

I should not have entered so much into detail upon this passage, but here seems to be the point, to

which all the lines of difference converge as to their source and centre;—I mean, as far as, and in

whatever respect, my poetic creed does differ from the doctrines promulgated in this preface. I adopt

with full faith, the principle of Aristotle, that poetry, as poetry, is essentially ideal, that it avoids and

excludes all accident; that its apparent individualities of rank, character, or occupation must be

representative of a class; and that the persons of poetry must be clothed with generic attributes, with

the common attributes of the class: not with such as one gifted individual might possibly possess, but

such as from his situation it is most probable before-hand that he would possess.

"The language, too, of these men has been adopted (purified indeed from what appear to be its real

defects, from all lasting and rational causes of dislike or disgust) because such men hourly communicate

with the best objects from which the best part of language is originally derived; and because, from their
rank in society and the sameness and narrow circle of their intercourse, being less under the action of

social vanity, they convey their feelings and notions in simple and unelaborated expressions." To this I

reply; that a rustic's language, purified from all provincialism and grossness, and so far reconstructed as

to be made consistent with the rules of grammar—(which are in essence no other than the laws of

universal logic, applied to psychological materials)—will not differ from the language of any other man

of common sense, however learned or refined he may be, except as far as the notions, which the rustic

has to convey, are fewer and more indiscriminate. This will become still clearer, if we add the

consideration—(equally important though less obvious)—that the rustic, from the more imperfect

development of his faculties, and from the lower state of their cultivation, aims almost solely to convey

insulated facts, either those of his scanty experience or his traditional belief; while the educated man

chiefly seeks to discover and express those connections of things, or those relative bearings of fact to

fact, from which some more or less general law is deducible.

The best part of human language, properly so called, is derived from reflection on the acts of the mind

itself. It is formed by a voluntary appropriation of fixed symbols to internal acts, to processes and results

of imagination, the greater part of which have no place in the consciousness of uneducated man;

"Between the language of prose and that of metrical composition, there neither is, nor can be, any

essential difference:" it is against these exclusively that my opposition is directed.

I object, in the very first instance, to an equivocation in the use of the word "real." Every man's language

varies, according to the extent of his knowledge, the activity of his faculties, and the depth or quickness

of his feelings. Every man's language has, first, its individualities; secondly, the common properties of

the class to which he belongs; and thirdly, words and phrases of universal use.

One point then alone remains, but that the most important; its examination having been, indeed, my

chief inducement for the preceding inquisition. "There neither is nor can be any essential difference

between the language of prose and metrical composition." Such is Mr. Wordsworth's assertion. Now
prose itself, at least in all argumentative and consecutive works, differs, and ought to differ, from the

language of conversation. Unless therefore the difference denied be that of the mere words, as

materials common to all styles of writing, and not of the style itself in the universally admitted sense of

the term, it might be naturally presumed that there must exist a still greater between the ordonnance of

poetic composition and that of prose.

Secondly, I argue from the effects of metre. As far as metre acts in and for itself, it tends to increase the

vivacity and susceptibility both of the general feelings and of the attention. This effect it produces by the

continued excitement of surprise, and by the quick reciprocations of curiosity still gratified and still re-

excited, which are too slight indeed to be at any one moment objects of distinct consciousness.

The discussion on the powers of metre in the preface is highly ingenious and touches at all points on

truth. But I cannot find any statement of its powers considered abstractly and separately. On the

contrary Mr. Wordsworth seems always to estimate metre by the powers, which it exerts during, (and,

as I think, in consequence of) its combination with other elements of poetry. Thus the previous difficulty

is left unanswered, what the elements are, with which it must be combined, in order to produce its own

effects to any pleasurable purpose.

Metre in itself is simply a stimulant of the attention, and therefore excites the question: Why is the

attention to be thus stimulated? Now the question cannot be answered by the pleasure of the metre

itself; for this we have shown to be conditional, and dependent on the appropriateness of the thoughts

and expressions, to which the metrical form is superadded. Neither can I conceive any other answer that

can be rationally given, short of this: I write in metre, because I am about to use a language different

from that of prose.

Lastly, I appeal to the practice of the best poets, of all countries and in all ages, as authorizing the

opinion, (deduced from all the foregoing,) that in every import of the word essential, which would not
here involve a mere truism, there may be, is, and ought to be an essential difference between the

language of prose and of metrical composition.

This poem describes Xanadu, the palace of Kubla Khan, a Mongol emperor and the grandson of Genghis

Khan. The poem's speaker starts by describing the setting of Emperor's palace, which he calls a "pleasure

dome." He tells us about a river that runs across the land and then flows through some underground

caves and into the sea. He also tells us about the fertile land that surrounds the palace. The nearby area

is covered in streams, sweet-smelling trees, and beautiful forests.

Then the speaker gets excited about the river again and tells us about the canyon through which it

flows. He makes it into a spooky, haunted place, where you might find a "woman wailing for her demon

lover." He describes how the river leaps and smashes through the canyon, first exploding up into a noisy

fountain and then finally sinking down and flowing through those underground caves into the ocean far

away.

The speaker then goes on to describe Kubla Khan himself, who is listening to this noisy river and thinking

about war. All of a sudden, the speaker moves away from this landscape and tells us about another

vision he had, where he saw a woman playing an instrument and singing. The memory of her song fills

him with longing, and he imagines himself singing his own song, using it to create a vision of Xanadu.

Toward the end, the poem becomes more personal and mysterious, as the speaker describes past

visions he has had. This brings him to a final image of a terrifying figure with flashing eyes. This person,

Kubla Khan, is a powerful being who seems almost godlike: "For he on honey-dew hath fed/And drunk

the milk of paradise" (53-54).

Style:
Kubla Khan is an intricately structured poem, using a amazing variety of metric and rhythmic devices.

Lines 1 to 7 and 37 to 54 are written primarily in iambic tetrameter.

In order to analyze the rhythm or meter of a line of poetry, the line is divided into syllables. Iambs are

units of two syllables, where the first syllables is unstressed, or not emphasized, and the second syllable

is stressed. Notice the syllable in the first line of "Kubla Khan":

In Xa / na du / did Ku / bla Khan

First Stanza

Or, a vision in a dream. A Fragment.

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-dome decree:

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran

Through caverns measureless to man

   Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground

With walls and towers were girdled round;

And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,

Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;

And here were forests ancient as the hills,

Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.