SURPRISE AND EXPECTANCY IN POETRY.
THERE is a very real pleasure in surprise oftentimes. It may be the enchanting gateway to the New; and yet there is a sense in which even the delight in the New may be regarded as indicative of the fact that old instincts long starved are finding food for themselves. It is, in some sort, a coming to oneself in a far country,—a finding of oneself, at all events, outside the home circle of one's ordinary intelligence and experience. Sometimes it is said that in poetry this marvellous power of bringing us suddenly into the electric presence of that which surprises, is the chief glory of the art. Keats says that " the simple imaginative mind may have its rewards in the repetition of its own silent working, coming continually on the spirit with a fine suddenness." But this "fine suddenness" brings pleasure to the reader of poetry, as well as to the poet himself. And, in Keats's own case, at all events, the " working" is not wholly " silent," for it has expressed itself in many ways in his writings. He speaks, for example, of the "sudden thought" making "purple riot" in his heart. His was, in truth, a mind singularly open to influences which he deliberately named " strange," out of which arose " many a verse" that made him "wonder how and whence it came." His sonnets came to him, he confesses, with a " hearty grasp " almost before he was aware ; and there is really no difficulty at all in taking for granted that much of his work came as a surprise even to himself. In his superb line,
" There is a budding morrow in midnight," while there is not the slightest hint of strain, there is certainly the light of newness, and the beauty comes to us, in ways more or less reflected.
There is, however, we hold, a still finer adjustment of the pleasure-giving chords of being—in so far as poetry touches these with magic fingers—in a more or less rapidly conceived expectation, which amounts to what might be called a sense of the inevitable. The weak man's pun or mot is inevitable, it is true, but for that very reason the wiser man will not take upon himself the silly burden of giving it utterance; for if " brevity is the soul of wit," surprise is assuredly its finer spirit and essence. The duly expected on the lower plane is simply the obvious, and that bears no elaboration. It finds us, so to speak, in our shallows. It is altogether a rarer thing to find us where the depths are still and weary waiting for the penetrating sunshine. There is some kinship here to the view Pope gives us of wit, as—
"Nature to advantage dress'd ;
What oft was thought, but ne'er so well express'd."
To quote a particularly modern instance ; there are few lovers of the poet who will fail to acknowledge the felicity of the
stanza from " Wordsworth's Grave," by William Watson—so favourably reviewed recently in these columns—or fail to feel as he reads, his expectancy reap ample fulfilment :-
"He felt the charm of childhood, grace of youth, Grandeur of age, insisting to be sung. The impassioned argument was simple truth Half-wondering at its own melodious tongue."
The poem almost throughout, indeed, is a good example of the quality of verse that fascinates, because it exquisitely expressly the mature silence of the mind's best critical moments. But the thought, finely uttered, may, after all, be identical merely with that which more or less clumsily expressed itself. Altogether richer and finer is that which, while assuredly not alien to the mind that is open to it, comes bringing its own passport (sufficiently foreign, at all events, to require such) in itself, and suddenly illumines those wide, thrilling spaces under thoughtland. In Pope's view, the matter is one of dress. Although one feels bound to add— what the " thorough-going " opponents of him are sometimes not thorough enough to perceive or admit—that this dress is not skin-deep merely, but one of considerable depth of texture, which is knit to the thought by a masterly, if, after all, some- what mechanical art. In this very question of expectancy, Pope goes farther than many of us are perhaps willing to allow. He expresses, of course, his contempt for " sure returns of still expected rhymes," but, on the other band, he seeks—and within limits, himself submits to us, it must be allowed-
" Something whose truth convinced at sight we find That gives us back the image of our mind."
Even here, however, the image is in the mind, whether we seek confirmation by the use of the mirror or not ; and the bloom, so to speak, of expectancy is, to a large degree, dulled by the fingers of a certainty which leaves no play for the imagination.
In other words, we know exactly what to expect, and should feel surprised, indeed, in failing to find it even in detail. To feel the full charm of expectancy, it is necessary we should rather have that, which is to interpret us, as it were, to our- selves, come more than half way to meet us than that we should, like an inquisitive child, with beating heart and impatiently- working fingers, creep up to the open casket whose contents are gradually descried and separated from each other in view, as they are neared. So that Pope's poetry becomes, when all is said, a matter of presentment, and the justification of the new appearance lies in a sort of wealthier taste, or it may be adroiter search, that finds and uses the best raiment. It is otherwise with that higher visitation from without which kindles that which is within, until flame meets flame, and they lose themselves in each other. There is that in the mind which, as it were, is unconsciously on the watch. There is a preparedness which instantly grasps what is truly intended for it. It is not thought waiting to be clothed, not even thought waiting for thought, but rather, tightly rolled buds at a breath of spring unfolding into full and festive blossom. In winter, summer may not come to us even in our dreams. Once with us, she may seem never to have been absent. Looking forward, the gift of prophecy may not come to us; looking backward, we may feel that it could not have been otherwise than it is,—the sense of the inevitable is with us.
Of course, the mind has various hospitalities to offer, and may treat its guests, if not, alas ! in the order of excellence, at any rate with a caprice we cannot wholly overreach. The sense of the inevitable is not always so deep a thing, however. It belongs often to our commoner moods, and is kindled over our knowledge and love. Less mystical it may be, but not less beautiful in its coming. It assumes the form of a bright ex- pectancy which is not disappointed. The fitness of utterance which makes us thrill under the instant recognition of what, dumbly, seems in some way to belong to us, brings a very real pleasure. And it is sometimes associated with the impression that the utterance in question is not of yesterday, but has been for ever awaiting our recognition—old as the thought it em- bodies. Keats describes his feelings in seeing a lock of Milton's hair. The sight affected him in so peculiar a way that his mind lost all sense of time for the moment, and he tells us he thought he had beheld it " since the flood." The occasion was, of course, an unusual one, but there is some- times an experience that loses nothing, through the mind's concerning itself with every-day things, gaining rather in proportion as it reveals a great power of handling little things, or what are called little things. The truly great side
of a thing lies downwards, so to speak, and the " smooth- rubbed " surface, with its well-known features, is so familiar to us that we fancy we give it all it deserves—the hasty glance—and pass on. Let it, however, be brought before us. by the really great Poet, and at a touch it breaks open, and its hitherto unseen outlines are discovered. With our grow- ing insight grows also the feeling that in the very heart of our hitherto, as we thought, careless glance there lived an embryo expectancy of something greater, accompanied by a keen wonder at the partiality of former vision. The increase. of faculty, indeed, amounts almost to re-creation. Not other than they were surely are the objects of our interest; but to- ns, practically, they become new. And yet, while deliberately admitting the truth of the reflection, there arises a strange sense of the fineness of the adjustment between the mind and that which it reads anew ; of the readiness with which we accept the new conditions, and of the power of instantly appropriating what we refused before. But this is not all. There is the underlying assurance that the new view is the inevitable one, that it could not be other than it is, and may not change. Happily for us, it does change in time. It may not be for the better, however, but when it is so, we re-enjoy the thrill born of poetry ; but when it is not so, we go back to plain prose, not therefore wiser, but generally sadder men-
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