§ 37. Observe, therefore, this is not
pathetic fallacy; for there is
no passion in
Scott which alters nature. It is not the lover's passion,
making him think the larkspurs are listening for his lady's foot; it is not the
miser's passion, making him think that dead leaves are falling coins; but it is
an inherent and continual habit of thought, which Scott shares with the moderns
in general, being, in fact, nothing else than the instinctive sense which men
must have of the Divine presence, not formed into distinct belief. In the Greek
it created, as we saw, the faithfully believed gods of the elements: in Dante
and the mediævals, it formed the faithfully believed angelic presence; in the
modern, it creates no perfect form, does not apprehend distinctly any Divine
being or operation; but only a dim, slightly credited animation in the natural
object, accompanied with great interest and affection for it. This feeling is
quite universal with us, only varying in depth according to the greatness of the
heart that holds it; and in Scott, being more than usually intense,
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accompanied with infinite affection and quickness of sympathy, it enables him to
conquer all tendencies to the pathetic fallacy, and, instead of making Nature
anywise subordinate to himself, he makes himself subordinate
to
her—follows her lead simply—does not venture to bring his own cares and
thoughts into her pure and quiet presence—paints her in her simple and universal
truth, adding no result of momentary passion or fancy, and appears, therefore,
at first shallower than other poets, being in reality wider and healthier. "What
am I?" he says continually, "that I should trouble this sincere nature with my
thoughts. I happen to be feverish and depressed, and I could see a great many
sad and strange things in those waves and flowers; but I have no business to see
such things. Gay Greta! sweet harebells!
you are not sad nor strange to
most people; you are but bright water and blue blossoms; you shall not be
anything else to me,
oil paintings, except that I cannot help thinking you are a little
alive,—no one can help thinking that." And thus, as Nature is bright, serene, or
gloomy, Scott takes her temper, and paints her as she is; nothing of himself
being ever intruded, except that far-away Eolian tone, of which he is
unconscious; and sometimes a stray syllable or two, like that about Blackford
Hill, distinctly stating personal feeling, but all the more modestly for that
distinctness and for the clear consciousness that it is not the chiming brook,
nor the cornfields, that are sad, but only the boy that rests by them; so
returning on the instant to reflect, in all honesty, the image of Nature as she
is meant by all to be received; nor that in fine words, but in the first that
come; nor with comment of far-fetched thoughts, but with easy thoughts, such as
all sensible men ought to have in such places, only spoken sweetly; and
evidently also with an undercurrent of more profound reflection, which here and
there murmurs for a moment, and which I think, if we choose, we may continually
pierce down to, and drink deeply from, but which Scott leaves us to seek, or
shun, at our pleasure.
§ 38. And in consequence of this unselfishness and humility, Scott's
enjoyment of Nature is incomparably greater than that of any other poet I know.
All the rest carry their cares to her, and begin maundering in her ears about
their own affairs. Tennyson goes out on a furzy common, and sees it is calm autumn sunshine,
but it gives him no pleasure. He only remembers that it is
"Dead calm in that noble breast
Which heaves but with the heaving deep." oil painting reproductions for sale
He sees a thunder-cloud in the evening, and
would have "doted and
pored" on it, but cannot, for fear it should bring the ship bad weather. Keats
drinks the beauty of Nature violently; but has no more real sympathy with her
than he has with a bottle of claret. His palate is fine; but he "bursts joy's
grape against it," gets nothing but misery, and a bitter taste of dregs out of
his desperate draught.
Byron and Shelley are nearly the same, only with less truth of perception,
and even more troublesome selfishness. Wordsworth is more like Scott, and
understands how to be happy, but yet cannot altogether rid himself of the sense
that he is a philosopher, and ought always to be saying something wise. He has
also a vague notion that Nature would not be able to get on well without
Wordsworth; and finds a considerable part of his pleasure in looking at himself
as well as at her. But with Scott the love is entirely humble and unselfish. "I,
Scott, am nothing, and less than nothing; but these crags, and heaths, and
clouds, how great they are, how lovely, how for ever to be beloved, only for
their own silent, thoughtless sake!"
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