CHAPTER V

THE SUBJECTS OF POETRY

I

WE

E may return now from the mainly historical treatment of the two modes of thought in the preceding chapter, to a further description of them as we have them at our disposal at the present time. If we still think in both ways-though more largely in the newly-acquired way-the question arises, when do we use one mode and when the other? When do we fall, or rise, from directed thought into merely associative thought, from reasoning into pure imagining? The choice of words, between falling and rising, is somewhat important; the word fall or lapse is the one generally employed; but this choice we may leave open for the moment. Under what conditions and for what subjects do we employ one mode of thought or the other? These questions have already been considered to some extent, but they must now be answered as carefully as possible; then we shall know something about the conditions under which poetry is produced and the proper subjects for poetry.

They have been considered in an instructive way by H. Silberer, and I may begin by referring to his discussion.1 "I shall not differ much," he says, "from the majority of authors if I find the most important and most general condition of the formation of symbols"-that is, equivalently, of the employment of the phantasy-"a condition which will fit the phenomena, both normal and pathological, whether in individual psychology or in the psychology of the race-if I find the

1"Über die Symbolbildung," in Jahrbuch für psychoanalytische und psychopathologische Forschungen, vol. iii, p. 680.

condition in an inadequacy of the comprehending faculty relatively to its object, or, to use other words, in an apperceptive insufficience." The idea of a mental insufficiency is the important one, and this insufficiency is a relative matter,-that is, there are in it two factors, first the mind, and secondly the task or the subject. The insufficiency may arise either from the weakness of the mind, or from the difficulty of the task with which it is confronted. The mind may be unequal to its task for various reasons. It may be so because it is naturally weak, as in children or savages; and thus, as we have seen, children and savages think in images. It may be so because it is tired, as reverie arises most often in fatigue, or because it is sleepy or asleep, as in hypnogogic illusions or in dream. It may be so because it is in a state of emotion, preventing the adjustment necessary to attentive thought.

But the second factor, the subject, also comes in. This may be too difficult, as almost any subject is difficult for the childish or primitive mind. But many subjects are too difficult for any mind and it is these that we should especially consider, because they are particularly the subjects of poetry. Many subjects, like the mysteries of religion, the meaning of life, the secrets of nature and its beauty, love, death, and immortality, cannot be approached by the reasoning mind. They are beyond our comprehension even when we are grown, sound of mind, and wide awake, even in our best moments. They are beyond the power of the strongest reasoner, even of the greatest poet, though the poet is a man of insight and wisdom. Each of these subjects often presents merely an obscure total impression, with the elements of which we are not familiar, and which is therefore unanalyzable. When a man confronts such subjects it is useless for him, however strong his mind, to attempt voluntary thought. He may fix his attention upon them, but without result. The volition can only select and reject among the images spontaneously offered to the mind,' and here

1 James, Psychology, vol. i, p. 589.

there is no principle of selection, no clue; it is like venturing into a wilderness without path or guide. The country must first be guessed at and spied out and surveyed from a distance before it can be traversed. It is this preliminary survey of an unknown country which the poet undertakes; he must always go first and be followed by the reasoner. Voluntary thought being useless, the only resort is purposeless or merely associative thought. In other words in approaching these unexplored subjects man cannot reason, but only feel and imagine. Here, then, is a mental insufficiency different from the first. Here it is useless to talk of weak minds reverting to an outgrown habit of thought. It is a case of the strongest mind using the only thought that is serviceable, which man must not at any cost allow to be outgrown if he can help it,-which, if he is to approach any new subject at all, is his only recourse. It is true that this kind of thought is primitive-the thought of children and savages. But it is, and must be, the thought of man too. And if it is older it may be deeper. It is true that it is easier, and so the resort of a weak or tired mind. But this is not conclusive. It is harder to argue keenly than to lapse into meditation, but wisdom enforces meditation upon us, and meditation is thought to lead to wisdom, even more surely than argument. It is true also that this second thought comes into play when the emotions destroy the adjustment necessary to attention. But strong feeling, which is so unfavorable to "cool reason," is the very source and condition of the other mode of thought, for feeling starts and warms the imagination. And there is no reason for supposing that we are any more on the right track when we reason coolly" than when we "feel warmly." The fact is that each state of mind has its place and function. In other words we might as well go beyond the idea of weakness and primitiveness, and recognize that there are these two operations of the mind, the reasoning one and the feeling one, the ordinary thought and the phantasy-each of which has its own function, its appropriate subjects, and its peculiar results.

I have spoken of subjects, concerning the meaning of life and nature, which are beyond our comprehension. We must realize of course that there are many such subjects. In every field of human thought there is a part of it familiar to us-a part which is, so to speak, nearest to our door and crossed by beaten paths. There is another part of it distant from us, so distant that it is beyond our ken and entirely unknown. Then there is a part between the two, between the known and the unknown, and this is always the region which most interests us, is most the object of curiosity and speculation. The first does not take our attention because it is too familiar, the second also does not, precisely because it is entirely beyond our vision, and except as a vague whole, can never enter the mind. To the third-the known-unknown-we readily attend. In every science, for example, we understand to a certain point; beyond lie the parts of the subject we are learning, and beyond these the great unknown. In going forward over this new country towards the unknown, the imagination always leads the way and the reason follows. The poet sees first and points out, the scientist then explains and demonstrates. The familiar country is the region of prose and science. The region of poetry is always just on that frontier where the known verges upon the unknown. There lies the field of greatest interest and greatest difficulty. There lie the subjects which can be approached only poetically, and the work of the poets. But since this verge or horizon of thought lies about us always, in every science and department of knowledge, and not only here but in every matter which we may contemplate, and in all our physical surroundings, there is always work for this poetical pioneer-work which only the poet can perform. This is the true apologia for poetry-the argument which, if he can understand it, must appeal even to the most practical man, and by which all the dreams and fancies, the vision and the ecstasy, of the poet are justified.

The matter may be put in another way which will make the subject matter of poetry more specific. Poetry is produced

by the imagination stimulated by emotion. Anything therefore which heightens the feeling and starts the imagination will properly be poetized. If a thing is perfectly apprehended in all its features it is commonplace. The multiplication table and the rule of three with their whole vocabulary are hopelessly prosaic. The imagination starts only when the subject is more obscure, when it is a little more distant or dimly seen, when in consequence it begins to have color and shadow, when it begins to have mystery. Then begins romance. Take the imagination of childhood. In the child, Sully says, "the external world, so far as it is only dimly perceived, excites wonder, curiosity, and the desire to fill in the blank spaces with at least the semblance of knowledge. The same thing might be said of the man, but let us take the child because he is the more imaginative. "Here," Sully continues, "distance exercises a strange fascination. The remote chain of hills faintly visible from the child's home, has been again and again endowed by his enriching fancy, with all manner of wondrous scenery and peopled by all manner of strange creatures. The unapproachable sky-which to the little one, so often on his back, is much more of a visible object than to us— with its wonders of blue expanse and cloudland, of stars and changeful moon, is wont to occupy his mind, his bright fancy quite spontaneously filling out this big upper world with appropriate forms." Taking the child's point of view, we begin to understand the celestial mythology of the Greeks. "This stimulating effect of the half-perceivable is seen in still greater intensity in the case of what is hidden from sight. The spell cast on the young mind by the mystery of holes, and especially of dark woods, and the like, is known to all." We begin to understand also the poetry that gathered around the chasm at Delphi and the oak-grove at Dodona. These are the shrines of Apollo. "This imaginative filling up," Sully continues, "of the remote and the hidden recesses of the outer world is subject to manifold stimulating influences from the region of feeling

The unseen, the hidden, contains unknown possibilities,