6
The climax of the second Romanticism: poetry of the Age of Wordsworth - the Romantic quintessence of Kubla Khan
In appearance, the second Romantic Movement started in England at the end of the eighteenth century by a revolt against the artificial "poetic diction" of the pseudo-Augustan Age. Wordsworth asked for a natural language and, though in some respects he went to an extreme by insisting on almost conversational naivete, what ultimately he and his contemporaries wanted was a living speech not ruled by a too externalised mind. Naturalness connoted the mind of thought expressing itself vividly from a depth of the being.
Here it is interesting to observe that the pseudo-Augustans had themselves claimed naturalness as their guiding principle. "If you had asked them," remarks G. H. Mair,1 "to state as simply and broadly as possible their purpose they would have said it was to follow nature, and if you had inquired what they meant by nature it would turn out that they thought of it mainly as the opposite of art and the negation of what was fantastic, tortured or far-sought in thinking or writing." Theirs was a revolt against the Elizabethans and the Metaphysicals, and naturalness to them spelled urbanity, good sense, mode-ration, distrust of emotion, good breeding. These qualities are not intrinsically objectionable: in their true form they are some aspects of an authentic Classicism and make fine poetry indeed in the works of Horace who, next to Virgil, was the most famous figure in the circle of poets around the Roman Emperor Augustus. The bane of the pseudo-Augustans was an over-exter-nalisation of the cultured mind. Against this so-called naturalness the new Romantics with their Rousseauistic cry of "Back to Nature" urged the charging of the intellect with not only ele-mental spontaneity but also intuitive subtlety and profundity.
The philosopher Whitehead has suggested that the new
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Romantic Movement was really a reaction from the mecha-nistic view held by the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries under the sway of the Newtonian development of physics. The whole universe was to physics a machine and, though the mind. of man was granted its own non-material essence, the body of man came under the mechanistic category and even the mind was regarded with a mechanistic eye. As Edmund Wilson2 puts it, human nature came to be reduced to a set of principles according to which it invariably acted. Everything was strictly rationalised. In poetry also the role of the imagination was diminished - it was made out to be a sort of decorative aid to the play of the logical intellect and systematised sentiment. The form of poetry lay as well under the shadow of the mechanistic philosophy. Corresponding to the theorems of physics, there were the geometrical plays of Racine and the balanced clicking couplets of Pope.
Whitehead points out that Romanticism refused to look on the world as mechanism and saw it as organism: the Romantic poet perceives, in Edmund Wilson's words,3 "that nature includes planets, mountains, vegetation and people alike, that what we are and what we see, what we hear, what we feel and what we smell are inextricably related, that all are involved in the same great entity" . Things and sense-impressions, matter and mind are interfused and they constitute a reality in which every element implies and - as Whitehead has it - "prehends" another by a sort of feeling so that all the parts are what they are because of one another and because of a whole which by being present in some manner in each part makes them mutually "prehensive" and serve as members of an organic totality and not a mechanical aggregate.
About the first book of Wordsworth's Prelude whitehead4 says: "Of course, Wordsworth is a poet writing a poem, and is not concerned with dry philosophical statements. But it would hardly be possible to express more clearly a feeling for nature, as exhibiting entwined prehensive unities, each suffused with modal presences of others" - and he quotes as a typical passage:
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Ye Presences of Nature in the sky
And on the earth! Ye Visions of the hills!
And Souls of lonely places! can I think
A vulgar hope was yours when ye employed
Such ministry, when ye through many a year
Haunting me thus among my boyish sports
On caves and trees, upon the woods and hills,
Impressed upon all forms the characters
Of danger or desire: and thus did make
The surface of the universal earth
With triumph and delight, with hope and fear,
Work like a sea?...
Whitehead5 continues: "Shelley is entirely at one with Words-worth as to the interfusing of the Presences in nature." Here is the opening stanza of his poem entitled Mont Blanc:
The everlasting universe of Things
Flows through the Mind, and rolls its rapid waves,
Now dark - now glittering - now reflecting gloom -
Now lending splendour, where from secret springs
The source of human thought its tribute brings
Of waters - with a sound but half their own,
Such as a feeble brook will oft assume
In the wild woods, among the Mountains lone,
Where waterfalls around it leap for ever,
Where woods and winds contend, and a vast river
Over its rocks ceaselessly bursts and raves.
Whitehead's comment6 is: "Shelley has written these lines with explicit reference to some form of idealism, Kantian or Berk-leyan or Platonic. But however you construe him, he is here an . emphatic witness to a prehensive unification as constituting the very being of nature."
The thesis put forward by Whitehead is not fictitious, but if the Romantics foreshadowed a philosophy of organism it was with an approach entirely different from his and they were not
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confined to the organic formula. Whitehead does not take vitality and mentality as powers underlying materiality and exceeding the physical universe which may be considered ultimately a certain expression of them though an expression. often appearing to obscure, obstruct and even deny them. To him they are manifestations of a universal reality which, though not the materialist's lifeless and mindless matter in motion with the phenomena of life and mind as certain complexities of physico-chemical action, is still a process of mere "events" with what we call the body as the centre of each vital and mental experience that is ours and the entire physical universe as the enlarging circumference of a pattern with which this experience is somehow continuous, for no expe-rience can be bound down to just one place but is the actualisa-tion of everything everywhere, a member of a worldwide organism and itself an organism on a small scale. No primacy is given by Whitehead to life and mind, and his system of "events" he finally distinguishes from materialistic mecha-nism by terming it "organic mechanism".7 The great Roman-tics would have been horrified on being accused, as Whitehead can be, of taking away with the left hand what is conceded with the right. Their rebellion against mechanism went far beyond giving, however "soulfully", an organic complexion to the mechanism. They could never have agreed to thinking that their intuitive subtlety and profundity lay in a poetic approxi-mation to Whitehead's philosophy.
However, it is true that the soul of man felt ill at ease in the world, pictured by eighteenth-century physics, of iron law and rigid structure. When the individual looked into himself deeply, he found not a well-ordered world but fantasy, conflict, mystery, aspiration, a sense of "things not easily expressible". It was with this in-look that Rousseau gave birth to modern Romanticism. And it was the same in-look that, piercing farther than Rousseau, unsealed on a sudden the springs of a Splendour that nourished for the first time the poetic mind of Europe - "except," as Sri Aurobindo8 adds, "in so far as the ancient poets had received it through myth and symbol or a
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religious mystic here and there attempted to give his experience rhythmic and imaginative form. But here there is the first poetic attempt of the intellectual faculty striving at the height of its own development to lock beyond its own level directly into the unseen and the unknown and to unveil the ideal truth of its own highest universal conceptions." The attempt can be seen in various forms: Blake's touch on the inner psychic realms and on vivid occult "Visions of Eternity" as well as his huge mythological imaginings that spoke at times as from a thick shining cloud into which the rational intellect seemed caught up - Coleridge's supernaturalism, his seizure of a terrible haunting indefiniteness, his projection of weird influences from hidden worlds into the midst of primitive and symbolic or else idealistic and rhapsodical thinking - Words-worth's pantheistic entry into Nature's inner being of infinite peace and also his elevated ethical thought in tune with that empathy and his occasional snatches of regions beyond the intellect which are the soul's home before physical birth and which sweep into the mind's word the breath and brightness of a direct intuitive seerhood - Shelley's imaginative ethereal-ised Platonism capturing the essence of the ideals of light, love and liberty by a semi-pantheistic semi-personalised vision of a single Spirit and of secret entities from "some world far from ours", whose intense rapturous contact he conveys by his enchanted and iridescent lyricism - Keats's worship of perfect Beauty, a soulful sensuousness rising on the wings of a partly mythopoeic partly idealistic thought yearning towards some dream-shrine where Beauty fuses with Truth.
What about those two other poets who are usually banded with this neo-Romantic group: Burns and Byron? Sri Aurobindo9 has accurately gauged Burns: " ... Burns has in him the things which are most native to the poetry of our modern .times; he brings in the new naturalness, the nearness of the fuller poetic mind, intellectualised, informed with the power of clear reflective thought, to life and nature, the closely ob-serving eye, the stirring force of great general ideas, the spirit of revolt and self-assertion, the power of personality and the
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free play of individuality, the poignant sentiment, sometimes even a touch of the psychological subtlety. These things are in him fresh, strong, initial as in a forerunner impelled by the first breath of the coming air, but not in that finished possession of the new motives which is to be the greatness of the future master-singers." Yes, the mind of the new age is active in Burns on several sides; what is lacking is, on the one hand, the supra-intellectual urge which most characterises "the future master-singers" and, on the other, their deeper artistic effect which cannot be achieved merely by the frank and unartificial and sturdy lyricism so frequently commanded by Burns. This effect he misses because his view of life is too close to the outsides and surfaces: "sometimes only does it suggest to us," writes Sri Aurobindo,10 "the subtler something which gives lyrical poetry not only its form and lilt and its power to stir, - all these he has, - but its more moving inmost appeal." As for subtlety charged with magic or mystery, there is perhaps one sole bit in Burns, presaging the true temper of the Romantic Revival -those two lines that enchanted Yeats with their symbolic colour:
The wan moon is setting ayont the white wave,
And time is setting with me, Oh!*
Byron belonged to the great Romantic group with a more genuine right and is the most vigorous voice among them, but he too is weak in the characteristic element which shone forth in their poetry - the Celtic element which is one ingredient of the English genius, mingling as a refining and developing force of visionary insight with the more prominent Anglo-Saxon and Teutonic ingredient of concrete earthiness either fresh and simple or robust and practical. Byron carries still a living shadow of the.eighteenth century: it is somewhat
• Yeats slightly misquoted the lines when he praised them:
The white moon is setting behind the white wave,
And Time is setting with me, O!
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symptomatic that his favourite poet should be Pope. But his frequent rhetoric has a picturesque individual note which is at the same time a splash of the sea of the Life-force and a gust drawn from the high searching wind of the poetic intelligence peculiar to the modern Romanticism. In this individual note there is a tendency to pose and make a pageant of his heart, and it introduces a certain falsity and exaggeration into his work. Yet here he has the defect of the self-conscious new Roman-ticism and not of either the deliberative pseudo-Classicism or the impulsive and aggressive Romanticism of the Elizabethan Age. Nor was that defect unaccompanied by qualities that render him an outstanding figure of the Rousseauistic epoch by his sensitiveness to mountain and sea with an elemental vehemence gathered from his rebellious endeavour to exceed life's ordinary limits by a titanism bursting with power of personality, an endeavour hardly mystical in its appearance yet not unrelated in its deeper substance to the elan of mysticism in his greatest contemporaries towards the super-human. What may be called spiritual in it is the Byronic sense that man for all his error and sensuality is yet an archangel fallen and not a merely superior pig in an Epicurean sty. This sense comes much short of his greatest contemporaries' vision of man returning to godhead, but, as Sri Aurobindo11 states, "it reposes on, it is the obscure side of a spiritual reality". Except for rare hints of that reality, "he could not break through the obstructions of his lower personality and express this thing that he felt in its native tones of largeness and power".12 What he felt drove outwards mostly through a tremendous assertion of individual freedom.
In Byron the passion for liberty and the insistence on individuality that were wide-spread by Rousseauistic Romanticism reached their acme - finding, as Sri Aurobindo13 .says, their "voice of Tyrrhenian bronze" - just as Wordsworth marked the climax of this Romanticism's communion with Nature and Shelley the extreme of its unrestrained sympathy. But that passion and that insistence burned bright too in Wordsworth and Shelley, not to mention Blake. They mixed
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with other motives, philosophical and emotional, yet it is noteworthy that temperaments so different had the same basic desire to enjoy personal freedom and to make every individual free. Sometimes the new Romanticism is even defined as. typically a revolt of the individual. And indeed the deeper aspect of this Romanticism, the revolt against mechanism, may itself be interpreted in terms of individualism. For what was in revolt was the personal vision the Romantic poet had of the world within him. Face to face with that world he - to quote Wilson14 again - "either set himself like Wordsworth and Blake to affirm the superior truth of this vision as compared to the mechanical universe of the physicists or, accepting this mechanical universe, like Byron or Alfred de Vigny, as external to and indifferent to man, he pitted against it, in defiance, his own turbulent insubordinate soul''.
In all cases individualism was aflame - and we are reminded of the Hellenistic and humanistic stress on the indi-vidual in the Romanticism of the Renascence. But here is no outcome of the mere Life-force's upsurge. In the Renascence there was no stress on individualism in principle - no formu-lated recognition of it. Modernism with its more intellectual character is individualistic with a certain self-justifying ges-ture. And there is also a profounder context for its assertion of personality and for its view of society as not a rigid whole subordinating the members but a group of free individuals spontaneously associating with one another. There is a dif-ference here from the Renascence explosion of individual zest - the riotous giantism of Rabelais, the curious and happy self-regard of Montaigne, the artistic egotism of Benvenuto Cellini, the perplexed individualistic passion and powerful expanding enthusiasm of the half animal half god heroes of Shakespeare. The individualism of the second Romantic Movement was geared to an idealism fraught with religious and philosophical aspirations.
In their effect on art-form, however, the two Romantic Movements are almost at one: the sense of the artistic whole is no longer as emphatic as in Classical creations, and the units
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making up the ensemble - words, phrases, paragraphs, sections - draw more attention to themselves, stand out more in their own right, their own richness, and the contour of the totality is proportionally more diffuse. As already remarked in relation to the old Romanticism, this diffuseness has two sides - either a subtlety in the sense of general form or else a looseness in the view of the whole.
The change in form-feeling is acutely illustrated by one of the most Romantic poems, Coleridge's Kubla Khan. It was published as the transcript of a fluctuant dream and as a mere fragment, but to the typical Romantic mind it is as good as a coherent totality and a complete composition. The individual pictures and imaged significances appear nearly independent and self-contained in their fascinating blend of vividness and vagueness, and there is a quick shift from one to another, occasionally almost a leap, as from the stately pleasure-dome to the sunless sea and from the deep chasm to the wailing woman and from the mingled measure heard on the waves to the Abyssinian maid and from that damsel with a dulcimer to the poet himself. Yet behind this suggestive variety the Romantic mind perceives a connection - an underlying general mood of sensuous-symbolic fantasy. The poem is a whole not by a recognisable idea developed in a regular or manifold imaginative manner but by a delicate or bold multi-aspected-ness of imaginative-emotional and intuitive-sensuous mood strongly enveloping the idea. Nor is there a real end in the Classical fashion: instead, we have at the close of the last two magnificent lines -
For he on honey-dew hath fed
And drunk the milk of paradise -
a word - "paradise" - which at once takes us back to the beginning of the poem where Xanadu is pictured as an ideal place of beauty, fantasy and grandeur. Paradise seems to be the supernal archetype of which Kubla Khan's Xanadu is an earthly reflection. Again, in the two lines just preceding the above -
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Weave a circle round him thrice
And close your eyes with holy dread -
the mention of going three times round the inspired poet. recalls the verses at nearly the beginning after the unforgettable description of the pleasure-dome beside the river Alph -
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round.
Thus the poem's commencement and termination are suggestively tied together. The image of the circle is itself vaguely suggestive of the whole piece being subtly rounded off, as well as of the main theme being some powerfully guarded per-fection.
Apart from constituting a characteristic Romantic ensemble, Kubla Khan is notable for providing a partial definition of Romanticism itself in the words:
But oh that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green slope athwart a cedarn cover -
A savage place! - as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon lover.
We may recall that a strong trait of the Rousseauistic mind was its love of solitude. But by solitude Rousseau did not mean a cottage in the country. He made this pretty clear again and again. "Never has a land of plains, however beautiful it may be, seemed beautiful to my eyes," he once wrote, bringing, as Havelock Ellis notes, a new sensation into literature, if not into life; "I need torrents, rocks, pines, dark forests, mountains, rough paths to climb by. precipices that fill me with fear." The landscape beauty that, as Ellis remarks, "appealed to the classic mind was easy and luxurious, pleasant to all the senses and good to rest in". Rousseau not only moved away from human crowds, saying that he would rather be among the
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arrows of the Parthians than among the glances of men; he also sought out wild places, places untouched and untrimmed by men, tameless solitudes. Before Rousseau and the Romantics, such solitudes were shunned. The region which was to become a century later the home of the Lake School was for most people in Addison's time, as to Roger North, a land of "hideous mountains". Madame de Stael, even after Rousseau, called Switzerland "une magnifique horreur". But there was something in the individualistic and rebellious spirit of Romanticism that responded to and craved for perilous and savage sceneries defiant of man. Mixed with this response and craving was the feeling of strange unearthly presences haunt-ing remote and comfortless expanses: solitude and the super-natural went together. It is this mixture that those lines of Coleridge's illustrate as well as label.
By this mixture Romanticism has been considered by us to be partially defined - and, if we stick to the immediate conno-tation of the phrase "solitude and the supernatural" apropos of the lines quoted, the whole of the Romantic adventure is not compassed. But if we try to look into the ultimate suggestion of it we may reach all the mystical in Romanticism through it. For "solitude" implies Nature free from humanisation, Nature as it is in itself, Nature's own being, the strange Presence that lives in various moods for Wordsworth and his successors. "The supernatural", associated with the natural thus understood, implies that these various moods are not only of an elemental life in individual things but also of entities that belong to other dimensions than our universe and use this life as if it were a projection of their own, entities by which lonely and savage places become "holy and enchanted". And just as separate places have their "souls", as it were, both natural and super-natural, so too the totality of solitary Nature is one great elemental life that is a projection of a divine infinity, a Pantheos whose body is the world but whose spirit, while manifesting in the world and even constituting it, transcends Nature -
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A light that never was, on sea or land.
Of this transcendence Kubla Khan itself supplies a hint in the word with which its spell of music attains its climax: "para-dise."
Coleridge's "romantic" connects up with words in two other poets of the same period, echoing in significant ways the term Romanticism. In the idea of solitude and enchantment, it is linked to Wordsworth's phrase about his Lady of the Mere
Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.
Here an additional shade is imported by the epithet "old" - a nostalgia half sad half blissful as for a lost Eden of marvellous beauty and tenderness and heroism. In the idea of the super-natural, Coleridge's "romantic" joins with the sense of unearthly realities in Keats's lines:
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows,
where a straining of thought and emotion towards a myste-rious ecstasy neighbouring the Spirit's infinitude glimmering afar is faintly felt - lines that breathe some hidden intimacy to be realised between this infinitude and the human imagination and heart of the poet.
Apropos of both the supernatural and this intimacy we may revert to Kubla Khan and mention that in its closing part it provides a vivid picturisation of the Romantic view of poetic inspiration. Not only is the poet portrayed as one who has known paradisal raptuies: he is also declared to have seen the vision of a strange form that creates music and whose remembrance by the poet would make him a musical creator:
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A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
The Abyssinian maid represents an occult denizen of the poet's soul-depths, dusky with its dream-distances - a won-drous creature of his being's mystical abyss, already hinted objectively by "that deep romantic chasm". And within the abyss he catches the rhythm of the Divine Spirit's height which is connected with that recess: the height is called "A bora" by Coleridge through the vague recollection of a Miltonic phrase which also shows Coleridge's "Abora" and his "paradise" reflecting each other:
Nor where Abassin Kings their issue guard,
Mount Amora, though this by some supposed
True Paradise under the Ethiop Line
By Nilus' head...
In the recollection the initial "Am" gets altered to "Ab" as if to render subtly evident the link with the suggestion of depth -"abyss" - in the adjective "Abyssinian". No doubt, the alteration is related to dream-state echoes from Coleridge's probable knowledge that a mountain in Abyssinia was called Aba Yared and from his reading in Bruce's Travels to the Source of the Nile that between a pair of ridges in Abyssinia ran two tributaries of
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the Nile - Abola and Atbora. But the b-sound wafted with the echoes need not have been accepted: the creative process in poetry has always an imaginative rationale, a symbolising significance. As this process does not go by strict logic, the rationale is embodied in factors like alliteration, assonance," recurring metrical rhythm, refrain, multiple association of a word, even a submerged pun, variations of the prose-order by means of inversions, transferred epithets, ellipses - factors that force separate phrases and stanzas to hold together and the poem to become a unified instantaneous totality. Especially are these factors functional in a Romantic poem where individualism of detail and mysticism of mood repel all the more the logically progressive tendencies of prose. So the fundamental reason why the damsel with a dulcimer (a phrase which itself also exemplifies poetic logic by alliterative effect) sings of Mount Abora rather than of Mount Amara is that the dream-state echoes provided the poet with a verbal instrument to achieve a connection of occult sense, a unifying spiritual glimpse. The connection is closer with the help of such an instrument than if it were left to a collocation by geography, both the singer and the sung height Amara being understood to belong to Abyssinia.
The Abyssinian maid whom Coleridge sets forth as thus joined in music to an unknown altitude is what the ancients named the Muse; she is a Romantic version of the Goddess of Song, a version in which the strange is merged with the beautiful.* But more than strangeness is conjured up: a direct concreteness of experience is implied, a contact with the occult and mystical by immediate vision (... "in a vision once I saw") instead of by a faint far sense of it in the mind of the poet when the afflatus passes through him. Modern Romanticism knew a powerful palpable impact of the supernatural in the process of poetic creation. It created from an intense inwardness as if from a dimension of supra-terrestrial dream, though it never
* Cf. "For Pater Romanticism was the addition of 'strangeness' to beauty" (Lucas, op. cit., p. 12).
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disdained the terrestrial and ever aligned it with the dream-mysterious, the trance-radiant. And Kubla Khan quintessentialises the Romantic creativeness not only by picturing the poet as striving to create through a revival within him of mystical reverie, but also by itself being the product of a strangely beautiful dream-experience sought to be revived by Coleridge.
Sri Aurobindo15 has said about this poem: " ... it is a genuine supraphysical experience caught and rendered in a rare hour of exaltation with an absolute accuracy of vision and authen-ticity of rhythm." We may add that what the vision and rhythm have conveyed of Supenature is snatch upon semi-surrealistic snatch of a Platonic symbolism building up a mystical truth in a magical space-time. To quote Kathleen Raine on Coleridge: "He platonized even in his dreams - if Kubla Khan was entirely a dream; for the symbolism of the Neoplatonists is central to the poem. Nor is this surprising, for from his letters we know that Coleridge had been reading their works shortly before it was written. There is Plotinus' sea, or lake, of material existence, the 'non-entity' that is the term of a descending series of orders of being. This descent itself is symbolized by a river that, in the Orphic theology, issues from the night of the Unmanifest - (the same that in Cabbalistic writings flows from the dark Aleph) to the Stygian lake of matter:
... where waters white
Burst from a fountain hid in depths of night,
And thro' a dark and stony cavern glide,
A cave profound, invisible...
In the mutable sea of material existence are reflected (accord-ing to the Platonic philosophers) the realities of the world of Ideas.
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves
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is an image that must recall to any Platonist those shadows that, in Plato's famous fable, the prisoners saw cast upon the walls of the cave in which they were imprisoned, and mistook for realities; or, as Plotinus mythologizes the same concept (or conceptualises the myth), the image which Narcissus saw in the flowing stream of Nature, and mistook for enduring reality. The symbol of a river flowing from a hidden and mysterious source is one to which Coleridge returns in his critical writings. The sense in which he uses it is essentially the same as 'Alph, the sacred river' of Kubla Khan."16
Thus the earthly city of the historical Mongol emperor is poetically fused at the same time with the sense of an arche-typal paradise and with a supernatural image of itself which, in association with other images from beyond the earth, com-poses a kaleidoscope of the mysticism lying in one form or another at the deepest heart of the second Romanticism.
References
1.English Literature, Modern -1450-1939 (Oxford University Press, 1944), p. 90.
2.Edmund Wilson, Axel's Castle (Charles Scribner's Sons, London-New York, 1945), pp. 3-4.
3.Ibid., p. 5.
4.Science and the Modern World (Pelican Books, Middlesex, 1938), pp. 102-103.
5.Ibid., p. 104.
6.Ibid., p. 105.
7.Ibid., p. 98.
8.The Future Poetry, p. 91.
9.Ibid., p. 93.
10.Ibid.
11.The Future Poetry, p. 119.
12.Ibid.
13.Ibid., p. 117.
14.E. Wilson, op. cit., p. 4.
15.Life, Literature, Yoga, p. 161.
16.Samuel Taylor Coleridge: P. Selection of His Poems and Prose by Kathleen Raine (The Penguin Poets, Middlesex, 1957), p. 15.
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