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Vocabulary in
Curriculum Planning
Needs, Strategies and Tools
Edited by
Marina Dodigovic
María Pilar Agustín-Llach
Vocabulary in Curriculum Planning
Marina Dodigovic
María Pilar Agustín-Llach
Editors
Vocabulary in
Curriculum Planning
Needs, Strategies and Tools
Editors
Marina Dodigovic María Pilar Agustín-Llach
University of La Rioja Department of Modern Philologies
Logrono, Spain University of La Rioja
Logrono, Spain
This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG.
The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland
Acknowledgements
The editors would like to acknowledge the help and support of several
groups and individuals, without whom this project would not have suc-
ceeded. First and foremost, we would like to thank the contributing
authors for submitting the work of great substance. Next, we acknowl-
edge the American University of Armenia for sponsoring research proj-
ects included in this volume. Equally, we are grateful to the University of
La Rioja for providing research platforms and library resources. We are
also indebted to Jelena Colovic Markovic for her support from the begin-
ning of this project. Moreover, we are grateful to confidential reviewers
for their invaluable comments on our work. A debt of gratitude is also
owed to other readers of the manuscript who felt that they could support
it. Last, but not least, we would like to thank our Palgrave Macmillan
editor, Alice Green, for steering us most competently through this effort,
as well as the entire Palgrave Macmillan team, including of course Cathy
Scott, the Commissioning Editor for Language and Linguistics.
v
Contents
vii
viii Contents
Index225
Notes on Contributors
xi
xii Notes on Contributors
xv
List of Tables
Table 2.1 Lexical knowledge and CEFR levels from the curriculum of
the Ministry of Education in Saudi Arabia (2016, p. 78) 14
Table 2.2 Lexical size associated with formal exams and other
standards (adapted from Meara & Milton, 2003) based on a
test of the most frequent 5000 lemmatised words in English 15
Table 2.3 Mean EFL vocabulary size scores and the CEFR (adapted
from Milton, 2009) 16
Table 2.4 Test of productive vocabulary size in a foreign language
(Roghani, 2017) 22
Table 2.5 Productive vocabulary knowledge and CEFR levels 23
Table 2.6 Pic-lex scores and the CEFR 24
Table 3.1 Results of the receptive vocabulary means 38
Table 3.2 Results of the productive vocabulary 39
Table 3.3 Paired samples statistics 42
Table 3.4 Correlations 43
Table 4.1 Descriptive statistics of students’ performance on VST,
WAT, and CET-4 reading 65
Table 4.2 Correlations between vocabulary depth, vocabulary size,
and reading performance 66
Table 4.3 Coefficients of the predictive power of VS and DVK on
reading comprehension performance 68
Table 4.4 Multiple Regression of the predictors and the reading
performance68
xvii
xviii List of Tables
M. Dodigovic (*)
University of La Rioja, Logrono, Spain
M. P. Agustín-Llach
Department of Modern Philologies, University of La Rioja, Logrono, Spain
e-mail: [email protected]
References
Basturkmen, H. (2005). Ideas and options in English for specific purposes.
Routledge.
Basturkmen, H. (2010). Developing courses in English for specific purposes.
Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan.
Dodigovic, M. (2005). Vocabulary profiling with electronic corpora: A case
study in computer assisted needs analysis. CALL Journal, 18(5), 443–455.
Dodigovic, M. (2009). English for pre-medical studies: A needs analysis chal-
lenge, 4th Qatar TESOL International Conference: Language and Content/
Content and Language, College of the North Atlantic, Doha, Qatar,
April 10–11.
Hughes, A. (2003). Testing for language teachers. Cambridge language teaching
library. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Nation, I. S. P. (2006). Language education – Vocabulary. In K. Brown (Ed.),
Encyclopaedia of language and linguistics (Vol. 6, 2nd ed., pp. 494–499).
Oxford: Elsevier.
Schmitt, N. (2000). Vocabulary in language teaching. Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press.
Thornbury, S. (2002). How to teach vocabulary. Harlow: Longman.
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It has been allowed that this bold and admirable challenge of the
whole province—for “discourse” is soon seen to include “writing”—is
not always so well supported. After an interesting introduction
(vindicating the challenge, and noting Kames more especially as one
who, though in a different way, had made it before him), Campbell for
a time, either because he is rather afraid of his own boldness, or to
conciliate received opinions on the matter (or, it has been suggested,
because the book was written at different times, and with perhaps
slightly different ends), proceeds to discuss various matters which
have very little to do with his general subject. Sometimes, as in the
Chapter, before referred to, on “The Nature and Use of the
Scholastic Art of Syllogising,” he wrecks himself in a galley which he
had not the slightest need to enter. The longer discourse on
Evidence which precedes this is, of course, fully justified on the old
conception of Rhetoric, but digressory, or at least excursory, on his
own. The above-mentioned sections on Ridicule, and on the
æsthetic pleasure derivable from painful subjects, are excursions
into the debatable kinds between literature and Ethics, though much
less extravagant than those of Kames, and perhaps, as excursions,
not absolutely to be barred or banned; while chapters vii.-x., which
deal with the “Consideration of Hearers,” &c., &c., are once more
Aristotelian relapses, pardonable if not strictly necessary. But not
quite a third part of the whole treatise is occupied by this First Book
of the three into which it is divided; and not a little of this third is,
strictly or by a little allowance, to the point. The remaining two-thirds
are to that point without exception or digression of any kind, so that
the Aristotelian distribution is exactly reversed.
The titles of the two Books, “The Foundations and Essential
Properties of Elocution,” and “The Discriminating Properties of
Elocution,” must be taken with due regard to Campbell’s use of the
last word.[617] But they require hardly any other proviso or allowance.
He first, with that mixture of boldness and straight-hitting which is his
great merit, attacks the general principles of the use of Language,
and proceeds to lay down nine Canons of Verbal Criticism, which are
in the main so sound and so acute that they are not obsolete to the
present day. There is more that is arbitrary elsewhere, and Campbell
seems sometimes to retrograde over the line which separates
Rhetoric and Composition. But it must be remembered that this line
has never been very exactly drawn, and has, both in Scotland and in
America, if not also in England, been often treated as almost non-
existent up to the present day. In his subsequent distinction of five
rhetorical Qualities of Style—Perspicuity, Vivacity, Elegance,
Animation, and Music—Campbell may be thought to be not wholly
happy. For the three middle qualities are practically one, and it is
even questionable whether Music would not be best included with
them in some general term, designating whatever is added by style
proper to Perspicuity, or the sufficient but unadorned conveyance of
meaning. As, however, is very common, if not universal, with him, his
treatment is in advance of his nomenclature, for the rest of the book
—nearly a full half of it—is in fact devoted to the two heads of
Perspicuity and Vivacity, the latter tacitly subsuming all the three
minor qualities. And there is new and good method in the treatment
of Vivacity, as shown first by the choice of words, secondly by their
number, and thirdly by their arrangement, while a section under the
first head on “words considered as sounds” comes very near to the
truth. That there should be a considerable section on Tropes was to
be expected, and, as Campbell treats it, it is in no way objectionable.
His iconoclasm as to logical Forms becomes much more in place,
and much more effective, in regard to rhetorical Figures.
One, however, of the best features of the work has hardly yet been
noticed; and that is the abundance of examples, and the thorough
way in which they are discussed. To a reader turning the book over
without much care it may seem inferior as a thesaurus to Kames,
because the passages quoted are as a rule embedded in the text,
and not given separately, in the fashion which makes of large parts
of the Elements of Criticism a sort of anthology, a collection of
beauties or deformities, as the case may be. But this is in
accordance with the singularly businesslike character of Campbell’s
work throughout. And if it also seem that he does not launch out
enough in appreciation of books or authors as wholes, let it be
remembered that English criticism was still in a rather rudimentary
condition, and that the state of taste in academic circles was not very
satisfactory. It would not, of course, be impossible to produce from
him examples of those obsessions of the time which we have
noticed in his two compatriots, as we shall notice them in the far
greater Johnson. But he could not well escape these obsessions,
and he suffers from them in a very mild form.
James Harris,[618] author of Hermes (and of the house of
Malmesbury, which was ennobled in the next generation), is perhaps
the chief writer whom England, in the narrower sense, has to set
against Blair, Kames, and Campbell in mid-eighteenth century. But
Harris. he is disappointing. It would not be reasonable to quarrel
with the Hermes itself for not being literary, because it
does not pretend to be anything but grammatical; and the
Philosophical Arrangements, though they do sometimes approach
literature, may plead benefit of title for not doing so oftener. But the
Discourse on Music, Painting, and Poetry, and the Philological
Enquiries—in which Philology is expressly intimated to mean “love of
letters” in the higher sense—hold out some prospects. The
performance is but little. Readers of Boswell will remember that
Johnson, though the author of Hermes was very polite to him, both
personally and with the pen, used, to his henchman’s surprise and
grief, to speak very roughly of Harris, applying to him on one
occasion the famous and damning phrase, “a prig, and a bad prig,”
and elsewhere hinting doubts as to his competency in Greek. That
the reproach of priggishness was deserved (whether with the
aggravation or not) nobody can read half-a-dozen pages of Harris
without allowing,—his would-be complimentary observation on
Fielding[619] would determine by itself. But the principal note of Harris,
as a critic, is not so much priggishness as confused superficiality.
These qualities are less visible in the Dialogue (which is an
extremely short, not contemptible, but also not unimportant,
exercitation in the direction of Æsthetic proper) than in the Enquiries,
which were written late in life, and which, no doubt, owe something
of their extraordinary garrulity to “the irreparable outrage.”
This book begins, with almost the highest possible promise for us,
in a Discussion of the Rise of Criticism, its various species,
The Philosophical, Historical, and Corrective, &c. It goes
Philological on hardly less promisingly, if the mere chapter-
Enquiries. headings are taken, with discourses on Numbers,
Composition, Quantity, Alliteration, &c.; the Drama, its Fable and its
Manners, Diction, and, at the end of the second part, an
impassioned defence of Rules. But the Third, which promises a
discussion of “the taste and literature of the Middle Age,” raises the
expectation almost to agony-point. Here is what we have been
waiting for so long: here is the great gap going to be filled. At last a
critic not merely takes a philosophic-historic view of criticism, but
actually proposes to supplement it with an inquiry into those regions
of literature on which his predecessors have turned an obstinately
blind eye. As is the exaltation of the promise, so is the aggravation of
the disappointment. Harris’s first part, though by no means ill-
planned, is very insufficiently carried out, and the hope of goodness
in the third is cruelly dashed beforehand by the sentence, “At length,
after a long and barbarous period, when the shades of monkery
began to retire,” &c. The writer’s mere enumeration of Renaissance
critics is very haphazard, and his remarks, both on them and their
successors, perfunctory in the extreme. He hardly dilates on
anybody or anything except—following the tradition from Pope and
Swift—on Bentley and his mania for correction and conjecture.
In the second part he gives himself more room, and is better worth
reading, but the sense of disappointment continues. In fact, Harris is
positively irritating. He lays it down, for instance, that “nothing
excellent in a literary way happens merely by chance,” a thesis from
the discussion of which much might come. But he simply goes off
into a loose discussion of the effects and causes of literary pleasure,
with a good many examples in which the excellence of his precept,
“seek the cause,” is more apparent than the success of his own
researches. The rest is extremely discursive, and seldom very
satisfactory, being occupied in great part with such tenth-rate stuff as
Lillo’s Fatal Curiosity. As for Harris’s defence of the Rules, he does
not, in fact, defend them at all; but, as is so common with
controversialists, frames an indictment, which no sensible antagonist
would ever bring, in order to refute it. He says that “he never knew
any genius cramped by rules, and had known great geniuses
miserably err by neglecting them.” A single example of this last
would have been worth the whole treatise. But Harris does not give
it. Finally, “the Taste and Literature of the Middle Age” seem to him to
be satisfactorily discussed by ridiculing the Judgment of God, talking
at some length about Byzantine writers, giving a rather long account
of Greek philosophy in its ancient stages, quoting freely from
travellers to Athens and Constantinople, introducing “the Arabians,”
with anecdotes of divers caliphs, saying something of the
Schoolmen, a little about the Provençal poets, something (to do him
justice) of the rise of accentual prosody,[620] and a very, very little
about Chaucer, Petrarch, Mandeville, Marco Polo, Sir John
Fortescue, and—Sannazar! “And now having done with the Middle
Age,” he concludes—having, that is to say, shown that, except a pot-
pourri of mainly historical anecdote, he knew nothing whatever about
it; or, if this seem harsh, that his knowledge was not of any kind that
could possibly condition his judgment of literature favourably. In fact,
no one shows that curious eighteenth-century confusion of mind,
which we shall notice frequently in other countries, better than
Harris. He is, as we have seen, a fervent devotee of the Rules—he
believes[621] that, before any examples of poetry, there was an
abstract schedule of Epic, Tragedy, and everything else down to
Epigram, which you cannot follow but to your good, and cannot
neglect but to your peril. Yet, on the one hand, he feels the
philosophic impulse, and on the other, the literary and historical
curiosity, before which these rules were bound to vanish.
“Estimate” A few allusions,[622] in contemporaries of abiding
Brown: his fame, have kept half alive the name—though very
History of few, save specialists, are likely to be otherwise than
Poetry.
accidentally acquainted with the work—of John
Brown of Newcastle, author of the once famous Estimate of the
Manners and Principles of the Times,[623] and afterwards, when he
had gained reputation by this, of a Dissertation on the Rise of Poetry
and Music,[624] later still slightly altered, and re-christened History of
the Rise and Progress of Poetry.[625] The Estimate itself is one of
those possibly half-unconscious pieces of quackery which from time
to time put (in a manner which somehow or other tickles the longer
ears among their contemporaries) the old cry that everything is
rotten in the state of Denmark. There is not much in it that is directly
literary; the chief point of the kind is an attack on the Universities: it
may be noted that quacks generally do attack Universities. The
Dissertation-History is a much less claptrap piece, but far more
amusing to read. Brown is one of those rash but frank persons who
attempt creation as well as criticism; and those who will may hear
how
and so forth. The difference of the two forms is not important. In the
second, Brown simply left out Music, so far as he could, as
appealing to a special public only. He believes in Ossian, then quite
new. He thinks it contains “Pictures which no civilised modern could
ever imbibe in their strength, nor consequently could ever throw
out”—an image so excessively Georgian (putting aside the difficulty
of imbibing a picture) that one has to abbreviate comment on it. For
the rest, Brown rejoices and wallows in the naturalistic generalisation
of his century. He begins, of course, with the Savage State, lays it
down that, at religious and other festivals, men danced and sang,
that then organised professional effort supplemented unorganised,
and so poets arose. Then comes about a sort of Established Choir,
whence the various kinds are developed. And we have the Chinese
—the inevitable Chinese—Fow-hi, and Chao-hao, and all their
trumpery. Negligible as an authority, Brown perhaps deserves to rank
as a symptom.
But we must leave minorities, and come to him who is here ὁ
μέγας.
There is no reason to doubt that Johnson’s critical opinions were
formed quite early in life, and by that mixture of natural bent and
influence of environment which, as a rule, forms all such opinions.
Johnson: his There has been a tendency to regard, as the highest
preparation mental attitude, that of considering everything as an
for criticism. open question, of being ready to reverse any
opinion at a moment’s notice. As a matter of fact, we have record of
not many men who have proceeded in this way; and it may be
doubted whether among them is a single person of first-rate genius,
or even talent. Generally speaking, the men whose genius or talent
has a “stalk of carle hemp” in it find, in certain of the great primeval
creeds of the world, political, ecclesiastical, literary, or other,
something which suits their bent. The bent of their time may assist
them in fastening on to this by attraction or repulsion—it really does
not much matter which it is. In either case they will insensibly, from
an early period, choose their line and shape their course accordingly.
They will give a certain independence to it; they will rarely be found
merely “swallowing formulas.” It is the other class which does this,
with leave reserved to get rid of the said formulas by a mental emetic
and swallow another set, which will very likely be subjected to the
same fate. But the hero will be in the main Qualis ab incepto.
Johnson was in most things a Tory by nature, his Toryism being
conditioned, first by that very strong bent towards a sort of
transcendental scepticism which many great Tories have shown;
secondly, by the usual peculiarities of social circumstance and
mental constitution; and lastly, by the state of England in his time—a
state to discuss which were here impertinent, but which, it may be
humbly suggested, will not be quite appreciated by accepting any, or
all, of the more ordinary views of the eighteenth century.
His view of literature was in part determined by these general
influences, in part—perhaps chiefly—by special impinging currents.
His mere birth-time had not very much to do with it—Thomson, Dyer,
Lady Winchelsea, who consciously or unconsciously worked against
it, were older, in the lady’s case much older, than he was; Gray and
Shenstone, who consciously worked against it in different degrees,
were not much younger.[626] The view was determined in his case,
mainly no doubt by that natural bent which is quite inexplicable, but
also by other things explicable enough. Johnson, partly though
probably not wholly in consequence of his near sight, was entirely
insensible to the beauties of nature; he made fun of “prospects”; he
held that “one blade of grass is like another” (which it most certainly
is not, even in itself, let alone its surroundings); he liked human
society in its most artificial form—that provided by towns, clubs,
parties. In the second place, his ear was only less deficient than his
eye. That he did not care for music, in the scientific sense, is not of
much importance; but it is quite clear that, in poetry, only an
extremely regular and almost mathematical beat of verse had any
chance with him. Thirdly, he was widely read in the Latin Classics,
less widely in Greek, still more widely in the artificial revived Latin of
the Renaissance and the seventeenth century.[627] Fourthly, he was,
for a man so much given to reading—for one who ranged from
Macrobius in youth to Parismus and Parismenus in age, and from
Travels in Abyssinia to Prince Titi—not very widely read either in
mediæval Latin or in the earlier divisions of the modern languages;
indeed, of these last he probably knew little or nothing. Fifthly, the
greatest poet in English immediately before his time, and the
greatest poet in English during his youth and early manhood, had
been exponents, the one mainly, the other wholly, of a certain limited
theory of English verse. Sixthly, the critical school in which he had
been brought up was strictly neo-classic. Seventhly, and to conclude,
such rebels to convention as appeared in his time were chiefly men
whom he regarded with unfriendly dislike, or with friendly contempt.
Nor can it be said that any one of the contemporary partisans of “the
Gothick” was likely to convince a sturdy adversary. Walpole was a
spiteful fribble with a thin vein of genius; Gray a sort of Mr Facing-
Both-Ways in literature, who had “classical” mannerisms worse than
any of Johnson’s own, and whose dilettante shyness and scanty
production invited ridicule. Both were Cambridge men (and Johnson
did not love Cambridge men, nor they him), and both were Whigs.
Percy and Warton were certainly not very strong as originals, and
had foibles enough even as scholars. But whether these reasons go
far enough, or do not so go, Johnson’s general critical attitude never
varies in the least.[628] It was, as has been said, probably formed
quite early; it no doubt appeared in those but dimly known
contributions to periodical literature which defrayed so ill the expense
of his still more dimly known first twenty years in London. We have
from him no single treatise, as in the cases of Dante and Longinus,
no pair of treatises, as in the case of Aristotle, to go upon. But in the
four great documents of The Rambler, Rasselas, the Shakespeare
Preface, and the Lives, we see it in the two first rigid, peremptory, in
the Preface, curiously and representatively uncertain, in the last
conditioned by differences which allow it somewhat freer play, and at
some times making a few concessions, but at others more
pugnacious and arbitrary than before.
The critical element in The Rambler is necessarily large; but a
great deal of it is general and out of our way.[629] Directly concerning
The Rambler us are the papers on the aspects (chiefly formal) of
on Milton. Milton’s poetry—especially versification—on which
Addison had not spoken, with some smaller papers on lesser
subjects. The Miltonic examen begins at No. 86. Johnson is as
uncompromising as the great Bysshe himself on the nature of
English prosody. “The heroick measures of the English language
may be properly considered as pure or mixed.” They are pure when
“the accent rests on every second syllable through the whole line.” In
other words, “purity” is refused to anything but the strict iambic
decasyllable. Nay, he goes further; this is not only “purity” and “the
completest harmony possible,” but it ought to be “exactly kept in
distichs” and in the last line of a (verse) paragraph.
Nevertheless, for variety’s sake, the “mixed” measure is allowed;
“though it always injures the harmony of the line considered by
itself,” it makes us appreciate the “harmonious” lines better. And we
soon perceive that even this exceedingly grudging, and in strictness
illogical, licence is limited merely to substitution of other dissyllabic
feet for the pure iamb. In
The well-known “Dick Minim” papers in the Idler (60, 61) are
excellent fun, and perhaps Johnson’s chief accomplishment in the
“Dick Minim.” direction of humour. The growth of criticism in Dick,
his gradual proficiency in all the critical
commonplaces of his day (it is to be observed that Johnson, like all
true humourists, does not spare himself, and makes one of Minim’s
secrets de Polichinelle a censure of Spenser’s stanza), his addiction
to Johnson’s pet aversion, “suiting the sound to the sense,” and his
idolatry of Milton, are all capitally done. Indeed, like all good
caricatures, the piece is a standing piece to consult for the fashions
and creeds which it caricatures. But it neither contains nor suggests
any points of critical doctrine that we cannot find elsewhere, and it is
only indirectly serious.[633]
The Dissertation upon Poetry of Imlac in Rasselas (chap. x.) may
be less amusing; but it is of course much more serious. There can
Rasselas. be no reasonable doubt that Imlac gives as much of
Johnson’s self as he chose to put, and could put, in
character: while it is at least possible that his sentiments are
determined in some degree by the menacing appearances of
Romanticism. Imlac finds “with wonder that in almost all countries
the most ancient poets are reputed the best”; that “early writers are
in possession of nature and their successors of art”; that “no man
was ever great by imitation”; that he must observe everything and
observe for himself, but that he must do it on the principle of
examining, “not the individual, but the species.” He is to remark
“general properties and large appearances. He does not number the
streaks of the tulip or describe the different shapes in the verdure of
the forest,” but must “exhibit prominent and striking features,”
neglecting “minuter discriminations.” In the same way his criticism of
life must be abstracted and generalised; he must be “a being
superior to time and place”; must know many languages and
sciences; must by incessant practice of style “familiarise to himself
every delicacy of speech and grace of harmony.”
Surely a high calling and election! yet with some questionable
points in it. If the poet must not count the streaks of the tulip, if he
must merely generalise and sweep; if he must consult the laziness
and dulness of his readers by merely portraying prominent and
striking features, characteristics alike obvious to vigilance and
carelessness—then even Dryden will not do, for he is too recondite
and conceited. Pope alone must bear the bell. Lady Winchelsea’s
horse in twilight, the best part of a century earlier; Tennyson’s
ashbuds in the front of March, the best part of a century later, are
equally “streaks of the tulip,” superfluous if not even bad.
Habington’s picture of the pitiless northern sunshine on the ice-
bound pilot, and Keats’s of the perilous seas through the magic
casements, must be rejected, as too unfamiliar and individual. The
poetic strangeness and height are barred en bloc. Convention,
familiarity, generalisation—these are the keys to the poetical
kingdom of heaven. The tenant of Milnwood has a fresh enfeoffment!
The Shakespeare Preface is a specially interesting document,
because of its illustration, not merely of Johnson’s native critical
vigour, not merely of his imbibed eighteenth-century prejudices, but
of that peculiar position of compromise and reservation which, as we
have said and shall say, is at once the condemnation and the
The salvation of the English critical position at this time.
Shakespeare Of the first there are many instances, though
Preface. perhaps none in the Preface itself quite equal to the
famous note on the character of Polonius, which has been generally
and justly taken as showing what a triumph this failure of an edition
might have been. Yet even here there is not a little which follows in
the wake of Dryden’s great eulogy, and some scattered observations
of the highest acuteness, more particularly two famous sentences
which, though Johnson’s quotation is directed to a minor matter—
Shakespeare’s learning—settle beforehand, with the prophetic
tendency of genius, the whole monstrous absurdity of the Bacon-
Shakespeare theory.[634] The rest, however, is, if not exactly a zigzag
of contradiction, at least the contrasted utterance of two distinct
voices. Shakespeare has this and that merit of nature, of passion;
but “his set speeches are commonly cold and weak.” “What he does
best he soon ceases to do.” Johnson, here also, has no superstitious
reverence for the Unities, and even speaks slightly of dramatic rules;
nay, he suggests “the recall of the principles of the drama to a new
examination,” the very examination which Lessing was to give it. But
he apologises for the period when “The Death of Arthur was the
favourite volume,” and hints a doubt whether much of our and his
own praise of Shakespeare is not “given by custom and veneration.”
“He has corrupted language by every mode of depravation,” yet
Johnson echoes Dryden “when he describes anything you more than
see it, you feel it too.” A singular triumph of “depraved language.” In
short, throughout the piece it is now Johnson himself who is
speaking, now some one with a certain bundle of principles or
prejudices which Johnson chooses to adopt for the time.
It was with these opinions on the formal and substantial nature of
poetry and of criticism that Johnson, late in life, sat down to the Lives
of the Poets,[635] one of the most fortunate books in English literature.
The Lives of In very few cases have task and artist been so
the Poets. happily associated. For almost all his authors, he
had biographical knowledge such as no other living man had, and
the access to which has long been closed. If, now and then, his
criticism was not in touch with his subjects, this was rare: and the
fact gave a certain value even to the assertions that result—for we,
do what we will, cannot see Milton quite as Johnson saw him, and so
his view is valuable as a corrective. By far the greater part of these
subjects belonged to one school and system of English poetry, a
school and system with which the critic was at once thoroughly
familiar and thoroughly in sympathy. And, lastly, the form of the work,
with its subdivision into a large number of practically independent
and not individually burdensome sections, was well suited to coax a
man who suffered from constitutional indolence, and who for many
years had been relieved from that pressure of necessity which had
conquered his indolence occasionally, and only occasionally, earlier.
No other man, it is true, has had quite such a chance: but he must
indeed have a sublime confidence, both in the strength of his
principles and in the competence of his talents, who thinks that, if he
had the chance, he could do the task better than Johnson did his.
The work, of course, is by no means equal throughout: and it could
Their general not be expected to be. Some was merely old work,
merits. dating from a much less mature period of the
writer’s genius, and made to serve again. Some was on subjects so
trivial that good nature, or simple indolence, or, if any one pleases,
an artistic reluctance to break butterflies on so huge a wheel, made
the criticisms almost as insignificant as the criticised. Here and there
extra-literary prejudice—political-ecclesiastical, as in the case of
Milton; partly moral, partly religious, and, it is to be feared, a little
personal, as in that of Swift—distorted the presentation. And it is
quite possible that a similar distortion, due to the same causes or
others, was in the case of Gray intensified by a half-unconscious
conviction that Gray’s aims and spirit, if not his actual poetical
accomplishments, were fatal to the school of poetry to which the
critic himself held.
But make allowance for all this, and with how great a thing do the
Lives still provide us! In that combination of biography and criticism,
which is so natural that it is wonderful it should be so late,[636] they
are all but the originals, and are still almost the standard. They are
full of anecdote, agreeably and crisply told, yet they never descend
to mere gossip: their criticism of life is almost always just and sound,
grave without being precise, animated by the same melancholy as
that of the Vanity of Human Wishes, but in milder mood and with
touches of brightness. Their criticism of literature is all the more
valuable for being the criticism of their time. When we read
Johnson’s remarks on Milton’s minor poems it is foolish to rave, and
it is ignoble to sneer. The wise will rejoice in the opportunity to
understand. So when Johnson bestows what seems to us
extraordinary and unintelligible praise on John Pomfret’s Choice,[637]
he is really praising a moral tract couched in verse not unpleasing in
itself, and specially pleasing to his ear. When he speaks less
favourably of Grongar Hill, he is speaking of a piece of nature-poetry,
not arranged on his principle of neglecting the streak of the tulip, and
availing itself of those Miltonic licences of prosody which he
disapproved. But we shall never find that, when the poetry is of the
stamp which he recognises, he makes any mistake about its relative
excellence: and we shall find that, in not a few cases, he is able to
recognise excellence which belongs to classes and schools not
exactly such as he approves. And, lastly, it has to be added that for
diffused brilliancy of critical expression, subject to the allowances
and conditions just given, the Lives are hardly to be excelled in any
language. It is not safe to neglect one of them, though no doubt
there are some six or seven which, for this reason or that, take
precedence of the rest.
The “Cowley” has especial interest, because it is Johnson’s only
considerable attempt at that very important part of criticism, the
historical summary of the characteristics of a poetical period or
The Cowley. school. And, though far from faultless, it is so
important and so interesting in its kind that it ranks
with his greatest Essays. Only that singular impatience of literary
history, as such, which characterised the late Mr Matthew Arnold,
and which not infrequently marred his own critical work, can have
prevented him from including, in his Johnsonian points de repère,
the Essay which launched, and endeavoured to make watertight, the
famous definition of the “Metaphysical” School—of the school
represented earlier by Donne, and later by Cowley himself.
The phrase itself[638] has been both too readily adopted and too
indiscriminately attacked. Taken with the ordinary meaning of
“metaphysical,” it may indeed seem partly meaningless and partly
misleading. Taken as Johnson meant it, it has a meaning defensible
at least from the point of view of the framer, and very important in
critical history. Johnson (it is too often forgotten) was a scholar; and
he used “metaphysical” in its proper sense—of that which “comes
after” the physical or natural. Now, it was, as we have seen, the
whole principle of his school of criticism—their whole critical
contention—that they were “following nature.” The main objection to
the poetry of what Dryden calls the “last Age”—what we call, loosely
but conveniently, “Elizabethan” poetry—was that its ideas, and still
more its expressions, went beyond and behind nature, substituted
afterthoughts and unreal refinements for fact. It would be delightful to
the present writer to defend the Metaphysicals here—but it would not
be to the question.
Political and religious prejudice accounts, as has been said, for
The Milton. much in the Milton. But it will not fully account for the
facts. The at first sight astonishing, and already
often referred to, criticisms on the minor poems show a perfectly
honest and genuine dislike to the form as well as to the matter, to the
manner as well as to the man. If Johnson calls Lycidas “harsh,” it is
because he simply does not hear its music; he can even call the
songs in Comus “not very musical in their numbers.” When of the, no
doubt unequal but often splendid, sonnets he can write, “of the best
it can only be said that they are not bad,” he gives us the real value
of his criticism immediately afterwards by laying it down that “the
fabric of a sonnet, however adapted to the Italian language, has
never succeeded in ours.” And when he has earlier stated that “all
that short compositions can commonly attain is sweetness and
elegance,” we see in this the whole thing. Milton is condemned
under statute (though the statute is hopelessly unconstitutional and
unjust) on certain counts; on others his judge, though capable and
perfectly honest, does not know the part of the code which justifies
the accused. Johnson is listening for couplet-music or stanzas with
regular recurrence of rhyme, for lines constituted entirely on a
dissyllabic, or entirely on a trisyllabic, basis. He does not find these
things: and he has no organ to judge what he does find.
With the lives of Dryden and Pope we are clear of all difficulties,
and the critic is in his element. The poets whom he is criticising
occupy the same platform as he does; they have in fact been
The Dryden themselves the architects of that platform. There is
and Pope. no fear of the initial incompatibilities which, when
aggravated by accident, lead to the apparent enormities of the Milton
Essay, and which, even when not so aggravated, condition the
usefulness, though they may positively increase the interest, of the
Cowley. But there is more than this. In no instance, perhaps, was
Johnson so well in case to apply his biographical and critical
treatment as in regard to Dryden and Pope. With the latter he had
himself been contemporary; and when he first came to London the
traditions even of the former were still fresh, while there were many
still living (Southerne the chief of them) who had known glorious
John well. Further, Johnson’s peculiar habits of living, his delight in
conversation and society, his excellent memory, and his propensity
to the study of human nature, as well as of letters, furnished him
abundantly with opportunities. Yet, again, his sympathy with both, on
general literary sides, was not unhappily mixed and tempered by a
slight, but not uncharitable or Puritanic, disapproval of their moral
characters, by regret at Dryden’s desertion of the Anglican Church,
and at the half-Romanist half-freethinking attitude of Pope to religion.
The result of all this is a pair of the best critical Essays in the
English language. Individual expressions will of course renew for us
the sense of difference in the point of view. We shall not agree that
Dryden “found English poetry brick and left it marble,” and we shall
be only too apt to take up the challenge, “If Pope be not a poet,
where is poetry to be found?” even if we think the implied denial, to
which the challenge was a reply, an absurdity. And we may find
special interest as well as special difference in the condemnation
even of these masters for attempting Pindarics, because Pindarics
“want the essential constituent of metrical compositions, the stated
recurrence of settled numbers,” seeing in it a fresh instance of that
Procrustean tyranny of suiting the form to the bed, not the bed to the
form, which distinguishes all neo-classic criticism. But these points
occur rarely. The criticism, as a whole, is not merely perfectly just on
its own scheme, but requires very little allowance on others; nor, in
the difficult and dangerous art of comparative censorship, will any
example be found much surpassing Johnson’s parallel of the two
poets.
In the Milton and the Cowley we find Johnson dealing with schools
of poetry which he regards as out of date and imperfect; in the
Dryden and the Pope, with subjects which are not to him subjects of
any general controversy, but which he can afford to treat almost
The Collins entirely on their merits. In the Collins and the Gray
and Gray. we find a new relation between poet and critic—the
relation of decided, though not yet wholly declared, innovation on the
part of the poets, and of conscious, though not yet quite wide-eyed
and irreconcilable, hostility on the part of the critic. The expression of
this is further differentiated by the fact that Johnson regarded Collins
with the affection of a personal friend, and the generous sympathy of
one who, with all his roughness, had a mind as nearly touched by
mortal sorrows as that of any sentimentalist; while it is pretty clear,
though we have no positive evidence for it, that he reciprocated the
personal and political dislike which Gray certainly felt for him.
The result was, in the case of Collins, a criticism rather inadequate
than unjust, and not seldom acute in its indication of faults, if
somewhat blind to merits; in that of Gray, one which cannot be quite
so favourably spoken of, though the censure which has been heaped
upon it—notably by Lord Macaulay and Mr Arnold—seems to me
very far to surpass its own injustice. Johnson’s general summing up
—that Gray’s “mind had a large grasp; his curiosity[639] was unlimited,
and his judgment cultivated; he was likely to love much where he
loved at all, but fastidious and hard to please”—is acute, just, and far
from ungenerous. That on the Elegy—“The four stanzas beginning,
‘Yet even these bones,’ are to me original; I have never seen the
notions in any other place. Yet he that reads them here persuades
himself that he has always felt them. Had Gray written often thus, it
had been vain to blame and useless to praise him”—is a magnificent
and monumental compliment, said as simply as “Good morning.” He
is absolutely right when he says that in all Gray’s Odes “there is a
kind of cumbrous splendour that we wish away,” for there never was
such an abuser of “poetic diction” (to be a poet) as Gray was. Yet
undoubtedly the Essay is not satisfactory; it has not merely, as the
Collins has, blindness, but, what the Collins has not, that obvious
denigration, that determination to pick holes, which always vitiates a
critique, no matter what learning and genius be bestowed on it. And
the probable reasons of this are interesting. It has been said that
they were possibly personal in part. We know that Gray spoke rudely
of Johnson; and there were many reasons why Johnson might rather
despise Gray, though he certainly should not have called him “dull.”
On the whole, however, I have little doubt—and it is this which
gives the essay its real interest for me—that one main reason of
Johnson’s antipathy to Gray’s poetry was the same as that for which
we like it. He suspected, if he did not fully perceive, the romantic
snake in Gray’s classically waving grass. And he had on his own
grounds good reason for suspecting it. Gray might use Greek and
Latin tags almost extravagantly. But he sedulously eschewed the
couplet; and, while preferring lyric, he chose lyrical forms which,
though Johnson was too much of a scholar to dare to call them
irregular, violated his own theories of the prompt and orderly
recurrence of rhyme, and the duty of maintaining a length of line as
even as possible. The sense of nature, the love of the despised
“prospect,” was everywhere; even the forbidden “streak of the tulip”
might be detected. And, lastly, Gray had too obvious leanings to
classes of subject and literature which lay outside of the consecrated
range—early English and French, Welsh, Norse, and the like. It is no
real evidence of critical incapacity, but of something quite the
reverse, that Johnson should have disliked Gray. He spied the great
Romantic beard under the Pindaric and Horatian muffler—and he did
not like it.
On the whole, it may be safely said that, however widely a man
may differ from Johnson’s critical theory, he will, provided that he
possesses some real tincture of the critical spirit himself, think more
and more highly of the Lives of the Poets the more he reads them,
and the more he compares them with the greater classics of critical
The critical literature. As a book, they have not missed their due
greatness of meed of praise; as a critical book, one may think
the Lives and that they have. The peculiarity of their position as a
of Johnson.
body of direct critical appraisement of the poetical
work of England for a long period should escape no one. But the
discussion of them, which possesses, and is long likely to possess,
prerogative authority as coming from one who was both himself a
master of the craft and a master of English, admirable and delightful
as it is and always will be, is not, critically speaking, quite
satisfactory. Mr Arnold speaks of the Six Lives which he selected in
very high terms: but he rather pooh-poohs the others, and, even in
regard to the chosen Six, he puts upon himself—and in his amiable,