He goes
wrong by reason of his very profundity, and of his error we have a
natural type in the contemplation of a star. He who regards it
directly and intensely sees, it is true, the star, but it is the
star without a ray- while he who surveys it less inquisitively is
conscious of all for which the star is useful to us below- its
brilliancy and its beauty.
As to Wordsworth, I have no faith in him. That he had in youth the
feelings of a poet I believe- for there are glimpses of extreme
delicacy in his writings- (and delicacy is the poet's own kingdom- his
El Dorado)- but they have the appearance of a better day
recollected; and glimpses, at best, are little evidence of present
poetic fire- we know that a few straggling flowers spring up daily
in the crevices of the glacier.
He was to blame in wearing away his youth in contemplation with
the end of poetizing in his manhood. With the increase of his judgment
the light which should make it apparent has faded away. His judgment
consequently is too correct. This may not be understood,- but the
old Goths of Germany would have understood it, who used to debate
matters of importance to their State twice, once when drunk, and
once when sober- sober that they might not be deficient in
formality- drunk lest they should be destitute of vigour.
The long wordy discussions by which he tries to reason us into
admiration of his poetry, speak very little in his favour: they are
full of such assertions as this (I have opened one of his volumes at
random)- "Of genius the only proof is the act of doing well what is
worthy to be done, and what was never done before";- indeed? then
it follows that in doing what is unworthy to be done, or what has been
done before, no genius can be evinced; yet the picking of pockets is
an unworthy act, pockets have been picked time immemorial and
Barrington, the pickpocket, in point of genius, would have thought
hard of a comparison with William Wordsworth, the poet.
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