No other sheep was near,- the lamb was all alone,
And by a slender cord was- tether'd to a stone.
Now, we have no doubt this is all true; we will believe it, indeed
we will, Mr. W. Is it sympathy for the sheep you wish to excite? I
love a sheep from the bottom of my heart.
Wordsworth is reasonable. Even Stamboul, it is said, shall have an
end, and the most unlucky blunders must come to a conclusion. Here
is an extract from his preface:-
"Those who have been accustomed to the phraseology of modern
writers, if they persist in reading this book to a conclusion
(impossible!) will, no doubt, have to struggle with feelings of
awkwardness; (ha! ha! ha!) they will look round for poetry (ha! ha!
ha! ha!), and will be induced to inquire by what species of courtesy
these attempts have been permitted to assume that title." Ha! ha!
ha! ha! ha!
Yet, let not Mr. W. despair; he has given immortality to a wagon,
and the bee Sophocles has transmitted to eternity a sore toe, and
dignified a tragedy with a chorus of turkeys.
Of Coleridge, I cannot speak but with reverence. His towering
intellect! his gigantic power! He is one more evidence of the fact
"que la plupart des sectes ont raison dans une bonne partie de ce
qu'elles avancent, mais non pas en ce qu'elles nient." He has
imprisoned his own conceptions by the barrier he has erected against
those of others.
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