William Wordsworth [pp. 705-711]

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SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.
VoL. III. RICHMOND, DECEMBER, 1837. No. XII.
T. W. WHITE, Editor and Proprietor. $ 5 PER AlNNUM.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
The history of this eminent man presents a singular
phenomenon. Until nearly the close of a long literary
life, contempt and ridicule were his almost universal
portion. The chosen few, who appreciated his genius,
scarcely ventured to express their dissent from the ge neral voice. They were secret worshippers at his
shrine. It was the fashion to despise him; and the
puniest pretender had but to scoff at Wordsworth, to
obtain, in his own mind, and in that of the public, a re putation for taste. Yet, strange to say, during all this
time, the poet was silently working a revolution in the
taste and literature of the age, which was long felt
before it was recognized and acknowledged. The poetry of passion and of sense was gradually giving way
before that of thought and of sentiment. Piety, benevolence, love, patriotism; all the purer and nobler sentiments of the heart; the upward aspirations of the
heaven-born spirit,-were silently triumphing over the
cravings of unholy passions-the disenchanting precepts of a false and cynical philosophy. This happy
revolution, in letters and in taste, was chiefly effected,
we repeat, by the simple, solitary, soul-trusting Wordsworth, who, from his shrine among the mountains, sent
forth strains of'erial music, which, long-neglected, have
at length found an echo in the hearts of thousands.
What a noble spectacle does not this man present, who,
confiding in his own pure thoughts and religious aspirations, labored on, unmindful of the neglect as of the
contempt of the world, for nearly half a century, until
at length the voice of fame, for him long silent, breaks
forth in lofty notes of praise! Yes-he has not "gone
to dust without his fame." He has lived long enough,
and still lives, to enjoy the late, but not for that the less
consoling, justice of his contemporaries. The evening
of his days is bright with the halo of renotvn; a "pomp
of clouds" attends the setting luminary, which, like the
autumnal sun, loomns largest just before it sinks beneath
the horizon. "Honorate 1' altissimo poeta"-" honor to
to the bard," is now the general acclamation
"UThe words rebound,
Until all voices in one voice are drowned.,
Yet this general enthusiasm should not make us blind
to the defects of the poet, as we were long unjust to his
merits. His faults, which are striking, proceed from
the same causes whence spring his peculiar beauties.
The chief of these is, that he has lived too much alone.
"The world," exclaims he, "is too much with us,"and it has been, accordingly, his aim to shut it out altogether. This has made him too regardless of the artificial tastes and conventional opinions of mankind,
which cannot be contemned or neglected with impunity.
That man must possess a commanding influence indeed,
who can succeed in captivating the public taste, in utter
* The object of this sketch is to notice more particularly the
".Sonnets dedicated to Liberty.,,
defiance of preconceived notions and existing habits of
thought. No one mind can make itself entirely independent of all other minds; our spirits are mysteriously
linked together by universal sympathy; the greatest
not only supports, but is also supported by, the least.
Wordsworth, we repeat, has lived and thought too
much-not for, but by, himself; he has deserted the
society of his fellow-men to commune with his own solitary spirit. His sympathies embrace all men, even the
humblest-the child, the mendicant, the outcast; his
yearnings are for every thing that constitutes humanity. Yet he has stood afar off, and contemplated the
moving spectacle, rather like a distant observer, than an
active participant. "Among your tribe," exclaims he,
"Our daily world's true worldlings rank not me!
Children are blest and powerful; their world lies
More ju stly balantced, partly at their feet,
And part far from them:-sweetest melodies
Are those that are by distance made more sweet;
Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes,
He is a slave; the meanest we can meet!"
[Sonnet 39, p. 100.
Again:
"Wings have we, and as far as we can go,
We may find pleasure; wilderness and wood,
Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood,
Which with the lofty sanctifies the low.
Dreams, books are each a world; and books we know,
Are a substantial world, both pure and good:
Round these with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,
Our pastime and our happiness will grow."
[Sonnet 40, p. 100.
And yet again
"Nor can I not believe but that hereby
Great gains are mine; for thus I live remote
From evil speaking; rancor never sought
Comes to me not; malignant truth or lie.
Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I
Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous thought:
And thus from day to day, my little boat
Rocks in its harbor, lodging peaceably. [Son. 41.
All this is very true and very beautiful; and yet we
cannot but believe that such a course of life is calculated to emasculate the mind-to impair that vigorous
tone of thought and feeling, which can only be maintained by mixing freely with our fellow men, and by
taking an active part in the contests of society, and
the material interests of life. Too much addiction to
the world renders men frivolous, or sordid, or artificial;
excessive love of solitude makes them sensitive, singular and impracticable. Of the two extremes, the latter,
however, is unquestionably more favorable to the poetical temperament.
Wordsworth is generally placed at the head of what
is called the Lake school of Poetry. This classification
is too sweeping and indiscriminate. The distinguishing characteristic of that school, is an affectation of
expression and sentiment, which might be called poetical Euphuism. This is not Wordsworth's fault. His
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