that has not felt that the mind can have no rest among a multitude of objects, of which it either cannot make one whole, or from which it cannot single out one individual, whereupon may be concentrated the attention divided among or distracted by a multitude? After a certain time, we must either select one image or object, which must put out of view the rest wholly, or must subordinate them to itself while it stands forth as a head: Now glowed the firmament With living sapphires! Hesperus that led Having laid this down as a general principle, take the case Some veering up and down, one knew not why. All at once, while I am in this state, comes forth an object, an individual; and my mind, sleepy and unfixed, is awakened and fastened in a moment. The starry host, Hesperus, that led He is a poetical object, because the glory of his own nature gives him the pre-eminence the moment he appears. calls forth the poetic faculty, receiving its exertions as a tribute. But this ship in the sonnet may, in a manner still more appropriate, be said to come upon a mission of the poetic spirit, because in its own appearance and attributes, it is barely sufficiently distinguished to rouse the creative faculty of the human mind to exertions at all times welcome, but doubly so when they come upon us when in a state of remissness. The mind being once fixed and roused, all the rest comes from itself; it is merely a lordly ship, nothing more, This ship was nought to me, nor I to her, My mind wantons with grateful joy in the exercise of its own powers, and loving its own creation, This ship to all the rest I did prefer, making her a sovereign or a regent, and thus giving body and life to all the rest; mingling up this idea with fondness and praise Where she comes the winds must stir; and concluding the whole with, On went she, and due north her journey took ; thus taking up again the reader with whom I began, letting him know how long I must have watched this favourite vessel, and inviting him to rest his mind as mine is resting. Having said so much upon mere fourteen lines, which Mrs Fermor did not approve, I cannot but add a word or two upon my satisfaction in finding that my mind has so much in common with hers, and that we participate so many of each other's pleasures. I collect this from her having singled out the two little poems The Daffodils, and The Rock crowned with Snowdrops. I am sure that whoever is much pleased with either of these quiet and tender delineations must be fitted to walk through the recesses of my poetry with delight, and will there recognise at every turn some thing or other in which, and over which, it has that property and right which knowledge and love confer. The line, Come blessed barrier, &c. in the Sonnet upon Sleep, which Mrs F. points out had before been mentioned to me by Coleridge, and indeed, by almost everybody who had heard it, as eminently beautiful. My letter (as this second sheet which I am obliged to take, admonishes me) is growing to an enormous length; and yet, saying that I have expressed my calm confidence that these poems will live, I have said nothing which has a particular application to the object of it, which was to remove all disquiet from your mind on account of the condemnation they may at present incur from that portion of my contemporaries who are called the public. I am sure, my dear Lady Beaumont, if you attach any importance to it, it can only be from an apprehension that it may affect me, upon which I have already set you at ease; or from a fear that this present blame is ominous of their future or final destiny. If this be the case, your tenderness for me betrays you. Be assured that the decision of these persons has nothing to do with the question; they are altogether incompetent judges. These people, in the senseless hurry of their idle lives, do not read books, they merely snatch a glance at them, that they may talk about them. And even if this were not so, never forget what, I believe, was observed to you by Coleridge, that every great and original writer, in proportion as he is great or original must himself create the taste by which he is to be relished; he must teach the art by which he is to be seen; this, in a certain degree, even to all persons, however wise and pure may be their lives, and however unvitiated their taste. But for those who dip into books in order to give an opinion of them, or talk about them to take up an opinion— for this multitude of unhappy, and misguided and mis guiding beings—an entire regeneration must be produced; and if this be possible, it must be a work of time. To conclude my ears are stone-dead to this idle buzz, and my flesh as insensible as iron to these petty stings; and, after all that I have said, I am sure yours will be the same. I doubt not that you will share with me an invincible confidence that my writings (and among them these little poems) will co-operate with the benign tendencies in human nature and society, wherever found; and that they will, in their degree, be efficacious in making men wiser, better, and happier. Farewell. I will not apologise for this letter, though its length demands an apology.-Believe me, eagerly wishing for the happy day when I shall see you and Sir George here, most affectionately yours, W. WORDSWORTH." This letter was evidently written shortly before Wordsworth went up to London with Mrs Wordsworth for a month in the spring of 1807. They returned to Coleorton with Sir Walter Scott; and shortly after their return Wordsworth wrote thus to Sir George: 1807. "MY DEAR SIR GEORGE,-I am quite delighted to hear of your picture for Peter Bell; I was much pleased with the sketch, and I have no doubt that the picture will surpass it as far as a picture ought to do. I long much to see it. I should approve of any engraver approved by you. But remember that no poem of mine will ever be popular; and I am afraid that the sale of 'Peter' would not carry the expense of the engraving, and that the poem, in the estimation of the public, would be a weight upon the print. I say not this in modest disparagement of the poem, but in sorrow for the sickly taste of the public in verse. The people would love the poem of Peter Bell, but the public (a very different ' being) will never love it. Thanks for dear Lady Beaumont's transcript from your friend's letter; it is written with candour, but I must say a word or two not in praise of it. 'Instances of what I mean,' says your friend, are to be found in a poem on a Daisy' (by the by, it is on the Daisy, a mighty difference!) and on Daffodils reflected in the Water.' Is this accurately described by Lady Beaumont ? If it be, what shall we think of criticism or judgment founded upon, and exemplified by, a poem which must have been so inattentively perused? My language is precise; and, therefore, it would be false modesty to charge myself with blame. Beneath the trees, Ten thousand dancing in the breeze. Can expression be more distinct? And let me ask your friend how it is possible for flowers to be reflected in water where there are waves? They may, indeed, in still water; but the very object of my poem is the trouble or agitation, both of the flowers and the water. I must needs respect the understanding of every one honoured by your friendship; but sincerity compels me to say that my poems must be more nearly looked at, before they can give rise to any remarks of much value, even from the strongest minds. With respect to this individual poem, Lady Beaumont will recollect how Mrs Fermor expressed herself upon it. A letter also was sent to me, addressed to a friend of mine, and by him communicated to me, in which this identical poem was singled out for fervent approbation. What then shall we say? Why, let the poet first consult his own heart, as I have done, and leave the rest to posterity,-to, I hope, an improving posterity. The fact is, the English public are at this moment in the same state of mind with |