shallow self-satisfaction in thinking they had hit upon the secret of the thaumaturgy; but to a tree that has grown as God willed we come without a theory and with no botanical predilections, enjoying it simply and thankfully; or the Imagination recreates for us its past summers and winters, the birds that have nested and sung in it, the sheep that have clustered in its shade, the winds that have visited it, the cloud-bergs that have drifted over it, and the snows that have ermined it in winter.
The Imagination is a faculty that flouts at foreordination, and Wordsworth
seemed to do all he could to cheat his readers of her company by laying out paths with a peremptory Do not step off the gravel
! at the opening of each, and preparing pitfalls for every conceivable emotion, with guide-boards to tell each when and where it must be caught.
But if these things stood in the way of immediate appreciation, he had another theory which interferes more seriously with the total and permanent effect of his poems.
He was theoretically determined not only to be a philosophic poet, but to be a great
philosophic poet, and to this end he must produce an epic.
Leaving aside the question whether the epic be obsolete or not, it may be doubted whether the history of a single man's mind is universal enough in its interest to furnish all the requirements of the epic machinery, and it may be more than doubted whether a poet's philosophy be ordinary metaphysics, divisible into chapter and section.
It is rather something which is more energetic in a word than in a whole treatise, and our hearts unclose themselves instinctively at its simple Open sesame
! while they would stand firm against the reading of the whole body of philosophy.
In point of fact, the one element of greatness which ‘The Excursion’ possesses indisputably is heaviness.
It is only the episodes