fingers were always clumsy at the callida junctura
. The stream of narration is sluggish, if varied by times with pleasing reflections (viridesque placido cequore sylvas);
we are forced to do our own rowing, and only when the current is hemmed in by some narrow gorge of the poet's personal consciousness do we feel ourselves snatched along on the smooth but impetuous rush of unmistakable inspiration.
The fact that what is precious in Wordsworth
's poetry was (more truly even than with some greater poets than he) a gift rather than an achievement should always be borne in mind in taking the measure of his power.
I know not whether to call it height or depth, this peculiarity of his, but it certainly endows those parts of his work which we should distinguish as Wordsworthian with an unexpectedness and impressiveness of originality such as we feel in the presence of Nature herself.
He seems to have been half conscious of this, and recited his own poems to all comers with an enthusiasm of wondering admiration that would have been profoundly comic1
but for its simple sincerity and for the fact that William Wordsworth, Esquire
, of Rydal Mount
, was one person, and the William Wordsworth
whom he so heartily reverenced quite another.
We recognize two voices in him, as Stephano did in Caliban.
There are Jeremiah and his scribe Baruch
If the prophet cease from dictating, the amanuensis, rather than be idle, employs his pen in jotting down some anecdotes of his master, how he one day went out and saw an old woman, and the next day did not
, and so came home and dictated some verses on