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Speculations on Literary
Pleasures
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Wordsworth has his admirers, and he doubtless has also his
beauties; but these beauties are so frequently solitary and
isolated, and so thinly scattered through a series of
verbose and languid dissertations, which have not much of
either grace or dignity to recommend them, that their effect
is lost.
When we read Wordsworth, indeed, we are not unfrequently
reminded that there was a person named Dr. Darwin, who, a
few years before him, wrote poetry in a very mediocritous
and questionable style of excellence; and that the Della
Crusca school of sentiment, which certainly favours Mr.
Wordsworth with an occasional archetype, is by no means a
safe model for a poet who wishes to reach posterity.
If it is admitted that one of the chief ends of a
poet, if he is to pretend to classical honours, should be at
once the general improvement of society, and the
establishment of a standard of taste among his countrymen,
we cannot afford to lavish any high approbation on him who
has not eminently accomplished either of these ends, unless
his beauties of another kind are of a very high redeeming
order.
But the warmest encomiasts of Wordsworth will, it is
probable, admit that he not unfrequently sinks to
puerilities below the standard here mentioned; and on the
other hand, often rises to a sublimated sort of cloudiness,
ill according with that positive kind of beauty recognized
in our best classical writers.
Wordsworth may in some respects be termed the Sterne of
poetry. He has, like his predecessor, endeavoured to extract
sentiment where nobody else ever dreamt of looking for it,
and has often exalted trifles into a consequence which
nature never intended them to
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