ABSTRACT
One of the circle, a Reading gentleman of the name of Talfourd – of whom, by the way, when he has completed his studies for the bar, the world will one day hear a good deal – talked to me about Mr. Wordsworth’s genius till I began to be a little ashamed of not admiring him myself. Enthusiasm is very catching, especially when it is very eloquent. So I set about admiring. To be sure, there was the small difficulty of not understanding; but that, as Mr. Talfourd said, did not signify. So I admired. But, alas! my admiration was but a puny, flickering flame, that wanted constant relighting at Mr. Talfourd’s enthusiasm, and constant fanning by Mr. Talfourd’s eloquence. He went to town, and out it went for good. After all, I should never have done for a disciple of Mr. Wordsworth. I have too much self-will about me – too much spirit of opposition. By-the-by, I wonder how Mr. Haydon manages. Docility is not his characteristic. I suppose there is a little commerce of flattery, though Mr. Wordsworth not only exacts an entire relinquishment of all other tastes besides taste for his poetry, but if an unlucky votary chances to say, ‘Of all your beautiful passages I most admire so and so,’ he knocks him down by saying, ‘Sir, I have a thousand passages more beautiful than that. Sir, you know nothing of the matter.’ One’s conscience may be pretty well absolved for not admiring this man: he admires himself enough for all the world put together.
