It Is
The Stream Of Inspiration, Which Bubbles Out, Now Here, Now
There, Now In This Man, Now In That.
It matters not through what
ice-crystals it is seen, now a fountain, now the ocean stream
running under ground.
It is in Shakespeare, Alpheus, in Burns,
Arethuse; but ever the same. The other is self-possessed and
wise. It is reverent of genius, and greedy of inspiration. It
is conscious in the highest and the least degree. It consists
with the most perfect command of the faculties. It dwells in a
repose as of the desert, and objects are as distinct in it as
oases or palms in the horizon of sand. The train of thought
moves with subdued and measured step, like a caravan. But the
pen is only an instrument in its hand, and not instinct with
life, like a longer arm. It leaves a thin varnish or glaze over
all its work. The works of Goethe furnish remarkable instances
of the latter.
There is no just and serene criticism as yet. Nothing is
considered simply as it lies in the lap of eternal beauty, but
our thoughts, as well as our bodies, must be dressed after the
latest fashions. Our taste is too delicate and particular. It
says nay to the poet's work, but never yea to his hope. It
invites him to adorn his deformities, and not to cast them off by
expansion, as the tree its bark. We are a people who live in a
bright light, in houses of pearl and porcelain, and drink only
light wines, whose teeth are easily set on edge by the least
natural sour.
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