For a couple of hours, he was talking about poetry, and the whole
harangue was one eloquent proclamation of the defects in his own mind.
Tennyson wrote in verse because the schoolmasters had taught him that
it was great to do so, and had thus, unfortunately, been turned from
the true path for a man. Burns had, in like manner, been turned from
his vocation. Shakspeare had not had the good sense to see that
it would have been better to write straight on in prose;--and such
nonsense, which, though amusing enough at first, he ran to death after
a while. The most amusing part is always when he comes back to some
refrain, as in the French Revolution of the _sea-green_. In this
instance, it was Petrarch and _Laura_, the last word pronounced with
his ineffable sarcasm of drawl. Although he said this over
fifty times, I could not ever help laughing when _Laura_ would
come,--Carlyle running his chin out, when he spoke it, and his eyes
glancing till they looked like the eyes and beak of a bird of prey.
Poor Laura! Lucky for her that her poet had already got her safely
canonized beyond the reach of this Teufelsdrockh vulture.
The worst of hearing Carlyle is that you cannot interrupt him.
Pages:
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255