For the higher kinds of poetry he has no sense,
and his talk on that subject is delightfully and gorgeously absurd. He
sometimes stops a minute to laugh at it himself, then begins anew with
fresh vigor; for all the spirits he is driving before him seem to him
as Fata Morgana, ugly masks, in fact, if he can but make them turn
about; but he laughs that they seem to others such dainty Ariels.
His talk, like his books, is full of pictures; his critical strokes
masterly. Allow for his point of view, and his survey is admirable.
He is a large subject. I cannot speak more or wiselier of him now, nor
needs it;--his works are true, to blame and praise him,--the Siegfried
of England,--great and powerful, if not quite invulnerable, and of a
might rather to destroy evil, than legislate for good.
Of Dr. Wilkinson I saw a good deal, and found him a substantial
person,--a sane, strong, and well-exercised mind,--but in the last
degree unpoetical in its structure. He is very simple, natural, and
good; excellent to see, though one cannot go far with him; and he
would be worth more in writing, if he could get time to write, than in
personal intercourse. He may yet find time;--he is scarcely more than
thirty.
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