"Criticism" - читать интересную книгу автора (Poe Edgar Allan)

passion- it becomes the metaphysician to reason- but the poet to
protest. Yet Wordsworth and Coleridge are men in years; the one imbued
in contemplating from his childhood, the other a giant in intellect
and learning. The diffidence, then, with which I venture to dispute
their authority would be overwhelming did I not feel, from the
bottom of my heart, that learning has little to do with the
imagination- intellect with the passions- or age with poetry.

Trifles, like straws, upon the surface flow;
He who would search for pearls must dive below,

are lines which have done much mischief. As regards the greater
truths, men oftener err by seeking them at the bottom than at the top;
Truth lies in the huge abysses where wisdom is sought- not in the
palpable palaces where she is found. The ancients were not always
right in hiding the goddess in a well; witness the light which Bacon
has thrown upon philosophy; witness the principles of our divine
faith- that moral mechanism by which the simplicity of a child may
overbalance the wisdom of a man.
We see an instance of Coleridge's liability to err, in his
Biographia Literaria- professedly his literary life and opinions, but,
in fact, a treatise de omni scibili et quibusdam aliis. He goes
wrong by reason of his very profundity, and of his error we have a
natural type in the contemplation of a star. He who regards it
directly and intensely sees, it is true, the star, but it is the
star without a ray- while he who surveys it less inquisitively is
conscious of all for which the star is useful to us below- its
brilliancy and its beauty.
As to Wordsworth, I have no faith in him. That he had in youth the
feelings of a poet I believe- for there are glimpses of extreme
delicacy in his writings- (and delicacy is the poet's own kingdom- his
El Dorado)- but they have the appearance of a better day
recollected; and glimpses, at best, are little evidence of present
poetic fire- we know that a few straggling flowers spring up daily
in the crevices of the glacier.
He was to blame in wearing away his youth in contemplation with
the end of poetizing in his manhood. With the increase of his judgment
the light which should make it apparent has faded away. His judgment
consequently is too correct. This may not be understood,- but the
old Goths of Germany would have understood it, who used to debate
matters of importance to their State twice, once when drunk, and
once when sober- sober that they might not be deficient in
formality- drunk lest they should be destitute of vigour.
The long wordy discussions by which he tries to reason us into
admiration of his poetry, speak very little in his favour: they are
full of such assertions as this (I have opened one of his volumes at
random)- "Of genius the only proof is the act of doing well what is
worthy to be done, and what was never done before";- indeed? then
it follows that in doing what is unworthy to be done, or what has been
done before, no genius can be evinced; yet the picking of pockets is