The first two lines of the second of these sonnets furnish an instance of the prime defect in Wordsworth’s philosophy and poetry, namely, his affected (for it cannot be real), contempt for, and his perpetually recurring sneer at, what he here calls sordid industry. I say this contempt cannot be real, because Wordsworth, though a great Poet, possesses quite an average share of ordinary unpoetical prudence and discernment, and though in earnest, no doubt, in his worship of “unprofaned nature” holds in due appreciation those commonplace comforts of civilized life, which, without the aid of the sordid industry, would scarcely be attainable. Moreover, to meet him on his own ground, this wild locality is by no means very “remote from _every_ taint of sordid industry”—these hills are devoted to sheep farming, and though I am far from stigmatizing stock farmers as being more sordid than other classes, yet is their ordinary employment as essentially sordid in its nature, and as coarse, unromantic and disagreeable in its details, as any other common mode of money-making, notwithstanding all that has been said, or sung, to the contrary. [Illustration: SOURCE OF THE DUDDON.] [Sidenote: A HUMBLE IMITATION VERY!] And now, in humble imitation of my betters, I cannot refrain from trying my poor hand at a sonnet, and, when you have well considered the same, I hope and believe that, however infinite you may reckon its poetical inferiority, you will admit that its sentiment is more in accordance with the subject—that it is conceived in a more Catholic spirit than those of my great prototype— “And that _my_ raptures are not conjured up To serve occasions of poetic pomp,” attend;— Here springs the Duddon, trickling from the end Of Wrynose, thus suggesting the belief That Wrynose lacks a pocket-handkerchief. It argues much untidiness to send A nose-bred rill meandering o'er the breast Of Seathwaite vale; but, as you downward wend, Where verdure, rocks, and water aptly blend To form a scene whose presence few had guess'd, Amid these wild brown fells, you'll bless the source Of this clear stream whose gushing waters lend A music cheering you as you descend, With easy lounge along its fitful course, And pray that, whilst these wild brown fells endure, Wrynose’s catarrh ne'er may find a cure! [Sidenote: “MIGHTY FORESTS.”]