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 vigor. The long wordy discussions by which he tries to reason us into admiration of his poetry, speak very little in his favor: 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 _un_worthy to be done, or what _has_ been done before, no genius can be evinced: yet the picking of pockets is an unworthy act, pockets have been picked time immemorial, and Barrington, the pick-pocket, in point of genius, would have thought hard of a comparison with William Wordsworth, the poet. Again—in estimating the merit of certain poems, whether they be Ossian's or M’Pherson's, can surely be of little consequence, yet, in order to prove their worthlessness, Mr. W. has expended many pages in the controversy. _Tantæne animis?_ Can great minds descend to such absurdity? But worse still: that he may bear down every argument in favor of these poems, he triumphantly drags forward a passage, in his abomination of which he expects the reader to sympathize. It is the beginning of the epic poem “_Temora_.” “The blue waves of Ullin roll in light; the green hills are covered with day; trees shake their dusky heads in the breeze.” And this—this gorgeous, yet simple imagery—where all is alive and panting with immortality—this—William Wordsworth, the author of Peter Bell, has _selected_ for his contempt. We shall see what better he, in his own person, has to offer. Imprimis: “And now she's at the pony's head, And now she's at the pony's tail, On that side now, and now on this, And almost stifled her with bliss— A few sad tears does Betty shed, She pats the pony where or when She knows not: happy Betty Foy! O Johnny! never mind the Doctor!” Secondly: “The dew was falling fast, the—stars began to blink, I heard a voice, it said——drink, pretty creature, drink; And looking o'er the hedge, be—fore me I espied A snow-white mountain lamb with a—maiden at its side, No other sheep were near, the lamb was all alone, And by a slender cord was—tether'd to a stone.” Now we have no doubt this is all true; we _will_ believe it, indeed we will, Mr. W. Is it sympathy for the sheep you wish to excite? I love a sheep from the bottom of my heart. * * * * *