that a man of genius
is not a machine; that they live in a state of intellectual
intoxication, and that it is too much to expect them to be distinguished
by peculiar _sang froid_, circumspection, and sobriety. Poets are by
nature men of stronger imagination and keener sensibilities than others;
and it is a contradiction to suppose them at the same time governed only
by the cool, dry, calculating dictates of reason and foresight. Mr.
Wordsworth might have ascertained the boundaries that part the provinces
of reason and imagination:--that it is the business of the
understanding to exhibit things in their relative proportions and
ultimate consequences--of the imagination to insist on their immediate
impressions, and to indulge their strongest impulses; but it is the
poet's office to pamper the imagination of his readers and his own with
the extremes of present ecstacy or agony, to snatch the swift-winged
golden minutes, the torturing hour, and to banish the dull, prosaic,
monotonous realities of life, both from his thoughts and from his
practice. Mr. Wordsworth might have shewn how it is that all men of
genius, or of originality and independence of mind, are liable to
practical errors, from the very confidence their superiority inspires,
which makes them fly in the face of custom and prejudice, always rashly,
sometimes unjustly; for, after all, custom and prejudice are not without
foundation in truth and reason, and no one individual is a match for the
world in power, very few in knowledge. The world may altogether be set
down as older and wiser than any single person in it.

Again, our philosophical letter-writer might have enlarged on the
temptations to which Burns was exposed from his struggles with fortune
and the uncertainty of his fate. He might have shewn how a poet, not
born to wealth or title, was kept in a constant state of feverish
anxiety with respect to his fame and the means of a precarious
livelihood: that "from being chilled with poverty, steeped in contempt,
he had passed into the sunshine of fortune, and was lifted to the very
pinnacle of public favour"; yet even there could not count on the
continuance of success, but was, "like the giddy sailor on the mast,
ready with every blast to topple down into the fatal bowels of the
deep!" He might have traced his habit of ale-house tippling to the last
long precious draught of his favourite usquebaugh, which he took in the
prospect of bidding farewel for e