ver to his native land; and his
conjugal infidelities to his first disappointment in love, which would
not have happened to him, if he had been born to a small estate in land,
or bred up behind a counter!

Lastly, Mr. Wordsworth might have shewn the incompatibility between
the Muses and the Excise, which never agreed well together, or met in
one seat, till they were unaccountably reconciled on Rydal Mount. He
must know (no man better) the distraction created by the opposite calls
of business and of fancy, the torment of extents, the plague of receipts
laid in order or mislaid, the disagreeableness of exacting penalties or
paying the forfeiture; and how all this (together with the broaching of
casks and the splashing of beer-barrels) must have preyed upon a mind
like Burns, with more than his natural sensibility and none of his
acquired firmness.

Mr. Coleridge, alluding to this circumstance of the promotion of the
Scottish Bard to be "a gauger of ale-firkins," in a poetical epistle to
his friend Charles Lamb, calls upon him in a burst of heartfelt
indignation, to gather a wreath of henbane, nettles, and nightshade,

"------To twine
The illustrious brow of Scotch nobility."

If, indeed, Mr. Lamb had undertaken to write a letter in defence of
Burns, how different would it have been from this of Mr. Wordsworth's!
How much better than I can even imagine it to have been done!

It is hardly reasonable to look for a hearty or genuine defence of
Burns from the pen of Mr. Wordsworth; for there is no common link of
sympathy between them. Nothing can be more different or hostile than the
spirit of their poetry. Mr. Wordsworth's poetry is the poetry of mere
sentiment and pensive contemplation: Burns's is a very highly sublimated
essence of animal existence. With Burns, "self-love and social are the
same"--

"And we'll tak a cup of kindness yet,
For auld lang syne."

Mr. Wordsworth is "himself alone," a recluse philosopher, or a reluctant
spectator of the scenes of many-coloured life; moralising on them, not
describing, not entering into them. Robert Burns has exerted all the
vigour of his mind, all the happiness of his nature, in exalting the
pleasures of wine, of love, and good fellowship: but in Mr. Wordsworth
there is a total disunion and divorce of the faculties of the mind from
those of the body; the banns are forbid, or a separation is austerely
pronounced from bed and