of his poetic system, which magnified mole-heaps to
mountains, _pennies_ assumed the importance of _pounds_. It is ludicrous,
yet characteristic, to think of the great author of the "Recluse,"
squabbling with a porter about the price of a parcel, or bidding down an
old book at a stall. He was one of the few poets who were ever guilty of
the crime of worldly prudence--that ever could have fulfilled the old
parodox, "A poet has built a house." In his young days, according to
Hazlitt, he said little in society--sat generally lost in thought--threw out
a bold or an indifferent remark occasionally--and relapsed into reverie
again. In latter years, he became more talkative and oracular. His health
and habits were always regular, his temperament happy, and his heart sound
and pure.

We have said that his life, _as a poet_, was far from perfect. Our meaning
is, that he did not sufficiently, owing to temperament, or position, or
habits, sympathize with the on-goings of society, the fullness of modern
life, and the varied passions, unbeliefs, sins, and miseries of modern
human nature. His soul dwelt apart. He came, like the Baptist, "neither
eating nor drinking," and men said, "he hath a demon." He saw at morning,
from London bridge, "all its mighty heart" lying still; but he did not at
noon plunge artistically into the thick of its throbbing life; far less
sound the depths of its wild midnight heavings of revel and wretchedness,
of hopes and fears, of stifled fury and eloquent despair. Nor, although he
sung the "mighty stream of tendency" of this wondrous age, did he ever
launch his poetic craft upon it, nor seem to see the _witherward_ of its
swift and awful stress. He has, on the whole, stood aside from his
time--not on a peak of the past--not on an anticipated Alp of the future,
but on his own Cumberland highlands--hearing the tumult and remaining
still, lifting up his life as a far-seen beacon-fire, studying the manners
of the humble dwellers in the vales below--"piping a simple song to
thinking hearts," and striving to waft to brother spirits, the fine
infection of his own enthusiasm, faith, hope, and devotion. Perhaps, had
he been less strict and consistent in creed and in character, he might
have attained greater breadth, blood-warmth, and wide-spread power, have
presented on his page a fuller reflection of our present state, and drawn
from his poetry a yet stronger moral, and become the Shakspeare, instead
of the Milton,