certain classes
a bigoted antipathy. He spoke of "parsons" and all who belonged to parsons, of "lords" and the appendages of lords, with a harshness, sometimes an insolence, as unjust as it was insufferable. He could not place himself in the position of those he vituperated; he could not compare their errors with
their temptations, their defects with their disadvantages; he could not realize the effect of such and such circumstances on himself similarly situated, and he would often express the most ferocious and
tyrannical wishes regarding those who had acted, as he thought, ferociously and tyrannically. To judge by his threats, he would have employed arbitrary, even cruel, means to advance the cause of freedom and equality. Equality! yes, Mr. Yorke talked about equality, but at heart he was a proud man
—very friendly to his workpeople, very good to all who were beneath him, and submitted quietly to
be beneath him, but haughty as Beelzebub to whomsoever the world deemed (for he deemed no man)
his superior. Revolt was in his blood: he could not bear control; his father, his grandfather before him, could not bear it, and his children after him never could.
The want of general benevolence made him very impatient of imbecility, and of all faults which grated on his strong, shrewd nature; it left no check to his cutting sarcasm. As he was not merciful, he would sometimes wound and wound again, without noticing how much he hurt, or caring how deep
he thrust.
As to the paucity of ideality in his mind, that can scarcely be called a fault: a fine ear for music, a
correct eye for colour and form, left him the quality of taste; and who cares for imagination? Who
does not think it a rather dangerous, senseless attribute, akin to weakness, perhaps partaking of frenzy
—a disease rather than a gift of the mind?
Probably all think it so but those who possess, or fancy they possess, it. To hear them speak, you
would believe that their hearts would be cold if that elixir did not flow about them, that their eyes would be dim if that flame did not refine their vision, that they would be lonely if this strange companion abandoned them. You would suppose that it imparted some glad hope to spring, some fine
charm to summer, some tranquil joy to autumn, some consolation to winter, which you do not feel.
An illusion, of course; but the fanatics cling to their dream, and would not give it for gold.
As Mr. Yorke did not possess poetic imagination himself, he considered it a most superfluous quality in others. Painters and musicians he could tolerate, and even encourage, because he could relish the results of their art; he could see the charm of a fine picture, and feel the pleasure of good music; but a quiet poet—whatever force struggled, whatever fire glowed, in his breast—if he could
not have played the man in the counting-house, of the tradesman in the Piece Hall, might have lived
despised, and died scorned, under the eyes of Hiram Yorke.
And as there are many Hiram Yorkes in the world, it is well that the true poet, quiet externally though he may be, has often a truculent spirit under his placidity, and is full of shrewdness in his meekness, and can measure the whole stature of those who look down on him, and correctly ascertain
the weight and value of the pursuits they disdain him for not having followed. It is happy that he can
have his own bliss, his own society with his great friend and goddess Nature, quite independent of those who find little pleasure in him, and in whom he finds no pleasure at all. It is just that while the world and circumstances often turn a dark, cold side to him—and properly, too, because he first turns
a dark, cold, careless side to them—he should be able to maintain a festal brightness and cherishing
glow in his bosom, which makes all bright and genial for him; while strangers, perhaps, deem his existence a Polar winter never gladdened by a sun. The true poet is not one whit to be
a bigoted antipathy. He spoke of "parsons" and all who belonged to parsons, of "lords" and the appendages of lords, with a harshness, sometimes an insolence, as unjust as it was insufferable. He could not place himself in the position of those he vituperated; he could not compare their errors with
their temptations, their defects with their disadvantages; he could not realize the effect of such and such circumstances on himself similarly situated, and he would often express the most ferocious and
tyrannical wishes regarding those who had acted, as he thought, ferociously and tyrannically. To judge by his threats, he would have employed arbitrary, even cruel, means to advance the cause of freedom and equality. Equality! yes, Mr. Yorke talked about equality, but at heart he was a proud man
—very friendly to his workpeople, very good to all who were beneath him, and submitted quietly to
be beneath him, but haughty as Beelzebub to whomsoever the world deemed (for he deemed no man)
his superior. Revolt was in his blood: he could not bear control; his father, his grandfather before him, could not bear it, and his children after him never could.
The want of general benevolence made him very impatient of imbecility, and of all faults which grated on his strong, shrewd nature; it left no check to his cutting sarcasm. As he was not merciful, he would sometimes wound and wound again, without noticing how much he hurt, or caring how deep
he thrust.
As to the paucity of ideality in his mind, that can scarcely be called a fault: a fine ear for music, a
correct eye for colour and form, left him the quality of taste; and who cares for imagination? Who
does not think it a rather dangerous, senseless attribute, akin to weakness, perhaps partaking of frenzy
—a disease rather than a gift of the mind?
Probably all think it so but those who possess, or fancy they possess, it. To hear them speak, you
would believe that their hearts would be cold if that elixir did not flow about them, that their eyes would be dim if that flame did not refine their vision, that they would be lonely if this strange companion abandoned them. You would suppose that it imparted some glad hope to spring, some fine
charm to summer, some tranquil joy to autumn, some consolation to winter, which you do not feel.
An illusion, of course; but the fanatics cling to their dream, and would not give it for gold.
As Mr. Yorke did not possess poetic imagination himself, he considered it a most superfluous quality in others. Painters and musicians he could tolerate, and even encourage, because he could relish the results of their art; he could see the charm of a fine picture, and feel the pleasure of good music; but a quiet poet—whatever force struggled, whatever fire glowed, in his breast—if he could
not have played the man in the counting-house, of the tradesman in the Piece Hall, might have lived
despised, and died scorned, under the eyes of Hiram Yorke.
And as there are many Hiram Yorkes in the world, it is well that the true poet, quiet externally though he may be, has often a truculent spirit under his placidity, and is full of shrewdness in his meekness, and can measure the whole stature of those who look down on him, and correctly ascertain
the weight and value of the pursuits they disdain him for not having followed. It is happy that he can
have his own bliss, his own society with his great friend and goddess Nature, quite independent of those who find little pleasure in him, and in whom he finds no pleasure at all. It is just that while the world and circumstances often turn a dark, cold side to him—and properly, too, because he first turns
a dark, cold, careless side to them—he should be able to maintain a festal brightness and cherishing
glow in his bosom, which makes all bright and genial for him; while strangers, perhaps, deem his existence a Polar winter never gladdened by a sun. The true poet is not one whit to be
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