Well, when word came
into the room of the splendid meteor, we all went out to view it; and,
on the beautiful platform at Mount Ryedale we were all walking, in twos
and threes, arm-in-arm, talking of the phenomenon, and admiring it. Now,
be it remembered, that Wordsworth, Professor Wilson, Lloyd, De Quincey,
and myself, were present, besides several other literary gentlemen,
whose names I am not certain that I remember aright. Miss Wordsworth's
arm was in mine, and she was expressing some fears that the splendid
stranger might prove ominous, when I, by ill luck, blundered out the
following remark, thinking that I was saying a good thing:--'Hout,
me'em! it is neither mair nor less than joost a treeumphal airch, raised
in honour of the meeting of the poets.' 'That's not amiss.--Eh?
Eh?--that's very good,' said the Professor, laughing. But Wordsworth,
who had De Quincey's arm, gave a grunt, and turned on his heel, and
leading the little opium-chewer aside, he addressed him in these
disdainful and venomous words:--'Poets? Poets?--What does the fellow
mean?--Where are they?' Who could forgive this? For my part, I never
can, and never will! I admire Wordsworth; as who does not, whatever they
may pretend? but for that short sentence I have a lingering ill-will at
him which I cannot get rid of.
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