I wish you would write a poem, in blank verse, addressed to those, who, in consequence of the complete failure of the French Revolution, have thrown up all hopes of the amelioration of mankind, and are sinking into an almost epicurean selfishness, disguising the same under the soft titles of domestic attachment and contempt for visionary philosophes. It would do great good, and might do for a part of “The Recluse”, for in my present mood I am wholly against the publication of any small poems.

Did Mr Wordsworth really imagine, that his favorite doctrines were likely to gain anything in point of effect or authority by being put in the mouth of a person accustomed to higgle about tape, or brass sleeve-buttons?

Perhaps the image of psychological man presented here is the one most appropriate and safe for use in this age. It is the self-image of a travelling man rather than a missionary. Unfortunately for culture and good taste, the salesman always cruelly parodies the preacher–without being able to help doing so, for his cultural history has dictated to the salesman the rhetorical style of the missionary.