A volume of Wordsworth’s most exquisite poetry had then just appeared. “Is not this wonderful?” said Godolphin, reciting some of those lofty, but refining thoughts which characterise the Pastor of modern poets.
Constance shook her head.
“What! you do not admire it?”
“I do not understand it.”
“What poetry do you admire?”
“This.”
It was Pope’s translation of the Iliad.
“Yes, yes, to be sure,” said Godolphin, a little vexed; “we all admire this in its way: but what else?”
Constance pointed to a passage in the Palamon and Arcite of Dryden.
Godolphin threw down his Wordsworth. “You take an ungenerous advantage of me,” said he. “Tell me something you admire, which, at least, I may have the privilege of disputing,—something that you think generally neglected.”