Keep your temper, Mr Testy. As I have no wish to sour you for the rest of the day, I shall say little about the Third Stanza. "Pass not unblest the Genius of the Place," would to me be a more impressive prayer, if there were more spirituality in the preceding stanzas—and in the lines which follow it; for the Genius of the Place has been acting, and continues to act, almost solely on the Senses. And who is the Genius of the Place? The River-God—he to whom the Gentile worship built that Temple. But Byron says, most unpoetically, "along his margin"—along the margin of the Genius of the Place! Then, how flat—how poor—after "the Genius of the Place"—"the freshness of the Scene"—for the freshness of the Scene bless the genius of the Place! Is that language flowing, from the emotion of a Poet's heart? And the last line spoils all; for he, whom we are to bless—the River-God—or the Genius of the Place—has given the heart but a "moment's" cleanness from dry dust—but a moment's, and no more! And never did hard, coarse Misanthropy so mar a Poet's purpose as by the shocking prose that is left grating on our souls—"suspension of disgust!" So, after all this beauty—and all this enjoyment of beauty—well or ill painted by the Poet—you must pay orisons to the River-God or the Genius—whom you had been called onto bless—for a mere momentary suspension of disgust to all our fellow-creatures—a disgust that would return as strong—or stronger than ever—as soon as you got to Rome.
TALBOYS.
I confess I don't like it.
NORTH.
"Must!" There are Needs of all sorts, shapes, and sizes. There is terrible necessity—there is bitter necessity—there is grinding necessity—there is fine—delicate—loving—playful necessity.
TALBOYS.
Sir?
NORTH.
There are Musts that fly upon the wings of devils—Musts that fly upon the wings of angels—Musts that walk upon the feet of men—Musts that flutter upon the wings of Fairies.—But I am dreaming!—Say on.
TALBOYS.