1840-42, POETKY SET ASIDE. 281 



Indeed, in the utterly prostrated state of mind in which for the 

 last year I have been, I have avoided even reading poetry. To 

 relish it and the same remark applies to music I find in my 

 case a certain elasticity and exhilaration of mind necessary. 

 When I opened old favourites, I was so pained to find the pas- 

 sages I used to thrill over become flat and unprofitable that I 

 closed all of them, resolved that they should lie unopened till 

 restored health enabled me with the old emotions to read them 

 again. With the solitary exception of Milton, accordingly, I 

 have not read any poetry for the last twelvemonth. In addi- 

 tion, I feel myself now obliged to devote all my thoughts to 

 science, and blame myself for every moment which I spend 

 away from it. I am like a stranded ship, lying powerless in the 

 sand, with sails idly flapping on the masts, while those who set 

 sail with me, with like hopes and chances, are far ahead out in 

 the open sea. Every occasion, therefore, on which I feel revisit- 

 ings of my old energy, is spent in making such preparations as 

 may enable me to be ready for active service should I get afloat 

 again. Now, poetry was never with me a mere source of idle 

 amusement, to which I could turn for relaxation, and listlessly 

 smile over, lying on a sofa ; but, on the other hand, a field for 

 as tough intellectual gymnastics as any scientific problem, and 

 the pleasure arose from the new thoughts struck out by the 

 conflict between the author and his reader. Now, however, in 

 relaxed seasons the battle is too hard work, and the idlest book 

 on the foolishest subject is the most agreeable. I am sure you 

 can understand the feeling which I lamely strive to portray. I 

 think the great poets too worthy fellows to be handled with my 

 worn-down emaciated thoughts. I think the same of the musi- 

 cians, and listen to none of them. I have felt the same towards 

 the greater scientifics ; but they are my ' daily bread,' and habit, 

 and a sort of shop instinct, make me keep munching at them, 

 though often out of a goodly loaf I digest but a few crumbs." . . . 



" June 30, 1842. 



" MY DEAR DANIEL, A few words with you on whatever 

 comes uppermost. It's but a poor one-sided apology for con- 

 versation this epistolizing, but pleasant too in its way, doing 



