Dreamthorp by Alexander Smith (1863)

Smith is remembered (if it can really be called that) now as a 'Sporadic' poet, which, as far as I can tell, is a largely pejorative term used for a group of mid-nineteenth century poets who don't quite make the grade, in the wise noddles of the current literati. I've not read his poetry and can't comment upon it. But as an essayist there's a great deal more than the occasional about him. There are the things which one might expect: a species of largesse, and confidence, generated from the uber-believed-in superengine of Victorian supremity. This gives rise to a quality of love for his own train of thought which can exclude careful exceptions to his rules, or to what would be seen these days as echo-chamberedness. But these elements are, from my point of view, forgivable, if I have a writer of rich prose and investigative mind in my hands. Meaning that there are outweighing examples here where Smith follows an original train of thought fruitfully, or perhaps sets up an echo which rings with enough significance to satisfy. The place where he reaches his highest pitch is in personal and social philosophy, which often also sits as a looming background to the pieces here which aren't primarily concerned with it. I don't find him as perspicacious on literature - there are essays here - Dunbar, Men of Letters, A Shelf in My Bookcase and Geoffrey Chaucer - which are the weakest of a strong lot. But those which touch on the springs of his own writing more directly like On the Writing of Essays are really fine examples of their kind, and show up his love and fascination for Hazlitt, Macaulay and the other 'greats', particularly Charles Lamb. This is one of those books where the anticipation of re-opening is as enjoyable as the reading itself.