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HERE AND THERE.

AH me, how hot and weary here in town
The days crawl by!

How otherwise they go my heart records,
Where the marsh meadows lie

And white sheep crop the grass, and sea-
gulls sail

Between the lovely earth and lovely sky.

Here the sun grins along the dusty street
Beneath pale skies:

Hark! spiritless, sad tramp of toiling feet,
Hoarse hawkers, curses, cries -

Through these I hear the song that the sea
sings

To the far meadowlands of Paradise.

O golden-lichened church and red-roofed barn

O long sweet days —

That love which now you more than half
despise ?

If I were lying silent neath the skies
I think that soon you would my name for-
get.

"I know that I am nothing in your life,
Why should an echo come if I were dead ?
At peace, and resting from all earthly strife,
Why should the memory of my words once
said,

Haunt you thus after, were I no more near,
But lying hush'd within my narrow bed?

"Yet it is possible that some chance word,
Spoken by other lips might wake again
The little reck'd of past, in which you
heard

My voice; and told me that my love was
vain.

O changing, unchanged skies, straight You could not stoop unto so low a thing,

O fair marsh land desirable and dear -
How far from you lie my life's weary
ways!

Yet in my darkest night there shines a star
More fair than day;

There is a flower that blossoms sweet and

white

In the sad city way,

That flower blooms not where the wide marshes gleam,

And counted but as dross all I could bring
Ah, death itself can never heal that pain.

"No, even death can give to me no peace,
I was not made as people who forget:
Through life and onwards, I can never

cease

To know that you, who love me not, are

set

Forever in my heart; and I must stand
Within your shadow with an empty hand,
Yet never deem that I can it regret.

That star shines only when the skies are "I am not worthy to be lov'd by you,
grey.

And knowing this must bear the bitter pain

For here fair peace and passionate pleasure Of feeling that my love is unto you

Only an irksome weight. Will it be vain
When we stand face to face on that far

E. NESBIT.

SOME

From The Cornhill Magazine.
UNPUBLISHED LETTERS OF

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

with feelings of gratitude while contemplating the pedantry and affectation which mingled so largely with the

It is interesting to observe that the poetry of his period; those traditional most enthusiastic admirers of Words-artificialities of style wherein sense was worth are to be drawn, for the most so frequently sacrificed to sound — from part, from the ranks of his fellow-poets, all of which Wordsworth, with his earcontemporary and following, rather nest struggle for truth, and his sturdy, than from the ordinary lovers of poetry, uncompromising aim at reality, did so to whom a certain sense of incongruity much towards delivering us. not uncommonly presents itself in the fact of the poet's adopting, as the source of his inspiration, the more common and matter-of-fact side of things mundane. But to hold the mirror to nature as she is was precisely what the poet conceived to be his mission and province. He was the alchemist by whose art baser metal was turned to gold.

It is not, however, the object of the writer of this paper to criticise either the poet or his works, but to transcribe for the benefit of those who may be interested in them some of his unpublished letters. Before me lies a large number, and in turning them over one is impressed by their honest simplicity and directness of purpose; their sincerity and warmth of expression, and the intense solicitude they evince for the well-being of those to whom they are addressed.

A yellow primrose was something more than a yellow primrose to the eye which had the gift of discerning its inner meaning; and in like manner, They also present to one's notice the common joys and sorrows of hu- other characteristics which the reader manity, albeit their pathos might be will be quick to observe. Very noticedisguised by the coarse setting of pov- able, for instance, is the complete erty, or distorted and obscured by the absence of playfulness, or anything narrow limit of human intellect, ap- approaching a sense of fun in any one pealed directly to his heart. He some of the series (there are more than where speaks of the "humbleness, forty), all written to members of the meanness, if you like, of my subject, immediate family circle, and some untogether with the homely mode of treat-der circumstances that would naturally ing it," admitting that from motives of have given rise to a jest, a light word, policy he would often have excluded or a merry turn to a sentence, had that which, for humanity's sake, he the inclination, or, shall we say, the puts into verse and publishes. capacity of the writer tended in any way in that direction.

And, indeed, his whole life is a consistent record of the largest humanita- But, then, who could realize a humorrianism, which, with his sympathy and ous Wordsworth? Search his works fellowship with the world of nature, through and through, and the poem can be unerringly traced in almost every containing the faintest glimmer of huline of his writings. Neither elabora-mor remains yet to be discovered. It tion of ideas, nor embroidery of lan- is as well to note his peculiarity in this is their main characteristic, but respect, because we at once recognize guage on every page shine out the manly, that, had his nature been endowed with gentle soul, and the wide, comprehen- the slightest touch of appreciation for sive grasp by which he drew to himself the ludicrous, we might have been the sympathies and affections of all within his range. A little child's hand, a dog, an insect, a "wee, pale blossom" nothing seems to have been too small or too insignificant.to be the object of his tender regard.

And we cannot but view Wordsworth

spared many a jangling note, many a jarring discord which has clashed with the sweet music we love so well.

One solitary suggestion of“ amusement," as the poet himself puts, it, certainly does occur in the letter first quoted. It refers to some lines. after

.

wards published in the "Sonnets to think it would be applied at once to "Liberty and Order," and with it he your dear aunt. I own I do not see the apparently endeavors to take off the force of this objection, but if you and edge, as it were, of the sad theme Miss Fenwick, and others, should be of touched upon in the earlier half of the the same mind, it shall be suppressed. letter-namely, the mental affliction of It is already sent to the press, but not liis dearly loved sister, Dorothy. as it now stands; if you think it may

so good as to superintend the revise which I shall order the printer to send you; this would save time, for I could not entrust the revise to the printer only.

A defect in the manuscript has oblit-be printed without impropriety, pray be erated part of the poem referring to this subject, but it can be found compete in the published works, together with a comment added by the poet, who, as it appears from the words of the letter, was anxious its origin should not be misunderstood. He says: "The sad condition of poor Mrs. Southey put me upon writing this. It has afforded comfort to many persons whose friends have been similarly affected."

"MY DEAR DORA, - Read the following remodelling of the sonnet I addressed to S. The personalities are omitted, a few lines only retained :— Oh, what a wreck! How changed in mien | and speech!

Yet, though dread Powers that work in mystery, spin

"This is sent for your amusement; it will go by Mr. Fleming to Cambridge for your cousin John, to be printed without my name, if he thinks it worth while, in the

Said Secresy to Cowardice and Fraud,
Falsehood and Treachery, in close council

met

Deep underground in Pluto's cabinet:
"The frost of England's pride will soon be
thawed;

Hooded the open brow that overawed
Our schemes: the faith and honor, never
yet

By us with hope encouutered, be upset.

Entanglings for her brain; though shadows For once I burst my bands, and cry 'Ap

Only illumined by Heaven's pitying love,
Love pitying innocence, not long to last,

In them, in Her, our sins and sorrows past.
"The sonnet, as first sent you and S.
may be kept, if thought worthy, as a
private record; the meaning in the
passage you object to is certainly not
happily brought out; if you think it
better, thus, alter it:

Over the sacred heart compassion's twin,
The heart that once could feel for every

wretch.

plaud!''

They heard, and started up, the Brood of
Night

Clapp'd hands, and shook with glee their
matted locks;

All Powers and Places that abhor the light Joined in the transport, echoed back their shout,

Hurrah! for Grote, hugging his Ballotbox!"

If Dora possessed political tendencies with a leaning towards Conservatism, it

may

be that she was enabled to derive some entertainment from the rather ponderous levity of the above lines. They had reference, of course, to the introduction of the Ballot Bill into the House of Commons, and so help us to an indication as to when the letter was The thought in the sonnet as it now written; for, like most of its companstands has ever been a consolation to ions, it is undated. In the printed verme, almost as far back as I can remem- sion of the lines the word "Grote " is ber, and hope that, thus expressed, it omitted. Possibly, as Mr. Grote was a may prove so to others, makes one wish well-known author in one of the highto-print it; but your mother seems toest walks of literature, as well as a lead

ing politician, the insertion of his name | is well judged, the sound being more was thought to be an indiscretion; in grand and solemn, whatever it may lose 1893, however, we can afford to be less in sweetness, by the want of female particular.

Most of the letters being, as already remarked, undated, it is not easy to arrange them in anything like order. The one given below, however, dates itself by its reference to the work upon which the poet was engaged. The tragedy of "The Borderers" to which he alludes, though written in 1795, was not published till 1842. Wordsworth offers some sort of apology for it, in mentioning certain crudenesses which would not have appeared in it had it been the work of a later period of his life, and remarks also that part of his object in writing it was to preserve in his distinct remembrance what he had observed of transition of character, and the reflections he had been led to make during the time he was a witness of the changes through which the French Revolution passed :

"MY DEAR DAUGHTER, I cannot suffer the morning of my birthday to pass without telling you that my heart is full of you and all that concerns you. "Yesterday was lovely, and this morning is not less so. God grant that we may all have like sunshine in our hearts as long as we remain in this transient world.

"It is about half past nine; two hours hence we go to pay a condoling visit to poor Fanny. Mr. Carter, James and I all attended the funeral on Monday; it was a beautiful afternoon, the light of the declining sun glowing upon Fairfield, as described in 'The Excursion,' at Dawson's funeral. The Psalm sung before raising the coffin from its station before the Door, and afterwards, as the procession moved between the trees was most touching. Mr. Greenwood was there and told me the name (which I forget) of the composer, who lived two hundred years ago. The music was worthy of the occasion and admirably given, the schoolmaster, a very respectable man, leading the four or five voices; upon these occasions the women do not sing, and I think that

tones.

"After the funeral we walked to Mrs. Fletcher's, the place very tempting. They are expected on Saturday.

"I am pretty well, but far from haying recovered the strength which I lost through several sleepless nights, the consequence of over, and ill-timed exertion to get the Volume out before Easter, in which attempt I failed. I am glad you like the tragedy. I was myself surprised to find the interest so kept up in the 4th and 5th acts. Of the third I never doubted, and quite agree with you that Herbert's speech is much the finest thing in the drama; I mean the most moving, or rather, the most in that style of the pathetic which one loves to dwell upon; though I acknowledge it is not so intensely dramatic as some parts of the fifth act especially.

"As to the first, my only fear was that the action was too far advanced in it. I think the scene where the Vagrant tells her false story has great merit; it is thoroughly natural, and yet not commonplace nature.

"Some of the sentiments which the development of Oswald's character required will, I fear, be complained of as too depraved for anything but biographical writing.

"With affectionate remembrances to your husband and the girls, "Ever yours,

" W. W.??

The exquisite lines descriptive of Dawson's funeral service to which he here alludes are to be found in the · Churchyard among the Mountains," one of the portions into which "The Excursion" is divided. They tell of the burial of a peasant youth, to whom his comrades paid a soldier's honors, and as they may not be fresh in the minds of all readers, I cannot refrain from quoting them:

At his funeral hour Bright was the sun, the sky a cloudless blue

A golden lustre slept upon the hills;