Cui lecta potenter erit res

Joined in one solemn and capacious grove;
Huge trunks, and each particular trunk a Nec facundia deseret hunc, nec lucidus ordo.

growth

Of intertwisted fibres serpentine,
Up-coiling and inveterately convolved;
Nor uninformed with Phantasy, and looks
That threaten the profane; a pillared shade
Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue,
By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged
Perennially-beneath whose sable roof
Of boughs, as if for festal purpose decked
With unrejoicing berries-ghostly Shapes
May meet at noontide; Fear and trembling
Hope,

Silence and Foresight; Death the Skeleton,
And Time the Shadow; there to celebrate,
As in a natural temple scattered o'er
With altars undisturbed of mossy stone,
United worship; or in mute repose
To lie and listen to the mountain flood
Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves.

་་

His theory, on the other hand, shows him to have been under the impression that he merely chose to express himself in verse in order to give a certain additional charm to his thought, and that he purposely selected a style of diction approaching as nearly as possible to the manner of prose. And, no doubt, this sufficiently describes his case in his uninspired moments, which are frequent enough. But when the "afflatus "is upon him it turns his genius naturally into ancient traditional channels of expression, and prompts him, like all great poets, to develop metrical movements which certainly did not originate with himself. His use of the ballad form, for instance, was largely due "Ancient to the publication of Percy's Relics;" Bowles had previously revived and popularized the use of the sonnet; Wordsworth's style of writing blank verse is unmistakably his own, but no one can read his lines on "Yew-Trees" without perceiving how greatly he was influenced by Milton, while at other times the example of Cowper seems not to have been

without its effect.

Again, Wordsworth in his theory lays the foundations of poetry in the percep tions of the individual poet. But all his best work is based on universal associa

his which have taken the deepest root in

These lines, read in the light of his theory, seem to me to suggest vividly the source of Wordsworth's greatness and weakness as a poet. His formulated creed was that the imaginative mind, by an act of meditation, can make any subject, however trivial, poetical. But his practice proves that a poet only writes poetically when he is under an overmastering external influence, directing his mind to a subject congenial to his powers. The yew-trees that inspired the above noble verses were certainly not such an object as will be found in every village," nor could any "meditative and feeling mind "tions, and its merit comes from the beauty have given such splendid utterance to the of the form in which a general feeling is emotions they excite. No: the forces that expressed. If one recalls those poems of made Wordsworth a poet were far different from those conscious reasonings on man and society of which he gives an account in "The Prelude:" his inspiration sprang from mysterious sources which, as he shows us in the first book of his curious metrical autobiography, had been un. consciously pouring images into his mind from his earliest childhood. The religious ideas excited by the unseen life of nature, the sublime outlines of mountain and valley, the blending of wood and water, the changes of light and shadow, the spirit-like movements of birds, the simple manners and passions of the peasantry, mingled so suggestively with the historic monuments of the past, these were the romantic fountains at which other poets had drunk in passing, but to which Wordsworth was constantly returning for deep draughts of inspiration.

When he is completely under the direction of his muse he illustrates as happily as any man the truth of Horace's observation,

the national mind, the "Ode on Immor-
the Feast of Brougham Castle;” “The
tality;" "Lucy Gray;" "The Song at
Boy of Windermere; " numerous sonnets,
of which "Westminster Bridge" and "It
is a beauteous evening calm and free" are
types; and such characteristic lines as
The light that never was on sea or land,
The consecration and the poet's dream;

or

Love had he found in huts where poor men
lie;

The silence that is in the starry sky;
His daily teachers had been woods and rills;

The sleep that is among the lonely hills,
one is aware immediately that the poet has
put into the best possible form of musical
words a feeling which had hitherto been
lying chaotically indistinct in the heart.
Wordsworth's genius moved with a large
and expanding power in the midst of a
society accustomed to town life, limited,
refined, highly artificialized, and exclu-

sively occupied with the contemplation of | canons of criticism, which had prevailed its own manners; he extended men's so- through that century, he committed himcial ideas by showing with unsurpassed self in theory, and often in practice, to power what beautiful, pathetic, and sub- principles destructive of art. He held lime associations were connected with the that the sources of poetry lay solely in natural life of their country. Hence, in the mind of the poet himself, and that, so far as he was genuinely a poet, the lib- therefore, the poet's imagination could eralizing influence he exerted on literature elevate any subject so as to make it proper was, in the deepest and truest sense, con- for treatment in metrical language. Pushservative. ing his theory to its logical conclusion, he maintained, moreover, that, as subjects for poetry could be picked up almost at random, there was no essential distinction between the language of poetry and prose; whereas the practice of all classical poetry points to the fact that, there being certain subjects which cannot be so well expressed in prose as in verse, the poetical diction in which these are clothed follows a law and order peculiar to itself.

On the other hand, his solitary habits led him in theory, and often in practice, to principles which, as far as the art of poetry is concerned, may be called thor oughly Jacobinical. Perpetually occupied with the contemplation of his own mind, he forgot that it was said that those who measure themselves by themselves and compare themselves with themselves are not wise. Incessant introspection increased his intellectual arrogance and impaired his judgment. He could not ap preciate the genius of others who had written as well of men and society as he had written of external nature; and when Scott sent him his edition of Dryden, he avows in his letter of acknowledgment that he considers the latter to be no poet. Everything, however, that passed into his own mind appeared to him to become possible material for poetry. He never said to himself, "Tais toi, Jean Jacques, on ne t'entend pas;" but imagined that each experience interesting to himself would be of equal interest to the world. This overweening estimate of his own genius caused him to undervalue tradition, and, as far as he could, to obliterate and level the distinctions which the practice of the best poets had created between the style of poetry and prose.

Of the influence of Wordsworth on contemporary verse I shall hope to say more in a future paper, in which I shall attempt to estimate the prospects of po etry. Meantime it will be sufficient to conclude with expressing my opinion that the doctrine that choice of subject is an unimportant consideration has given an impulse to two contrary movements in the art. On the one hand it has led to a frequent neglect of the laws of poetical form, so that one constantly meets with volumes of verse in which it would seem that the thought might have been much better expressed in prose. On the other hand, it has produced a remarkable reaction. If subject is nothing, form, it is argued, must be everything; and the principle is illustrated in practice by writers possess. ing great gifts of melodious and fluent expression. The consequence is that modes of metrical diction are in fashion, more arbitrarily opposed to the common usage, and indeed to the common sense, of society than even the style of Darwin, which Wordsworth so cordially detested. WILLIAM JOHn Courthope.

Summarized briefly, what I have endeavored to establish in the present and in the preceding papers comes to this. Reason shows that there are certain subjects as incapable of just expression in metrical language as others are by the arts of painting, sculpture, and music. Experience proves that the sources of all great poetry are to be sought far back in the history, traditions, and religion of a people; and the history of English literature further indicates that the stream of na tional creative imagination flows from two main sources, the poetry of romance and AUTHOR OF “OCCUPATIONS OF A RETIRED LIFE,' Wordsworth's the poetry of manners.

great and truly conservative achievement consists in his having given to the poetry of romance, the existence of which during the eighteenth century had come to be almost forgotten, a large and surprising development. But in his hatred of the

From The Sunday Magazine. AT ANY COST.

BY EDWARD GARRETT.

CRUST AND THE CAKE," ETC.

CHAPTER XVII.

NED

IN THE OPENED DOORS.

99.66

THE

THROUGH the day, doctors came and went at Mr. Sandison's summons, but he himself was not visible, and poor Kirsty,

coming down-stairs on divers errands, was Tom Ollison's only source of information. She reported that "Mrs. Allan had had a stroke," and later on, "that it was little likely she would ever be about again," though, they said, "there was no danger for the present."

In the twilight Mr. Sandison came into the parlor, where Tom was seated rather forlornly. He laid his hand on the young man's shoulder, with a strong and yet a half-caressing grasp.

"Come with me," he said; "we will have no more secrets in this house. We will let the fresh air blow through every place, as God means it shall, and as it always must, at last."

The sadness and pain of a lifetime was crystallizing, as in true hearts they always do crystallize, sooner or later, into humor. A good deal of heartbreak goes to the making of epigram. The human mind throws out its sparks, as metals do, beneath hard blows.

He led the way up-stairs. He opened One of those mysterious doors - no longer "But do me justice, Tom," he went on. locked - and went straight into the room. "I never meant to make a dramatic senSeeing that Tom hesitated on the thresh-sation in closing up these rooms. In the old, he turned and said, "Come in, come in.'

What little daylight was still lingering outside found now free access to the apartment, for the white blinds, ashen with age, which had hitherto shut out any obtrusive gaze on the part of inquisitive opposite neighbors, were at last drawn up. The windows themselves, too, had evidently been open for some time, but the gentle breezes of a calm spring day had not yet sufficed wholly to dispel the ancient, stagnant atmosphere, and perhaps it was very well that the fading light was merciful to the dimness and dust of years of neglect. What did Tom see?

first day of my disappointment I locked them up in sheer disheartenment and bitterness, and then I could not bear to face them again, and deferred doing so, and then there seemed no reason why I should, and then it seemed easiest to let them lie as they were, since the rest of the house amply sufficed my needs. I knew that even if they were never opened in my lifetime, they would tell little to those who would come after me. But what a waste it has been! Somebody ought to have made a home out of those rooms all these years. A house which is hindered from producing a home is as great a wrong to humanity as is a field which is kept from producing food."

There was silence. Mr. Sandison resumed:

Tom saw only what, to a heart which has power to understand it, is ever the most tragic sight of any: the signs of a hopeful, cheerful, ordinary life, which has "About that poor soul up-stairs, Tom, been suddenly arrested by some great I need not say anything. She never knew blow, some awful agony. He saw nothing that I was her son till she evidently found but a pretty little apartment, prepared with it out this morning. I was a desolate incare and taste, and full of those touches fant, Tom, as desolate as was poor Fred, which betray a strong human interest. the shopboy. And in mature life I sought There was a stand filled with flower-pots out my mother, for I could not believe in the central window, wherein the dead that she had really intended all that had plants stood like skeletons. There were come upon me. I found her poor and pictures on the walls, beautiful steel en-helpless, but fenced in by strong barriers gravings - there was one of these standing on a chair, with the hanging-cord drawn through its rings, but not yet knotted. This was Landseer's touching presentment of the faithful dog resting its head on its dead master's coffin. Peter Sandison had put it out of his hands, all those years ago, that he might open a letter which was brought to him- a letter whose mercenary falsehood and perfidy had closed those rooms from that day to this, turning the happy home that was to VOL. XLIX. 2499

LIVING AGE.

from the shame and reproach of her old sin. O Tom, I could not bear that my words should fling it back upon her, that my hand should tear down the barriers of credit and respect behind which she had entrenched herself. I thought if I once had her in my house, that during years and years of close acquaintance, there would come some softer moment — - the vaguest expression of some regretful yearning. Ah, Tom!"

The infinite pain in the tone of those

last words was his sole expression of the completeness of his disappointment. Tom said nothing. What was there to be said? The young man's mind went back to poor Grace's early confidences, and to the mingled feelings they had aroused within himself.

"And so I lost God," said Mr. Sandison in a quiet, even voice. As he spoke, Tom looked up at him, and their eyes met. Perhaps there was some question in those of the younger man. "And so I lost God," Mr. Sandison repeated. "I cannot say I ever ceased to believe in him, but I lost him. Does a poor child cease to believe in his father, when he misses him in a crowded street, and takes the wrong turning, and goes wailing along among the strangers who give little notice to him or his trouble?

"And it is wonderful how many lights come out in dark places, when one tries to follow that out. The great doubts and agonies of the human heart cannot be met by anything but the great facts and experiences of human life. You must have noticed that it is only quite lately that I have taken to reading the Gospels, and have left off going over the Proverbs of Solomon, and nothing but the Proverbs, every night, getting through the whole book once every month? I dare say, after what Grace said, you thought I chose that book as being the most practical, or as some people would call it, the worldliest,' in the Bible?"

Tom smiled.

"In a way, I did so," Mr. Sandison conceded. "I knew that you had learned the Scriptures from your youth up, and that nothing in them could be new to you, as mere matter of fact or literature. And I knew, by what I had gone through my. self, that you would presently get interested in all sorts of intellectual problems about the evidence of miracles, about the precise nature of inspiration, about "I had gone rather deeply into theology the puzzle of unfulfilled prophecy, and in my young days," Mr. Sandison went such like difficulties · all

Tom could not help reflecting how it was those who had been "infidel" in the deepest sense, unfaithful to all the claims of dutiful love and service, who had been the readiest, and the harshest, in calling this man "atheist." O poor Grace Allan! O unhappy Mrs. Brander!

My head had asked many questions, without answers to which my intellect would not rest satisfied. But I found that sort of satisfaction would not serve me here. One cannot feed one's heart on abstractions, however logical or poetical. It was a Father and a Friend whom I wanted; a Father whose very face would satisfy me- a Friend who would walk with me and take council with me over every step of my way.'

"These are the longings of all hearts," said Tom gently.

"There seemed no such Father, and no such Friend for me," pursued Mr. Sandison. "And the world I lived in seemed as if it could not have been made and managed by such an one. Tom Ollison, what I am about to say I could say to few, but I think you may understand me. i had lost God; I had lost all reflection of him in the human faces round me perhaps only because I had looked for him most where I was least likely to find him. And then it came into my mind that all I could do, was to try to do my utmost to act as I should like to think God would act if he was living. a man in the world to-day."

"He who willeth to do God's will, he shall know of Christ's teaching," quoted Tom, in an undertone.

"Ay!" said Mr. Sandison fervently.

difficulties which our minds must grapple with, according to the lights of our generation, but on which each new generation generally throws new lights, showing the lights of the generations preceding to have been but darkness. I wanted your faith to find instinctively a wider basis, so that fluctuating opinions on any subject might disturb it no more than the rooted tree is disturbed by the summer breeze which lightly stirs its branches. I wanted to bring home to you, that divine wisdom has a strong and sure hand in the conduct of this present life, for that is our best reason for trusting it to lead us through the mists and up the heights. The prophecies of the Proverbs are not unfulfilled; for we see them worked out in weal or woe in our own lives, and in every life within our range."

"I have felt as you do, sir," said Tom, "that the most satisfactory answers of the intellect are no help to the doubts of the heart. But I don't think I could have got help while standing apart, as you seemed to stand, sir."

"Ah!" cried Mr. Sandison, "there it is! There are some who seem only able to find God by going out into the wilderness; and we may notice that these hermits were generally men of peculiar history and of peculiar character. Nor do I suppose they themselves ever dreamed that their

tuted a white counterpane, which she had found in the linen closet to which she had been given free access; and over the foot of the couch she had thrown, for added warmth, a coarse scarlet blanket.

recluse habits had any of the special sanctity which those who admired their final goodness were too ready to attach to them. Those habits were simply a terrible need to those men -an heroic cure for greater loss and evil; and their stories "If the poor thing can't speak and can't show us that this cure worked by way of hear," said Kirsty, speaking audibly as healing them enough to make them sus- she went about the room, "then there's ceptible to some gentle touch which led the more occasion she should see what's them gradually back to as much human pleasant. And there's the master to confellowship as it was possible for them to sider, too. And this is the master's mothbear." He paused. 'Tom,” he said pres-er, it seems, and there's been terrible ently, "you don't know how much good trouble of some sort. The world's full of you did me when you didn't shun me be- trouble, and there's always somebody's cause of the report you heard. And again, wickedness at the bottom of it. I think when I found that your faithfulness to the master will let me stay and nurse the your father's friend could outweigh the poor old lady. This house is just a heaven charms of the pleasant life at Stockley. to me. And again, by sundry true words you spoke on sundry occasions. Tom, as I looked into your frank young face, I caught again a reflection of the countenance of the divine Father and Friend." Mr. Sandison said this in a slow, dry tone, as if the utterance were difficult. Strong emotion scarcely dares to filter itself through speech, lest speech give way before it.

Tom understood him far too well to breathe a single word. They sat in silence for a long time till the twilight faded into darkness, and there was nothing but the dull glimmer of a street lamp to dimly reveal the outline of their figures and of the furniture.

Mr. Sandison was the first to break the spell. He rose up, saying cheerfully, Well, the house is open now. Let God's breeze blow through it, and God's sunshine brighten it, and let us watch patiently to see what living seeds they will bear into it, and bring to blossom within it."

He was speaking half of the closed-up and desolate rooms, and half of his own closed-up, desolate heart, of which they had been but the result and the type.

That night, before Mr. Sandison went to rest, he stole up to the room where the aged woman lay, in her strange life-indeath.

Grace's room had always been comfortable. Peter Sandison had seen to that from the first. But poor Kirsty's zealous efforts had done much for it during her day's attendance. A liberal fire was glow. ing on the hearth, for the spring nights were still chilly. Kirsty had got the shop boy to bring her in some spring flowers crocuses and daffodils, and these stood in a brown pot on a little table beside the bed. From the bed itself Kirsty had removed the drab coverlid and had substi

Oh! what a fool I was to think nothing was so good as pleasure and finery; and what a price I've paid for my folly! I wonder if I'll ever want to be bad again? I'm feared I should, if I was in sight o' folks like the Branders, so I suppose that shows I've not really learned a bit of wisdom yet-except it may be that I'd have sense to keep out of the way of such like. How different it might have been if I'd gone to that watchmaker's quiet house in Edinburgh! And what's to become of poor Hannah? When the master said that if I'd stay and do the nursing he'd get somebody for the house. work I could not help thinking of her, but I daren't mention her, for she can't be trusted to keep from the drink for two hours together."

When Kirsty saw the master coming into the room, she rose from her low seat by the fire, and passed quietly out.

Mr. Sandison carried in one hand the big Bible, which he had brought up from the dining-room. In the other hand he had an inkstand, and behind his ear there was a pen. He laid the book on the table beside the invalid. He did not look at her as he did so. She gave a deep groan.

He opened the volume, turning to the fly-leaves, between whose severed pages lay the few old papers which that morning had wrought such havoc in a lifetime's hypocrisy. He took them up, one by one, still not looking towards the bed. He turned away and went towards the fire, taking the seat which Kirsty had vacated. He knew that Grace could see every movement. One by one, in no haste, but with gentlest deliberation, he put those papers on the blazing fire. It swiftly caught them up and consumed them utterly.

Then he rose, and went back to the open Bible lying on the table. He took