in happy combination with nature's loveliness. The purity-the domestic purity we may call it-of Wordsworth's descriptions of woman, entitle him to all the favourable regard with which he is contemplated by the womanly intellect of his country. We do not seek to disparage the passionate strains in which Burns, Moore, and Byron have sung their devoted admiration, yet who would not rather have his daughter or sister praised in such lines as the following, than in any that Burns, Moore, or Byron ever wrote ?

"I saw her upon nearer view,

A spirit, yet a woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records; promises as sweet;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles.

The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength and skill;
A perfect woman nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a spirit still, and bright
With something of angelic light."

But this is a digression. Wordsworth tells us that the degradation of

his taste into critical examination of mere outward forms, was transient :

"I shook the habit off Entirely and for ever, and again In nature's presence stood, as now I stand, A sensitive being, a creative soul."

His sympathy with nature was completely restored, but either from never having quite shaken off the disappointment regarding human progress, which the course of events in the French Revolution had occasioned, or because in his mountain retirement he looked with a more severe judgment upon men, than those in closer intercourse with the busy world are wont to do, he certainly never did largely sympa. thise with other thinkers of his own time, and still less with other writers. Perhaps the more accurate way of stating the truth is to say, that he did form a judgment, while men who live in the world do not take the trouble to do so, but go with the set to which they happen to belong; saying every day flattering things which they do not think, either from a mere habit of

saying them, or from a belief that the manners of the world render it necessary or becoming so to do. It is very true that a man in comparative solitude may permit to himself the habit of being too coldly critical, but it is no less true that literary men of the world are apt to be but too tolerant of successful genius, no matter what evil things may be associated with it. One can scarcely imagine a more marked contrast than that which subsisted between Scott and Wordsworth in this respect. Scott's good nature, and his toleration of ability and good intention, were boundless. He did not think literature of such importance, but that irregularities in it of almost any kind might be pardoned. Wordsworth had higher views of the importance of literature, and could not bear what seemed to him to degrade so high a calling as that of the literary man. He was, therefore, most undoubtedly, far less "liberal" than Scott, and he was also, in this respect, less agreeable to the many; but it is not to be inferred from thence that he was less just, or that he less worthily supported the dignity of literature. Upon this question, however, most persons will form their judgment according to their own temperament, and perhaps according

to their own success in life. Wordsworth might have been a much more distinguished man in society, and a more successful man in the worldthat is, a richer man, and of more consideration and influence in London, if he had not had a pride of judgment and of feeling, which kept him aloof from such things. Of all men of his time he most cultivated imaginative literature for its own sake, and least for the sake of popularity and money. In literature he was difficult to please, and sparing of praise. Unlike other men, he was often impatient even of praise himself, for it frequently was based upon grounds which he thought erroneous or contemptible. One extract more, however, that he may himself describe what he was:——

"I had been taught to reverence a Power
That is, the visible quality and shape
And image of right reason; that matures
Her processes by steadfast laws; gives birth
To no impatient or fallacious hopes,
No heat of passion or excessive zeal,
No vain conceits; provokes to no quick turns
Of self-applauding intellect, but trains
To meekness, and exalts by humble faith;

Holds up before the mind, intoxicate
With present objects and the busy dance
Of things that pass away, a temperate
shew

Of objects that endure; and by this course
Disposes her, when over fondly set
On throwing off incumbrances, to seek
In man, and in the frame of social life,
Whate'er there is desirable and good

Of kindred permanence, unchanged in form
And function, or, through strict vicissitude
Of life and death revolving. Above all
Were re-established now those watchful
thoughts,

Which, seeing little worthy or sublime
In what the historian's pen so much delights
To blazon-power and energy detached
From moral purpose-early tutored me
To look with feelings of fraternal love
Upon the unassuming things that hold
A silent station in this beauteous world."

The attentive reader of the last eight lines will plainly discover the secret of Wordsworth's cold appreciation of ordinary literature, and his slight sympathy with literary men in general. He looked for something worthy or sublime he looked for a moral purpose, as well as that power and energy which

are the grand characteristics of genius. Need we say that of this he found little.

Upon the whole, the book before us, though often obscure, abounds with instruction and with elevated poetry. We have extracted much, and yet we feel reluctant to forbear culling more flowers from so splendid a garden. When we turn over the book, we are struck more and more with passages which seem to come like streams of light upon the mountain-tops, and to reveal beautiful heights of the mind of man, which, without the aid of this great poet, we had never been able to see. We have by no means extracted the finest passages of the book, being anxious rather to give, as far as our limits would permit, a notion of its general plan, and its general merits, than to cull the most striking passages of the poem. Though the work affords plenty of occasion for critical fault-finding, we yet feel satisfied that, such as it is, it will elevate even the fame of Wordsworth. Greater praise than this we cannot bestow.

Ir was on a raw evening in December, 183, just after dusk, that a wildlooking, haggard man entered a little hovel near the side of a by-road between Hollywood and Escar, in the Queen's County.

"Well, what have you got?" cried a shrill voice from the interior of the hut, which proceeded from a woman crouching over a turf fire, burning dimly, from the damp of the material placed on it.

"Ye got nothing?" she asked again, not having received an answer to her former query.

"Nothing!" was the sullen rejoinder, as the man, approaching the fire, drew a broken stool to him and sat down amongst the ashes; on one side of him the female half sitting, half lying against the corner of the recess in which was the fire, her covering being a thin, torn blanket on her shoulders, and a ragged black petticoat about her loins. Opposite to her were two little children, from about three to five years, the younger

altogether naked; the other with a ragged piece of linen hanging about it; both crouched over the burning turf, looking up to the man with their dark, inquiring eyes.

After a short silence, the woman again addressed her husband, for such was the relation of the parties

"An' did ye get no work?"
"The sorra bit."

"Was'nt Mr. Rawson at home?"
"He was."

"Well?"

The man made no answer but asked"Where's the ould pot?"

The woman sprung to her feet, and brought over an old pot, with a triangular piece broken out of the side.

"Well, honey," she said, in a soothing voice.

The man put his hand in his pocket and drew out a dead fowl, with the neck twisted. The children uttered a cry of delight.

"Here, Pather," said the woman, "go an' wash the pot, and bring some

And she busied herself in cutting up the turnips, and put them and the fowl, unplucked, on the fire, when the boy brought in the pot.

"Tell us, Pather, agra, how did ye get it?" she said, putting on more turf, and again cowering over the fire.

"Let me alone," he said, harshly; ye have it-there; isn't that enough for ye?"

"Had Rawson no work," she continued, changing the subject.

"No he hadn't; yet he tuk in the two Byrnes last week. He gave me a penny, and tould me to go to the poor-house," he added, with a scornful laugh.

"Give us the penny," she whined, coaxingly; "it'll do for male in the mornin'."

He looked at her for a moment. "It's not worth givin' or houldin'," he said, as he threw it to her.

A noise was heard outside the door.

"Here's the childre," she said. "Let none of yez say what's in the pot."

A little girl entered, hardly better dressed than those before described: a ragged cotton frock, with a dirty handkerchief round her, was her only covering; her age might be eight or twelve; from the emaciated state of her face_ unnaturally pale from the glare of a dim rush-light it was not easy to form an exact idea. Her eyes were blue, her hair light-that colour which deepens to a pretty brown in womanhood.

"Well, Grace, is that you?" said her father-the first uncalled words he had yet spoken.

"Yis, father dear, it's me. Ah, bud it's cowld," she continued, getting between the little ones at the fire.

"Did ye bring nothin' wid ye," cried her mother, sharply.

"It's down the road," she said; "the sack was big, an' I got tired, so I left it in the ditch, as I seen the light in the house, an' knew father was here, an' he'd go back and bring it in."

"That I will, alannah," replied the man, rising. "Whereabouts is it?"

"Just at the ould mile-stone, this side of the bridge, down in the ditch."

It was speedily brought, and the contents emptied on the floor. Potatoes and skins of the same, the inside wanting though, turnips, cabbage, bones, meal, and rags tumbled out.

"Haith, Grace, you're a wondher entirely," said her mother, in a tone of commendation.

"Ye've a good dale, Grace, darlint," said her father, half mournfully.

"An' didn't stale a ha'porth there," cried the little girl.

"Ye didn't stale it; an' how did ye get all this?-ye bought them, maybe?" asked her mother, with a sneer.

"No, mother; I went to a big house a long ways off, an' the masther seen me first, an' he brought me in to give me a bit in the kitchen; and thin the misthress gave me the ould duds, an' the servants the rest; an'-—”

“An' what?" said her mother, seeing her hesitate.

"An' the little one gev me this"showing a sixpence as she spoke.

The mother snatched it from her. "Arrah, Grace, bud yer a rale darlint the day."

Her father drew her towards him, and kissed her.

"Ye stole nothin' the day, thin, alannah machree ?" he asked.

The girl did not answer; she fixed her large eyes on her father, as if she sought silently to tell him something. The mother turned round

"Answer yer father, will ye?-have ye nothin' more ?"

The girl drew out of her bosom a handsome cap, all crumpled. "I stole this," she said.

The mother attempted to take it also. "I got it as I was goin' up to the big house, on the hedge near the avenue, an' it belongs to thim, an' I am goin' to lave it back to-morrow," said the girl, eagerly.

"Lave it back, indeed!" cried her mother, standing up, and taking it from her. "A bran new cap, I declare!-the lady's, I'm sure!-lace an' fine ribbon!-lave it back? 'Haith yer no sich fool."

Ah, mother!" pleaded the little girl, "they're good people-ye wouldn't stale from thim yerself; sure they gave me all thim; and there was a poor ould man wint up after me, an' maybe they'll think it's him that took it."

"An' let thim-who cares?" answered her mother, still examining the cap. "Ah, mother, darlin'! give it to me, an' I'll bring you somethin' as good; let me give it back to the lady."

"Divil a fut ye'll go wid it, there." "Ye may as well give the child the cap," said the husband.

"Is it to have me 'rested, and put in gaol, ye want, Pather? Arrab, man, are ye a fool, at all, at all ?"

This silenced him; but the child still importuned for the cap.

"Go along wid ye," said her mother, striking her; "go an' blow the fire, till we ate our supper."

The girl whimpered, and proceeded

to her task.

Soon after a lad of thirteen or fourteen came in, with a sack on his back, which he threw on the floor as he caine in.

"Well, Mick, acushla, yer welcome. What have ye to-night?"

"Faix ye have a bit o' mate, an' some piaties and cabbage from ould Worrell's garden."

"An' the mate, Mick, honey, how did ye get it ?"

"Oh, give me my supper first, an' thin I'll tell you."

The pot was boiled by this time, or sufficiently so for them, and they took out the fowl, pulled off the feathers, and divided it between the father and mother, and the boy last named, giving a little bit to the girl, which the father added to from his share. The mother gave the little things some turnips, and told them to roast some potatoes for themselves in the ashes.

"Where's Ned, I wondher?" asked the father.

"Bad luck to him," said the mother, "he's always last, and nivir has a ha'porth; and when he does get anything, it's into throuble he brings us for it."

"He's so small," urged the girl. "Arrah don't be talkin'; aint he as big as you?" said the mother, angrily. The object of the conversation here appeared at the door-a little child of seven or eight years, with only a ragged pair of trowsers and an old shirt on him.

He stood shivering at the door, with a little bag in his hand, empty; one would think he had heard what they said.

"Come in, Ned," said his sister, who first saw him,

"Well," said his mother, savagely, "where's what you got? where's your bag?"

"I couldn't get anything all day?” he whimpered.

"Ye dirty vagabone!" cried his mother, starting up, and cuffing him on the head and ears, "is this the way yer to go on always? Ye'd rather be fed here for nothin,' and do nothing for yerself; night after night the old story -the empty bag, an' I couldn't get anything.' Were ye at Worrell's?" she asked, fiercely.

"I was," he sobbed.

"An' ye could get nothin'?" she again asked. "Will ye answer, ye blackguard?" she continued, as the boy cried on.

"We nivir take there," he sobbed again.

"We!" she repeated after him, "an' who's we, ye omedhaun? Have I nivir tould you not? And why don't you take there?" she continued, mimicking him.

66

"Because," said he again, still sobbing, they give us our dinner." "And who's us?" "Grace an' me."

"Come, my man, none of yer nice humbug; out wid ye, and don't dar' come in here without yer share. Come, be off."

"Ah, mother!" cried Grace, springing up, "don't ax him to go to-nightit's could, an' wet-don't ax himsure he's small."

"Lave me alone," she cried, her anger rousing her—" he must go. I'll tache him to come in again this way. Out, ye cur!"

"Let him ate a bit first, thin, mother jewel."

"Divil a taste, till he brings his bit. Come, out wid ye!" she shout

ed.

66

Arrah, Katty, can't ye let the child alone," said her husband.

"Hould yer tongue, and ate yer supper," said she; and don't crass me, I'd advise ye."

The poor child still lingered at the door-the mother rushed at him, and he disappeared.

"I'll go wid him," cried Grace, about to follow.

"Will ye?" said her mother, giving her a slap; "go sit down, an' don't stir again widout my lave."

The poor little girl sat down in the chimney-nook, sobbing bitterly.

"Sure we had enough widout his share," said the father.

"Much ye know," answered his wife. Is that the way ye'd have me bring up the childre, in idleness-walkin' about all day, an' nothin' home at night. I'll tache them, I'll engage."

They finished their meal, and lay down on some straw, covering themselves with their clothes and rags of blankets. They all huddled together the children at their parents' feet. They slept; Grace was still awake-still crying within herself. She got up softly, and looked out: dark as pitch and no sign of her little brother! She crouched over the remains of the fire, and every few moments went to the door and looked out. Still the absent one came not. Grace looked at the wet turf, smouldering by degrees to ashes; the half-burned sod, growing smaller and smaller, crumbling away-a little red here and there, just showing how it went; at last 'twas out, and then a heap of ashes in its place-now warm, less warm, cold, and colder till at last as cold as the clay floor it rested on. So Grace watched; and in her grief forgot to keep alive the embers she had raked up from the ashes; each one burned slowly away and disappeared; and so she watched, and, watching, slept.

She dreamt. She thought her little brother came in, his little bag empty still, but all wet and black; the water running from his hair, and down his cheeks, and neck and little shirt-all wet; and still he looked at her and smiled. She wandered in her dream: and his darling blue eyes looked into her's, so happily, as they used to do long ago; she wished to speak, but could not; and still he looked at her so pleasantly; she tried to get up and go to him, and awoke crying.

He was not there; but the first dawn of day streamed through the little window. She put her hand where the fire had been-all heat gone-the ashes cold as stone. She was very cold herself. She looked out again for Ned-no sign yet. He'll soon come now," she thought; the day-light still came

on; the stars one by one were lost. She went back to the house-all slept still; her mother, roused up by the draught from the open door, muttered to her to shut it, and slept again. Grace closed the door, and going to the little broken window-hole, still watched. Still the day dawns, brighter and brighter still. Two men are coming down the road-they walk rather slowly-they are carrying a sack between them; they get over the ditch, into the bog opposite the hovel; one of them is young Worrell, and the other his servant-boy.

"It's not a sack they have 'tis a boy!-it must be Ned."

Grace rushed out; a few bounds brought her to the men-it was Ned. Oh there was a scream, a long, long scream, and then another; and then the pent-up anguish of her soul found vent in tears. It was Ned, poor little Ned! The men laid him down-he was wet and dirty-his eyes shut-his face wet, and pale, and cold. Poor little boy-he was quite dead. And the little girl knelt by his side, and held his moist hand so cold, and kissed the dirt from his lips, and called for Ned, "her brother, alannah machree!" "her brother jewel!" "her darling!" but Ned awakened not; and the men stood by and wiped the corner of their eyes with their coat-sleeves.

The father had come out and the eldest boy; the former ran up and looked at the corpse-he said nothing; he raised it in his arms and bore it to the house; his wife still lay asleep; he laid the body on the floor.

"Get up!" he said to her, shaking her arm.

"Let me alone, will yez ?" she cried, half asleep.

"Get up!" he said, sternly, taking her in his arms, and putting her in a sitting posture.

"Arrah bad luck" She stopped, her eyes opened. There was the corpse at her feet, and the circle round it in silence. She burst into a loud cry, rocking herself to and fro.

"We found him in a bog hole near our house," said young Worrell as he went away.

THERE they were: the father with his arms folded, leaning against the wall, near the fire place, looking with a stare

of vacancy on the face of his dead child; the mother still sitting on the bed, whining, and rocking herself, with