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to see what significance can be elicited from the picture by an expositor imbued with the painter's own spirit, by consulting De Quincey's acute analysis of the "hieroglyphic" of the passage. A volume, he justly says, might be filled (would that he had the filling of it! none so competent) with such glimpses of novelty as Wordsworth has first laid bare, even to the apprehension of the senses; while, for the understanding, when moving in the same track of human sensibilities, he has only done not so much. "But the great distinction of Wordsworth, and the pledge of his increasing popularity, is the extent of his sympathy with what is really permanent in human feelings, and also the depth of his sympathy."

On man, on nature, and on human life,
Musing in solitude, he oft perceived
Fair trains of imagery before him rise,
Accompanied by feelings of delight
Pure, or with no unpleasing sadness mixed;
And he was conscious of affecting thoughts
And dear remembrances, whose presence soothes
Or elevates the mind, content to weigh
The good and evil of our mortal state.
-To these emotions, whencesoe'er they come,
Whether from breath of outward circumstance,
Or from the soul-an impulse to herself—
He would give utterance in numerous verse.

Towards Wordsworth, as our great Moral Poet, it well becomes us to use, as Wilson taught and practised, not the language merely of admiration, but of reverence of love and gratitude due to a benefactor of humanity, who has purified its passions by loftiest thoughts and noblest sentiments, stilling their turbulence by the same processes that magnify their power, and showing how the soul, in ebb and flow, and when its tide is at full, may be at once as strong and as serene as the sea. And we shall close these notes on a note-worthiest man by citing lines to his praise, in this his character of great Moral Poet, from the poems of three note-worthy disciples. Richard Chenevix Trench, the present Dean of Westminster, hails in Wordsworth

A counsellor well fitted to advise
In daily life, and at whose lips no less
Men may inquire or nations, when distress
Of sudden doubtful danger may arise,
Who, though his head be hidden in the skies,
Plants his firm foot upon our common earth,
Dealing with thoughts which everywhere have birth,-
This is the poet, true of heart and wise:

No dweller in a baseless world of dream,

Which is not earth nor heaven: his words have past
Into man's common thought and week-day phrase;
This is the poet, and his verse will last.

A second to bear witness shall be the husband of Dora Wordsworth, and loyal votary of her father's muse:

The Excursion.

See Professor Wilson's review of the "Yarrow Revisited," &c. (1835.)
R. C. Trench's Poems: Sonnets.

Him, the High Druid of the oak-clad fells
And aqueous vales of our romantic North,
The breasts of thousands, yea of millions, own
To be the Seer whose power hath o'er them most
A sway like that of conscience. One whose keen
Mysterious eye peruses minds aright
Ev'n in their shyest depths, and best rebukes
The workings of that intricate machine

For evil, most accelerates the springs
That are the pulses of ingenuous deeds.*

And the third shall be the already honoured son of a long and widely and deeply honoured sire-giving expression to Memorial Verses on the occasion of Wordsworth's death (April, 1850):

Ah, since dark days still bring to light
Man's prudence and man's fiery might,
Time may restore us in his course
Goethe's sage mind and Byron's force:
But where will Europe's latter hour
Again find Wordsworth's healing power?
Others will teach us how to dare,
And against fear our breasts to steel:
Others will strengthen us to bear—
But who, ah who, will make us feel?
The cloud of mortal destiny,
Others will front it fearlessly—
But who, like him, will put it by?

Keep fresh the grass upon his grave,
O Rotha! with thy living wave.
Sing him thy best! for few or none
Hear thy voice right, now he is gone.†

* Quillinan's Poems.

Poems by Matthew Arnold. Second Series.

The closing lines, on Wordsworth's grave, remind us of a touching Sonnet, simple and sweet, by another "Lakist," David Holt, written in Grasmere Churchyard-concerning which spot, it has been well asked, Could there be a meeter resting-place for the Apostle of Nature?-could all the dusty grandeur of Westminster compensate for the daisy that rises from his heart, or the golden celandines that cluster on the turf and shelter the lingering dewdrops from the sun?

"Oh, better far than richly sculptured tomb,

Oh, fitter far than monumental pile

Of storied marble in cathedral aisle,

Is this low grassy grave, bright with the bloom

Of Nature, and laid open to the smile

Of the blue heaven,-this stone that tells to whom
The spot is dedicate, who rests beneath

In this God's acre, this fair field of death.

Oh, meet it is, great bard, that in the breast

Of this sweet vale, and 'neath the guardian hills,
By thee so loved, thy venerated dust
Should lie in peace; and it is meet and just
That evermore around thy place of rest
Should rise the murmur of a thousand rills."

î In




In a certain quiet street of London, chiefly if not entirely filled by lawyers and their offices, there flourished some years ago the eminent firm of Lyvett, Castlerosse, and Lyvett. An extensive practice had they; and some other firms in the street would watch with an envious eye the shoals of letters and deeds delivered there by the morning postman, wishing only a tenth would come to them. The partners bore the character of honourable men; and certainly, for lawyers, they were tolerably clean-fingered. The three floors in the house were consecrated to business. The ground-floor was chiefly appropriated to clerks; on the first floor were the private and consulting rooms of the partners, and on the next story were clerks again. This left free the kitchens, which were under ground, and the attics in the roof, in which apartments dwelt a man of the name of May, his wife, and daughter. May was the trusty porter or messenger of the firm, took care of the house on Sundays and at nights, and was much esteemed by his employers as an honest, respectable servant. Mrs. May cleaned the offices, made the fires, and scoured the stairs; and Miss May, a damsel rising ten, put her ringlets in paper, and read the trash disseminated by certain popular weekly publications. She was being brought up-well, we shall see how.

One night in winter a clerk remained beyond the usual hour. He was just articled, had copied a deed carelessly and imperfectly, and so was ordered to remain over-hours and copy it again. A strict disciplinarian was Mr. Rowley, the overlooking clerk of Lyvett, Castlerosse, and Lyvett. The porter was out, and Mrs. and Miss May were in the kitchen, the former washing up the tea-things, the latter seated on a low chair, and devouring, by the blaze of the fire, the fresh number of "E. Caterpillar's Penny Weekly Repository of Romance;" E. Caterpillar being a popular writer with the million.

"Anything new there, Sophiar ?" asked the mother.


"Law, ma! yes: such a splendid tale! The Knight of the Blood red Hand.' It begins beautiful.”

"You'll try your eyes, reading by firelight, Sophiar. Come to the candle."

"I wish you wouldn't make a fuss," was Miss Sophia's answer.

"You'll not read long, I can tell you. As soon as ever I have finished these tea-things, I'm a going to clear the pianer, and you'll come and practise."

The young lady gave a jerk with her shoulders, and a kick with her feet, both of which movements might be taken as emblematic of rebellion. But Mrs. May was as good as her word, cleared the square piano, which appeared laden with miscellaneous articles of culinary utility, not generally found in association with pianos, opened it, and put one of the April-VOL. CIX. NO. CCCCXXXVI.

2 D

wooden chairs before it. Miss Sophia, however, declined to disturb herself.

"What was the good of your father a buying of the hinstrument, and what's the good of your having a genus for music, if you don't practise ?” demanded Mrs. May. "Come, miss, no shuffling. And you have not looked at your book-lessons yet."

"Ma, how you do bother!"

"Come this minute, I say, or I'll put you to bed; and give them stupid romances to me,” added Mrs. May, whisking the leaves out of the child's hand.

"You don't call them stupid when you read them yourself; and you don't like to be disturbed at them, though you disturb me," raved the child, in a voice between screaming and sobbing. "The other night, when father kept asking for his supper, you were in the thick of the Blighted Rose,' and you wouldn't stir from it, and he had to get out the bread and cheese himself, and fetch the beer!"

"Never you mind that, miss. You come to the pianer as I bid you. It's not your place to reflect on me."

Sophia, finding resistance useless, flung some books on the chair, to make it higher, and flung herself atop of them, dashing into what she called "the scales" and her mother "the jingles." Mrs. May drew a chair before the fire, placed her feet on the iron fender, snuffed the candle on the table behind her, and opened the publication she had taken from her daughter. Before, however, she was fairly immersed in its beauties, or the jingles had come to an end, a tremendous noise overhead caused them both to start.

"Sakes alive!" uttered Mrs. May, a favourite exclamation of hers, 66 what's that?"

A somewhat prolonged noise, as of a stool or chair being moved violently about, was now heard.

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"Mother! suppose it should be an apparition!"

"Suppose it should be a robber, come in to kill us, or to steal the law papers!" was the more practical remark of Mrs. May. "I daren't go and see."

"I'll go and see," answered Sophia. "I'm not afraid of robbers." She took the candle from the table, hurried fearlessly up-stairs, and knocked at the front office on the ground-floor.

Mr. Jones, the young clerk, not being used to solitary evening employment, had nodded over his work, fallen down with the stool, and then picked himself and his stool irascibly up again, inflicting on the latter sundry bumps on the floor, by way of revenge. "Come in!" he called out, in answer to Sophia's knock; and very much astonished he looked when the knocker presented herself. A blue-eyed, pretty child, with flaxen hair that curled on her shoulders. Dressed well, she would have been an elegant child, but, dressed as she was, in all the colours of the rainbow, flaunty, dirty, and with a profusion of glass beads glittering about her as necklace and bracelets, she looked like a little itinerant actress at a country fair.

"Why! who and what are you?" demanded the young gentleman. "If you please, we did not know anybody was left, and when the

noise came, we thought it was a robber got in, so I came to see, was afraid."

"Who on earth's 'ma?" he repeated, unable to take his eyes off her. My ma. Down stairs." "Do you live here?"


but ma

"Yes," said she, drawing herself up.

"I am Miss May."

"Oh, indeed!" returned the young gentleman. "Was not that a piano tinkling? It was the sound of that startled me up, and sent the stool off its legs. The first time I ever heard of a piano in a lawyer's


"It's mine. Father bought it for me." "Yours! Where d'ye keep it ?"

"In the kitchen," answered the child. "We moved the dresser out into the back place where the copper is, to make room for it. It's opposite the windows, and I practise at night when I come home from school."

“Well, this is a rum go!" muttered Mr. Jones to himself. many brothers and sisters have you, child?"

"Why don't you give us a serenade in the daytime?" he demanded, delighted at the amusement which appeared to be striking up. "We might get up a waltz when the governors are out."

Miss May shook her head. "Father says it must never be opened till everybody's gone; the gentlemen would not like it. So ma keeps dishes and things atop of it in the daytime, for fear I should forget and unlock it, when I'm at home at twelve o'clock."


"I have not got any of either. And that's why ma says she can afford to spend more upon me. I'm to be a lady when I grow up."

"Thank you, my dear, for the information. You look like one. I should say you might be taken for an Arabian-Night princess: only you are too pretty."

The girl took the compliment for earnest. She bridled her head, and her unoccupied hand stole up to twirl round the ends of her ringlets. In the endowment of vanity, Nature has been prodigal to many of us, but she had been remarkably so to Sophia May.

"Sophiar!" called out a voice from the lower regions. "Sophiar!

What is it?"

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"Who is that?" quickly asked Mr. Jones.

"That's ma.

"" She

"Sophiar, I say! Who are you talking to? Who is there?" repeated the voice.

"Ma," answered the child, putting her head out at the door to speak, "it's one of the gentlemen not gone.'

Up raced Mrs. May, and the young man recognised her as the lady he had seen on her hands and knees, cleaning the front door-step the first morning he came, when he had misunderstood the clerks' time, and had arrived an hour too early.

"Bless me, sir! I should not have took upon myself to send Sophiar in here, but we thought everybody was gone, and was alarmed at the noise. Sophiar, miss, when you saw it was all right, why didn't you come away again directly?"

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