his scholarship was respectable, but not remarkable, he felt of course the fire darting words of Homer, the graceful flow of Virgil, the moral grandeur of Eschylus and Sophocles, and the philosophic grace and ease of Horace, but he had no acquaintance with the stream of the world's Literature; and modern books, excepting books of travel, it would seem he was all but entirely ignorant of. He seems to have stood affected by even the evanescence of books, as compared with what, by a bold figure of speech, may almost be called the eternity of Nature. He felt her power, untouched by change that he could observe, or that man could record. She sufficed for him, and in her presence he felt a higher repose and consolation. Thus in illustration of our author's regardlessness of books, we have the following almost curious extracts: both from letters to Archdeacon Wrangham. "You astonish me with the account of your books; and I should have been still more astonished if you had told me you had read a third (shall I say a tenth part ?) of them. My reading powers were never very good, and now they are much diminished, especially by candle light; and as to buying books, I can affirm that in new books I have not spent five shillings for the last five years, i.e. in Reviews, Magazines, Pamphlets, &c. &c.; so that there would be an end of Mr. Longman, and Mr. Cadell, &c. &c., if nobody had more power, or inclination to buy than myself. And as to old books, my dealings in that way, for want of means, have been very trifling. Nevertheless, small and paltry as my collection is, I have not read a fifth part of it. I should, however, like to see your army, 'Such forces met not, nor so wide a camp, When Agrican, with all his northern powers, Not that I accuse you of romancing; I verily believe that you have all the books you speak of. Dear Wrangham, are you and I ever like to meet in this world again? Yours is a corner of the earth; mine is not so. I never heard of any body going to Bridlington; but all the world comes to the lakes." Again, we have in the same year, 1819, a similar confession. "I have so much to do with writing, in the way of labour and profession, that it is difficult to me to conceive how anybody can take up a pen but from constraint. My writing-desk is to me a place of punishment; and, as my penmanship sufficiently testifies, I always bend over it with some degree of impatience. As to my occupations, they look little at the present age; but I live in hope of leaving something behind me that by some minds may be valued. "I see no new books except by the merest accident. Of course your Poem, which I should have been pleased to read, has not found its way to me. You inquire about old books: you might almost as well have asked for my teeth as for any of mine. The only modern books that I read are those of Travels, or such as relate to matters of fact; and the only modern books that I care for; but as to old ones, I am like yourself-scarcely anything comes amiss to me. The little time I have to spare-the very little, I may say-all goes that way. If, however, in the line of your profession you want any bulky old Commentaries on the Scriptures (such as not twelve strong men of these degenerate days will venture -I do not say to read, but to lift,) I can, perhaps, as a special favour, accommodate you." Yet he of course had faith in the power of Great Books, though he no doubt knew that nature was the greatest of all, furnishing from her stores the hard fact of Mathematics and the beautiful dream of Poetry. We have not anywhere a more remarkable painting of Fact and Fancy in the book of life then in the following Romance of the Stone and the Shell. "Once in the stillness of a summer's noon, While I was scated in a rocky cave By the sea-side, perusing, so it chanced, Beset me, and to height unusual rose, While listlessly I sate, and, having closed The book, had turned my eyes toward the wide sea. On Poetry and Geometric truth, And their high privilege of lasting life, I mused; upon these chiefly; and at length, Sleep seized me, and I passed into a dream. THE VISION OF THE STONE AND THE SHELL. 157 Close at my side, an uncouth shape appeared He seemed an Arab, of the Bedouin tribes: That I should hold it to my ear. An Ode, in passion uttered, which foretold By deluge, now at hand. No sooner ceased P 158 THE STONE AND THE SHELL. The one to be a Stone, the other a Shell; Nor doubted once but that they both were Books, For oftentimes he cast a backward look, Of these was neither, and was both at once. His countenance, meanwhile, grew more disturbed; A bed of glittering light; I asked the cause: 'It is,' said he, the waters of the deep Gathering upon us ;' quickening then the pace Of the unwieldy creature he bestrode, He left me: I called after him aloud; He heeded not; but, with his twofold charge. But we must hasten forward. Wordsworth was smitten by two great griefs in his life in 1805-he lost his brother, Captain John Wordsworth; he stood high in his brother's esteem and regard. He writes to Sir George Beaumont: "My poor sister, and my wife who loved him almost as much as we did (for he was one of |