Honiton? In a word, for I cannot stop to make my way through the hurry of images that present themselves to me. What have they to do with endless talking about things nobody cares any thing for, except as far as their own vanity is concerned, and this with persons they care nothing for, but as their vanity or their selfishness is concerned? What have they to do, to say all at once, with a life without love? In such a life there can be no thought, for we have no thought (save thoughts of pain) but as far as we have love and admi

ration.

"It is an awful truth, that there neither is, nor can be any genuine enjoyment of poetry among nineteen out of twenty of those persons who live, or wish to live, in the broad light of the world; among those who either are, or are striving to make themselves people of consideration in Society.

"This is a truth, and an awful one, because to be incapable of a feeling of poetry, in any sense of the word, is to be without love of human nature, and reverence for God."

"Upon this I shall insist elsewhere, at present let me confine myself to my object, which is to make you, my dear friend, as easy hearted as myself with respect to these poems. Trouble not yourself upon their present reception; of what moment is that compared with what I trust is their destiny? to console the afflicted; to add sunshine to daylight, by making the happy happier; to teach the young and the gracious of every age to see, to think, and to feel, and therefore to become more ac

WORDSWORTH A GARDENER.

391

tively and securely virtuous; this is their office, which I trust they will faithfully perform long after we (that is, all that is mortal of us) are mouldered in our graves. I am well aware how far it would seem to many I overrate my own exertions, when I speak in this way in direct connection with the volume I have just made public; I am not however afraid of such censure, insignificant as probably the majority of those poems would appear to very respectable persons. I do not mean London wits and witlings, for these have too many foul passions about them to be respectable, even if they had more intellect than the benign laws of providence will allow to such a heartless existence as theirs; but grave, kindly-natured, worthy persons, who would be pleased if they could."

It was Wordsworth's opinion, and one in which he was assuredly right, that he was especially fitted for the calling of a landscape gardener. In the earlier part of his life his powers in this department were called in requisition by his friend Sir George Beaumont, for the gardens and grounds of Coleorton in Leicestershire; this led to several letters, (which are in fact essays) to Sir George upon gardening. Into this pursuit we must notice how, as in every thing else, he carries the spirit of his religion; he very beautifully says, "All first and solid pleasure in natural objects rests upon two pillars, God and Man. Laying out grounds as it is called, may be considered as a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting, and its object, like that of all the liberal arts, is, or ought to be to move the affections,

under the control of good sense; that is, those of the best and the wisest: but speaking with more precision, it is to assist nature in moving the affections, and surely as I have said, the affections of those who have the deepest perception of the beauty of Nature; who have the most valuable feelings, that is, the most permanent the most independent, the most ennobling, connected with nature and human life. No liberal art aims merely at the gratifying of an individual or a class; the painter or poet is degraded in proportion as he does so; the true servants of the arts pay homage to the human kind, as impersonated in unwarped and enlightened minds. If this be so when we are merely putting together words or colours, how much more ought the feeling to prevail when we are in the midst of the realities of things; of the beauty and harmony of this joy and happiness of loving creatures; of men and children; of birds and beasts; of hills and streams, and trees, and flowers, with the changes of night and day, evening and morning, summer and winter, and all their unwearied actions and energies, as benign in the spirit that animates them, as they are beautiful and grand in their form and clothing, which is given to them for the delight of our senses. In a word, all which I had to say would begin and end in the human heart, as under the direction of the Divine Nature, conferring value on the objects of the senses, and pointing out what is valuable in them."

Much of Wordsworth's time was spent at Coleorton, and spite of the noble and Christian sentiments con

tained in the letter quoted above, some critics may feel a sentiment of dissatisfaction that the time of our poet was thus spent-it is true that his work and his mission lay in the immediate walks of nature, still we turn with more delight to those men, possessing the power of Wordsworth, whose lives were passed in other pursuits than merely laying out a garden-a worthy work indeed for the man of inferior powers, but not worthy of the man to whom it was privileged to walk through the recesses of the human soul. We had rather see Milton the schoolmaster, with his tribe of children about him: gratitude however to the good Sir George, no doubt had much to do with this devotement of mind-work in the ordinary sense of the word he seems never to have been called on to perform-he knew nothing of the task-master's toil; his mind wandered at its own will, and he was fortunate in being it seems always able to choose his own channels. His life was that of a quiet country gentleman, the necessity for effort never apparently lay on him-mysteriously the provision always came before the necessity.

But we must not convey the impression that the poet was idle, that his life was merely that of a moody dreamer; he read much, although the circle of his reading was contracted: he thought much on most of the topics which occupied the attention of the world, and he wrote much too. If the reader turns to his works he will find how many were the sonnets he wrote on the state of Europe; its varied and thrilling revolutions;

turning his attention in 1809 from landscape gardening to the events of the Convention of Cintra, we feel that the subject is worthier of a powerful human intelligence. To us it does not seem by any means great or admirable to behold a master mind, powerful among its fellows, concerning itself with the lower forms of nature, while men and nations need guidance, and groan for sympathy.

This is no place to attempt any characterization of the Congress of Cintra; discussion as to the views of Wordsworth upon that event would be out of place here. He thought the British honor was insulted by the cessation of the French war upon Spanish ground. It is not the duty of the biographer to advance views which are irrelevant to the immediate purpose of his life; they seem only the reveries of an Utopian, and it is quite bootless to ask such questions as to what Spain has gained at all by British interference; what might have been her destiny had the strong hand of the Corsican been allowed to beat down her petty anarchies, or if on that soil the question of Britain and France had come to an issue, as it might, had the war been prosecuted and the Convention Treaty not signed. Certainly we are not interested in this pamphlet of Wordsworth's from any clear idea of its political prescience and sagacity; but it is more natural to us to recur to views which it entertains and publishes on the state and progress of opinion in Europe in general.

Mr. Canning was greatly pleased with the pamphlet, and it was natural that that clear visioned statesman