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THE POET'S SISTER.

85

rate piece of architecture. We might think this if we did not also feel that that sister could comprehend his nature in all its powers and capacities far better than we can hope to do, and if we were not reminded by memory that the Excursion-his longest and perhaps most ambitious Poem, is not therefore his greatest work. He gives us intimations however how perfectly aware he was of his sister's influence over his mind, and the best constituted and most gentle nature would undoubtedly sink to a mournful callousness without some feminine influence around it; for Self-denial, Gentleness Meekness, Watchfulness, Hope, and Faith, all that make a religious character, and a noble character, seem much more instinctive with woman than with man. Hitherto we have seen our Poet alone in his College Chambers, alone for the most part through the streets of Paris, and on the solemn banks of French Rivers, and still alone by the sick bed of his dying friend, and a battle was going on in his spirit which he had to fight alone; his writings, few, up to this period, bear testimony to the despondency stealing over his heart, when his sister-his only sister Dorothy became his companion. What his sister was to him he best knew, and he has certainly crowned her for immortality in some of the most beautiful and votive offerings of his verse; we could cite many illustrations-he says

"I too exclusively esteemed that love,

And sought that beauty which as Milton sings
Hath terror in it. Thou didst soften down

This over sternness; but for thee dear Friend!

I

My love too reckless of mild grace had stood
In her original self too confident,
Retained too long a countenance severe;
A rock with torrents roaring, with the clouds
Familiar, and a favorite of the stars:
But thou didst plant its crevices with flowers,
Hang it with shrubs that twinkle in the breeze,
And teach the little birds to build their nests,
And warble in its chambers."

It is to her he frequently refers as preserving in the midst of all her enthusiasm a heart unadulterated by the world, retaining unshaken its faith and its confidence. Thus she met him in that moment when his heart had lost its repose, and when his mind had almost determined on casting itself loose from its safe anchorage and trust. And now we shall in following the one have also to follow the other-she accompanied him in his wanderings-she was his faithful prompter and amanuensis-she pointed to the more loving heart of things; and by delicate and graceful commendation and eulogy, and by preserving as an occasional insertion some of her own very beautiful verses, he has taught us how great were his obligations to his sister Dorothy. It seems as if in all the lives of our greatest and most venerable teachers, Nature constantly impressed on us the truth that man's education cannot be perfected without woman. She calls his spirit back when she uses her own natural force, from misanthropy and scepticism, and despair; she teaches him the weakness of merely intellectual strength; she compels him to distrust himself, even while she invites him to repose on

INFLUENCE OF WOMAN.

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himself with more confidence; without her the affections sleep, and the eye refuses to look on objects from that point of vision whence their most healthful and invigorating aspects are cast. The mind of our Poet was in danger of bowing to these darkening shadows; it already felt the chill winds from the Sea of Doubt, and looking beyond, saw only a giddy reel of objects and beings deceiving themselves with the mockery of the possession of Will and Choice. He has honored his sister by shewing how she took him by the hand and restored him to nature. He points to her as influencing considerably the final building up the edifice of his character; thus adding in the graceful and unobtrusive manner in which she steps through the chambers of his history, another illustration to the influence of woman in moulding and giving destiny to the character of the most illustrious men.

In reviewing Wordsworth's obligations to his sister, we cannot but notice the most curious assistance, probably arising from the indisposition he constantly felt to use his pen in noting down the circumstances which met his eye and his mind. Dr. Wordsworth presents to us many illustrations of the constant exercise of his sister's eye for him. It almost suggests to us a sorrow that there was an inability to generalise-sufficientlyobjects, seen when seen in themselves-not as parts of a great whole or world-it was this constant tendency to allow the eye to rest on the last object, and to be haunted by the impression of it, that prevented him from grasping all into one great whole; and we again

cannot but turn aside to think that probably the constant presence of his sister might be the cause of this. That he did not lack in himself the power to take in many objects and form them into one picture seems evident both from "Ruth," "the Leech Gatherer," and hundreds of other compositions; and we cannot but wish, notwithstanding all the beauty and glory of many of his smaller pieces, that they had been absorbed into the mental system-that instead of being distinct and occasional poems, they had fallen into the channel of mental structure and education-used not with reference to an impressive show, or for that spot or place, but for a wide Cartoon, and for all Nature and all Time; but perhaps the character of the Poet's mind prevented this, and it is certain that his sister aided that character.

The following illustrations will convey to the reader's mind the peculiarity of the aid he derived from his sister-thus at Grasmere, Friday, Oct. 3rd, 1800, she gives to us the origin of our old friend mentioned above, the Leech Gatherer. "When William and I returned from accompanying Jones, we met an old man almost double. His face was interesting. He was of Scotch parents, but had been born in the army. He had had a wife, a good woman, and it pleased God to bless him with ten children; all these were dead but one, of whom he had not heard for many years, a sailor. His trade was to gather leeches, but now leeches were scarce, and he had not strength for it. He had been hurt in driving a cart, his leg broke, his body driven over, his skull fractured ; he felt no pain till he recovered from his first insensi

HIS SISTER'S JOURNAL.

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bility. It was then late in the evening when the light was just going away."

And again in the same diary we have the origin of Alice Fell. "Feb. 16th. Mr. Graham called; said he wished William had been with him the other day. He was riding in a post chaise; heard a strange cry; called to the chaise-driver to stop. It was a little girl crying as if her heart would burst. She had got up behind the chaise, and her cloak had been caught by the wheel; she was crying after it. Mr. G. took her into the chaise, and the cloak was released, but it was torn to rags. It had been a miserable cloak before, but she had no other, and this was her greatest sorrow that could befal her. Her name was Alice Fell. At the next town Mr. G. left money to buy her a new cloak."

Again the origin of the Beggars. "W. wrote the poem of the Beggar Woman, taken from a woman whom I had seen nearly two years ago, when he was absent at Gallow Hill, and had thus described. On Tuesday, May 27th, a very tall woman called at the door; she had on a very long brown cloak, and a very white cap without bonnet; she led a little bare-footed child about two years old by the hand, and said her husband was gone before with the other children. I gave her a piece of bread. Afterwards on my road to Ambleside, beside the bridge at Rydal, I saw her husband sitting by the road side, his two asses standing beside him, and the two young children at play upon the grass. The man did not beg. I passed on, and about a quarter of a mile further I saw two boys before me, one about ten, the

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