tus: "Poor, wandering, wayward man! Art thou not tried, beaten with many stripes, even as I am? Ever, whether thou wear the royal mantle or the beggar's gaberdine, art thou not so weary, so heavy laden? O! my brother, my brother! why cannot I shelter thee in my bosom, and wipe away all tears from thine eyes?"

In accordance with this humane philosophy, Childhood is contemplated by Wordsworth. The spirit of the Saviour's sympathy with this beautiful era of life, seems to possess his muse. Its unconsciousness, its ignorance of death, its trust, hope and peace, its teachings, and promise he has portrayed with rare sympathy. Witness, "We are Seven," the "Pet Lamb," and especially the Ode, which is perhaps the finest and most characteristic of Wordsworth's compositions. A reader of his poetry, who imbibes its spirit, can scarcely look upon the young with indifference. The parent must thence derive a new sense of the sacredness of children, and learn to reverence their innocence, to leave unmarred their tender traits, and to yield them more confidently to the influences of Nature. In his true and feeling chronicles of the "heaven" that "lies about us in our infancy," Wordsworth has uttered a silent but most eloquent reproach upon all the absurdities and sacrilegious abuses of modern education. He has made known the truth, that children have their lessons to convey as well as receive :

"O dearest, dearest boy, my heart
For better lore would seldom yearn,
Could I but teach the hundreth part
Of what from thee I learn."

He has made more evident the awful chasm between the repose and hopefuluess of happy childhood, and the cyni. cal distrust of worldly age. He thus indirectly but forcibly appeals to men for a more guarded preservation of the early dew of existence, so recklessly lavished upon the desert of ambition:

-Those first affections,

Those shadowy recollections,
Which, be they what they may,

Are yet the fountain-light of all our day;
Are yet a master-light of all our seeing;
Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal silence."

He has exemplified that the worst evil of life is rather acquired than inherited, and vindicated the beneficent designs of the Creator, by exhibiting humanity when fresh from his haud. This is a high moral service. Upon many of those who have become familiar with Wordsworth in youth, such impressions must have been permanent and invaluable, greatly influencing their observation of life and nature, and touching "to finer issues" their unpledged sympathies. It is with the eye of a meditative poet that Wordsworth surveys life and nature.

And thus

inspired, a new elevation is imparted to "ordinary moral sensations," and it is the sentiment rather than the subject which gives interest to the song. Hence it is absolutely necessary that the reader should sympathize with the feelings of the poet, to enjoy or understand him. He appeals to that contemplative spirit which does not belong

to all, and visits even its votaries but occasionally; to "a sadness that has its seat in the depths of reason;" he professes to "follow the fluxes and refluxes of the mind when agitated by the great and simple affections of our nature." To enter into purposes like these, there must exist a delicate sympathy with human nature, a reflective habit, a mingling of reason and fancy, an imagination active but not impassioned. The frame of mind which he labors to induce, and in which he must be read, is

"That sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay
Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure,

The heart luxuriates with indifferent things,
Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones,
And on the vacant air;"

This calm and holy musing, this deep and intimate communion with Nature, this spirit of peace, should sometimes visit us. There are periods when passionate poetry wearies, and a lively measure is discordant. There are times when we are calmed and softened, and it is a luxury to pause and forget the promptings of desire and the cares of life; when it is a relief to leave the crowd and wander into solitude, when, faint and disappointed, we seek, like

tired children, the neglected bosom of Nature, and in the Such serenity of her maternal smile, find rest and solace. moments redeem existence from its monotony, and refresh the human heart with dew from the urns of Peace. Then it is that the bard of Rydal Mount is like a brother, and we deeply feel that it is good for us to have known him.

COLERIDGE.

COLERIDGE appears to have excelled all his contemporaries in personal impressiveness. Men of the highest talent and cultivation have recorded, in the most enthusiastic terms, the intellectual treat his conversation afforded. The fancy is captivated by the mere description of his fluent and emphatic, yet gentle and inspired language. We are haunted with these vivid pictures of the 'old man eloquent,' as by those of the sages of antiquity, and the renowned improvisatores of modern times. Hazlitt and Lamb seem never weary of theme. They make us realize, as far as description can, the affectionate temper, the simple bearing, and earnest intelligence of their friend. We feel the might and interest of a living soul, and sigh that it was not our lot to partake directly of its overflowing gifts.

Though so invaluable as a friend and companion, unfortunately for posterity, Coleridge loved to talk and read far more than to write. Hence the records of his mind bear no proportion to its endowments and activity. Illhealth early drew him from "life in motion, to life in