mony of life in the golden age of Grecian literature and art was unruffled by the sense of personal responsibility, and by those great questions which a thoughtful man in these days would not evade if he could, and could not if he would. There was nothing then to prevent the entire dedication of a life to the service of Art, because there was nothing more noble, nothing out of which so much beauty-the god of all Grecian worship-could be evolved. The poet now-a-days lives, or professes to live, for his fellows; in the olden time he lived for himself. The office of the Vates is higher than that of the mere artist; what is lost in the perfection of self-culture is more than repaid by a larger communion with, and greater power over, the souls of men.

TALBOT. Although, alas! the wise Archbishop is dead, I suppose there is still such a book in the world as Whately's "Logic," which might sometimes be profitably studied by poet-critics and dilettanti. I listen to sage remarks, but try in vain to shape out of them a reply to the argument which Mr. Arnold has so ably urged.

STANLEY. O man, it lieth not with us to give thee a clear vision! For my part, I think that what has been said, though it may not directly cope with the Professor's line of reasoning, does yet, so to speak, by a side-light, reveal that which is unsound in it.

TALBOT. I bow to a discernment I am unable to appreciate. I am glad, however, to agree with STANLEY in the observation he made on the marked difference between Wordsworth's practice and Mr. Arnold's theory. Wordsworth, to my thinking, has, of all modern poets,

been the most faulty in his persistent disregard of a noble action as the main essential to a great poem.

What can be more unartistic than the construction of "The Excursion?" what more wilfully perverse than the selection of idiots, pedlars, waggoners, and leech-gatherers, Goody Blakes, and Harry Gills, as the dramatis persona through whom to find an utterance for his highest poesy.

HARTLEY. Undoubtedly in adopting a theory which was half true and half false, Wordsworth, has done injustice to his own powers. But the inspiration of the poet will not be shackled, and in his noblest poems his rule of poetical criticism has been utterly forgotten, and he has adhered only to the grand law laid down in his own sonnet,

"A Poet!-He hath put his heart to school,
Nor dares to move unpropp'd upon the staff

Which Art hath lodged within his hand-must laugh
By precept only and shed tears by rule.

Thy Art be Nature; the live current quaff,
And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool

In fear that else, when Critics grave and cool
Have kill'd him, Scorn should write his epitaph.
How does the meadow-flower its bloom unfold?

Because the lovely little flower is free

Down to its root, and in that freedom bold;

And so the grandeur of the forest tree
Comes not by casting in a formal mould,
But from its own divine vitality."

TALBOT. Wordsworth is the prince of sonnet writers; and some of his profoundest and rarest thoughts are enshrined in these caskets. A few of them are essentially

rural in their character. Let me read you one which has ever been a special favourite of mine, composed on a May morning :

"Life with yon Lambs, like day, is just begun,
Yet Nature seems to them a heavenly guide.
Does joy approach? they meet the coming tide;
And sullenness avoid, as now they shun
Pale twilight's lingering glooms,—and in the sun
Couch near their dams, with quiet satisfied;
Or gambol- each with his shadow at his side,
Varying its shape wherever he may run.
As they from turf yet hoar with sleepy dew
All turn, and court the shining and the green,
Where herbs look up, and opening flowers are seen;
Why to God's goodness cannot We be true,
And so His gifts and promises between,
Feed to the last on pleasures ever new?"

STANLEY. A good sonnet; but, being composed on a May morning, one cannot help contrasting it with the immortal song in ten lines written by a yet greater poet. Do you remember Mr. Henry Taylor's Essay on Wordsworth's Sonnets? It evinces, like most of Taylor's prose writings, a keen critical sagacity, and much good sense expressed in a manly but heavy style.

TALBOT. Not a heavy style, I think, in itself, although, perhaps, it may appear so when contrasted with the brilliant and sensational style of composition now so much in vogue. It is verily a luxury in these days to meet with an author who combines thoughtfulness and sound sense with the correct and vigorous use of his mother tongue. In this respect Mr. Taylor will perhaps acknowledge his indebtedness to Wordsworth himself, whose purity of lan

guage and dignity of style-when he chooses to be dignified-are not to be surpassed. This is strikingly shown in the sonnets, and especially in those which are dedicated to Liberty and Independence.

HARTLEY. Yes, Wordsworth can be dignified "when he chooses;" but unfortunately his choice frequently leads him to be very simple and even silly.

TALBOT. Simplicity has no connexion with silliness. The one term may be correct when applied to Wordsworth, for, like all great poets, he is often simple as a child; but the other is a libel upon the most thoughtful and most philosophical poet who has appeared in this land since the days of Milton. Yet, profoundly as I reverence Wordsworth, I am not disposed to award him indiscriminate praise. I believe that the ardent study of his poems has led some minds to indulge in a refined Pantheism, and has encouraged in others a too careful regard for ritualistic observances; but, despite all drawbacks, his volumes form a rich and vast storehouse of poetic wisdom. His description of nature is never dwarfed into the literal transcript of the scene as it appeared to his bodily eye; but all that we gain of strength, of hope, and joy, from the perishing beauty around us, finds in Wordsworth a living voice, so clear, so musical, so expressive, that I dare believe it will be listened to in the centuries to come with as much delight as it is listened to now; nay, with far more delight, for this age is so restless, so full of material schemes and anxieties, so fond of ostentation, of extravagance in art, in literature, in social life, that Wordsworth's genius is under a temporary cloud, and for awhile he is forced to stand aloof, while a herd of sensational prose

authors and spasmodic writers in verse take possession of the field.

STANLEY. Wordsworth has himself told us that ninetenths of his verses were murmured in the open air; and about them all there is an out-door fragrance. We sniff the mountain breeze, and hear the murmur of the forest, and gaze into the clear depths of the rocky stream; and even in his loftiest mood, when raised into a purer atmosphere than we breathe on earth, his thoughtful brow is still fanned by its gales, his inspiration is coloured by its beauty, and finds a fit local habitation amidst its natural

scenes.

HARTLEY. Had Wordsworth spared his poetic theories, he would probably not have written some of the feeblest of his poems. In attempting to adopt his own canon of criticism, he grows feeble and twaddling; but when escaping from all trammels he gives free scope to his genius we have "Tintern Abbey," the "Ode on the Intimations of Immortality," "Laodamia," the "Eclipse of the Sun," and other poems of highest mark-poems which place him, notwithstanding his weaknesses, at the head of all modern poets.

TALBOT. I remember, HARTLEY, that you once spoke of Wordsworth as the father of the modern pastoral. Will you then take down a volume, and read us one or two poems or passages in proof of this assertion?

HARTLEY. What I said of Wordsworth I applied equally to Southey. The two friends both wrote pastorals in a style totally unknown to the ancient begetters of those delectable productions. The Lake poets have improved on their predecessors; but in this branch of his art I am