as any critical brother, who may have framed his canons without a spark of inspiration or poetry to guide him. . . .

The Ecclesiastical Sketches labour under one obvious disadvantage, that they can only present themselves as a whole to the reader, who is pretty well acquainted with the history of this country; and, as separate pieces, several of them suffer as Poetry from the matter of fact; there being unavoidably in all History-except as it is a mere suggestion-something that enslaves the fancy. But there are in those Poems several continuous strains, not in the least degree liable to this objection. I will only mention two, the Sonnets on The Dissolution of the Monasteries, and almost the whole of the last part, from the picture of England after the Revolution, scattered over with Protestant Churches, till the conclusion. Pray, read again from 'Open your Gates, ye everlasting Piles' to the end, and then turn to your Enterprise.* Has the Continent driven the North out of your estimation? . . .

I have in the press a little book on the Lakes, containing some illustrative remarks on Swiss scenery. If I have fallen into any errors, I know no one better able to correct them than yourself, and should the book (which I must mention is chiefly a republication) meet your eye, pray, point out to me the mistakes. The part relating to Switzerland is new. One favour leads often to the asking of another. May I beg of you a sketch for a tour in North Wales? It is thirty years since I was in that country, and new ways must have been opened up since that time."

The Ecclesiastical Sketches are, poetically, the least successful of all Wordsworth's efforts, with the possible exception of his Tragedy; but his main occupation-during the winter of 1820 and the spring of 1821-was the completion of that long series

* An allegorical poem-the "glorious performance" referred to at the beginning of the letter.

of sonnets. While he was thus engaged, his wife and sister were as actively employed in writing out their notes of Continental travel.

In March 1821, Wordsworth told Crabb Robinson "the two ladies are busy in transcribing their Journals"; and the desire for fresh journeyings being strong within him, he wished that he could encourage the hope of passing a winter with Robinson at Rome. The expense, however, deterred him. He referred to Barry Cornwall's Tragedy, just published, and said, "It appears to me, in the present late age of the world, a most difficult task to construct a good tragedy, free from stale and mean contrivances, and animated by new and suitable characters; so that I am inclined to judge Cornwall gently, and sincerely rejoice in his success. As to poetry, I am sick of it; it overruns the country in all the shapes of the plagues of Egypt, frog-poets (the Croakers), mice-poets (the Nibblers), a class rhyming to mice (which shall be nameless), and flypoets (Gray in his dignified way calls flies the 'Insect Youth,' a term wonderfully applicable upon this occasion). We shall not be accused of envying the rising generation."

In August of this year, Robinson being about to visit Scotland, Wordsworth gave him an introduction to Sir Walter Scott, in which he said ::

“Mr. R. is a highly-esteemed friend of myself, and of those who are dearest to me. Mr. R. has been much upon the Continent, and is extensively read in German literature, speaking the language with the ease of a native.

In the last letter I had from you, you spoke of the pleasure you should have in re-visiting our arcadia. I assure you that you would be most welcome; when I think how small is the space between your residence upon the Tweed, and mine in the valley of Ambleside, I wonder we see so little of each other."

While the ladies at Rydal Mount were engaged in copying out their Journals of the Tour of 1820, Mrs. Wordsworth wrote to John Kenyon :

66

'Rydal Mount, December 28, 1821. "Miss Wordsworth is going on with her Journal, which will be ready to go to press interspersed with her brother's poems, I hope before you return. I do not say this seriously, but we sometimes jestingly talk of raising a fund by such means for a second and a further trip into Italy!"

On the 3d March 1822, Dorothy Wordsworth wrote to Crabb Robinson:

"With respect to the Tour poems, I am afraid you will think his notes not sufficiently copious. Prefaces he has none, except to the poem on Goddard's death. Your suggestion of the bridge at Lucern set his mind to work; and, if a happy mood comes on, he is determined even yet, though the work is printed, to add a poem on that subject. You can have no idea with what earnest pleasure he seized the idea; yet, before he began to write at all, when he was pondering over his recollections and asking me for hints and thoughts, I mentioned that very subject, and he then thought he could make nothing of it. You certainly have the gift of setting him on fire. When I named (before your letter was read to him) your scheme for next autumn, his countenance flushed with pleasure, and he exclaimed, 'I'll go with him'; and then I ventured to utter a thought which had risen before, and been suppressed in the moment of its rising, 'How I should like to go.' Presently, however, the conversation took a sober turnmy desires were completely checked-and he concluded that for him the journey would be impossible, ‘And then,' said he, 'if you, or Mary, or both, were not with me I should not half enjoy it, and that (so soon again) is impossible.'

The transcript of my Journal is nearly finished. There is so much of it, that I am sure it will be dull reading to those who have never been in these countries,—and even to such, I think, much of it at least must be tedious. interested when I read it to him.

My brother is

Mary seems to have

succeeded so well in the brief way, that I can hardly hope my lengthiness will interest in like degree. I shall not read hers till my transcript is finished."

Writing to the same friend in November 1825, she asked if he could procure two sets of "Swiss costumes," to be bound up in the MS. Journal of this year. These were procured, and they are inserted in the two large quarto volumes in which Dorothy's Journal is bound.

A letter of Wordsworth's to Sir George Beaumont, belonging to an earlier date (Jan. 6, 1821), may be given here. It was written from Rydal:

"6th Jan. 1821.

"MY DEAR SIR GEORGE,-Yesterday I performed a great feat-wrote no less than seven letters, reserving yours for to-day, that I might have more leisure, and you consequently less trouble in reading. I have been a good deal tossed about since our arrival here. Mrs. W. and I were first called away by the sudden death of my kinsman Mr. Myers. We went to College together, and were inseparables for many years. I saw him buried in Millom Church, by the side of his wife. The churchyard is romantically situated-Duddon Sands on one side, and a rocky hill scattered over with ancient trees on the other. Close by are the remains of the old castle of the Huddlestones, part of which are converted into farm-houses, and the whole embowered in tall trees that tower up from the sides and bottom of the circular moat. The churchyard is in like manner girt round with trees. The church is of striking architecture, and apparently of remote antiquity. We entered with the funeral train, the day being too far advanced to allow

VOL. III.

E

the clergyman to see to read the Service, and no light had been provided, so we sate some time, in solemn silence. At last one candle was brought, which served both for minister and clerk, casting a wan light on their faces. On my right hand were two stone figures in a recumbent position (like those of the monument in Coleorton Church), Huddlestones of other years; and the voice of the minister was accompanied, and almost interrupted, by the slender sobbing of a young person, an Indian by half-blood, and by the father's side a niece of the deceased wife of the person whom we were interring. She hung over the coffin, and continued this Oriental lamentation till the service was over, everybody else, except one faithful servant, being apparently indifferent. Mrs. W., I find, has mentioned our return by Duddonside, and how much we were pleased with the winter appearance of my favourite river.

Since that expedition, I have been called to Appleby, and detained there upon business. In returning I was obliged to make a circuit, which showed me for the time several miles of the course of that beautiful stream the Eden, from the bridge near Temple Sowerby down to Kirkoswald. Part of this tract of country I had indeed seen before, but not from the same points of view. It is a charming region, particularly at the spot where the Eden and Emont join. The rivers appeared exquisitely brilliant, gliding under rocks, and through green meadows; with woods, and sloping cultivated grounds, and pensive russet moors interspersed; and along the circuit of the horizon lofty hills and mountains, clothed rather than concealed, in fleecy clouds and resplendent vapours.

My road brought me suddenly, and unexpectedly, upon that ancient monument, called by the country people Long Meg and her Daughters. Everybody has heard of it, and so had I from very early childhood, but had never seen it before. Next to Stonehenge, it is beyond dispute the most noble relic of the kind that this or probably any other country contains. Long