period of thirty years, or half a century at most, and that the past is a mighty accumulation of many such periods, perhaps the whole of recorded time, or at least the whole of that portion of it in which our own country has been distinguished.

Let us allow and believe that there is a progress in the species towards unattainable perfection; . . . surely it does not follow that this progress should be constant in those virtues and intellectual qualities, and in those departments of knowledge which are of most value. The progress of the species neither is, nor can be, like that of a Roman road, in a right line. It may be more justly compared to that of a river, which, both in its smaller reaches and larger turnings, is frequently forced back towards its fountains by objects which cannot otherwise be eluded or overcome; yet with an accompanying impulse that will insure its advancement hereafter, it is either gaining strength every hour, or conquering in secret some difficulty, by a labour that contributes as effectually to further it in its course, as when it moves forward uninterruptedly in a line, direct as that of the Roman road, with which I began the comparison.

It suffices to content the mind, though there may be an apparent stagnation, or a retrograde movement in the species, that something is being done which is necessary to be done, the effects of which will in due time appear; that something is unremittingly being gained, either in secret preparation, or in open and triumphant progress. But in fact here, as everywhere, we are deceived by creations which the mind is compelled to make for itself; we speak of the species, not as an aggregate, but as endued with the form and separate life of an individual. But human kind,-what is it else than myriads of rational beings in various degrees obedient to their reason; some torpid, some aspiring; some in eager

chase to the right hand, some to the left; these wasting down their moral nature, and those feeding it for immortality?

Granted that the sacred light of childhood is and must be for him no more than a remembrance. He may, notwithstanding, be remanded to Nature-and with trustworthy hopes, founded less upon his sentient than upon his intellectual being-to Nature, as leading on insensibly to the society of Reason, but to Reason and Will, as leading back to the wisdom of Nature. A re-union, in this order accomplished, will bring reformation and timely support; and the two powers of Reason and Nature, thus reciprocally teacher and taught, may advance together in a track to which there is no limit.

We have been discoursing (by implication, at least) of infancy, childhood, boyhood, and youth, of pleasures lying upon the unfolding intellect plenteously as morning dewdrops, of knowledge inhaled insensibly like fragrance,

-of dispositions stealing into the spirit like music from unknown quarters,-of images uncalled for and rising up like exhalations,-of hopes plucked like wild flowers from the ruined tombs that border the highways of antiquity, to make a garland for a living forehead;-in a word, we have been treating of Nature as a teacher of truth through joy and through gladness, and as a creatress of the faculties by a process of smoothness and delight. . . . We now apply for the succour which we need to a faculty that works after a different course; that faculty is Reason; she gives more spontaneously, but she seeks for more; she works by thought through feeling; yet in thoughts she begins and ends.

Let one go back, as occasion will permit, to nature and to solitude, thus admonished by reason, and relying upon

this newly acquired support. A world of fresh sensations will gradually open upon him as his mind puts off its infirmities, and as instead of being propelled restlessly towards others, in admiration, or too hasty love, he makes it his prime business to understand himself. New sensations, I affirm, will be opened out,—pure, and sanctioned by that reason which is their original author; and precious feelings of disinterested, that is self-disregarding joy and love may be regenerated and restored; and, in this sense, he may be said to measure back the track of life he has trodden.

In such disposition of mind let the youth return to the Visible Universe, and to conversation with Ancient Books, and to those, if such there be, which in the present day breathe the ancient spirit; and let him feed upon that beauty which unfolds itself, not to his eye as it sees carelessly the things which cannot possibly go unseen, and are remembered or not as accident shall decide, but to the thinking mind, which searches, discovers, and treasures up, infusing by meditation into the objects with which it converses an intellectual life, whereby they remain planted in the memory, now and for ever."

In connection with this paper by "Mathetes," and Wordsworth's reply to it, a letter from his sister to Lady Beaumont is extremely interesting. It shows that Wilson was giving a genuine picture of himself in his epistle to The Friend. Dorothy wrote as follows on the 28th December

1809:

Surely I have spoken to you (not by word of mouth, but by letter) of Mr Wilson, a young man of some fortune, who has built a house in a very fine situation not far from Bowness. Miss Hutchinson, Johnny, and I spent a few days there last summer, with his mother and sister, and I think I mentioned this to you. This same Mr Wilson

is the author of the letter signed Mathetes. He has from his very boyhood been a passionate admirer of my brother's writings; and before he went to Oxford he ventured to write a long letter to my brother respecting some poems, and expressing his deep gratitude for the new joy and knowledge which his writings had opened out to him. Several years after this he bought a small estate near Windermere, and began to build a house. In the meantime, however, he fitted up a room in a cottage near the new building, and by degrees made little improvements in the cottage, till it is become so comfortable that, though the large house is finished, he has no wish to remove, and seems, indeed to have no motive, as the cottage is large enough to accommodate himself and his mother and sister and two or three friends, and as they are all pleased with the snugness and comfort of their present modest dwelling; indeed, he often regrets that he built the larger house. If, however, he should marry (which is very likely) he will find it necessary.

His mother and sister are at present at Edinburgh (where in fact their home is, but they are so much pleased with the country that for the last two years they have spent more than half their time here); and we all, including Mr De Quincey and Coleridge, have been to pay the bachelor a Christmas visit, and we enjoyed ourselves very much in a pleasant mixture of merriment and thoughtful discourse. He is a very interesting young man, of noble dispositions, and fine ingenuous feelings; but, having lost his father in early youth, and having had a command of money to procure pleasures at a cheap rate, and having that yielding disposition of which he speaks, which makes him ready to discover virtues that do not really exist in minds greatly inferior to his own (which have yet a sufficient share of qualities in sympathy with his own to draw them to him at first), his time has often been idly spent in the pursuit of idle enjoyments;

and dissatisfaction with himself has followed. He had been more than a year in this neighbourhood before he could resolve to call upon my brother-this from modesty and a fear of intruding upon him; but since that time we have had frequent intercourse with him, and are all most affectionately attached to him. He has the utmost reverence for my brother, and has no delight superior to that of conversing with him; and he has often said that he is indebted to him for preserving the best part of his nature, and for the most valuable knowledge he possesses. He is now twenty-three years of age. Probably before this letter reaches you, you will have received the nineteenth number of The Friend, which contains the continuation of my brother's reply to Mathetes's letter. Mr Wilson sent the letter to Coleridge, and Coleridge requested my brother to reply to it, he being at leisure, and disposed at that time to write something for The Friend. You will be glad to hear that he is going to finish the poem of The White Doe, and is resolved to publish it when he has finished it to his satisfaction."

Another letter of Dorothy Wordsworth's to Mrs Marshall, written five weeks earlier than the foregoing, gives some particulars as to their life at Allan Bank.

"GRASMERE, November 19, 1809.

As to ourselves we only want a roomy house to shelter us, with a few acres to feed a couple of cows, or without any land at all. We know not whither we shall turn; and, at all events, we must leave Grasmere, for there are only two houses besides our own that would hold us, and of these only one that is large enough. The other to which I allude I daresay you may remember. It is a neat white house, on that side of the lake opposite to the highway. It stands on the hill-side, with large coppice woods