All night the storm endured; and, soon as help
Had been collected from the neighbouring vale,
With morning we renewed our quest: the wind
Was fallen, the rain abated, but the hills
Lay shrouded in impenetrable mist;

And long and hopelessly we sought in vain :
Till chancing on that lofty ridge to pass
A heap of ruin-almost without walls
And wholly without roof (the bleached remains
Of a small chapel, where, in ancient time,
The peasants of these lonely valleys used
To meet for worship on that central height),
We there espied the object of our search,
Lying full three parts buried among tufts
Of heath-plant, under and above him strewn,
To baffle, as he might, the watery storm:
And there we found him breathing peaceably,
Snug as a child that hides itself in sport
'Mid a green hay-cock in a sunny field.
We spake-he made reply, but would not stir
At our entreaty: less from want of power
Than apprehension and bewildering thoughts.

So was he lifted gently from the ground,

And with their freight homeward the shepherds moved
Through the dull mist, I following-when a step,
A single step, that freed me from the skirts

Of the blind vapour, opened to my view

Glory beyond all glory ever seen

By waking sense or by the dreaming soul!
The appearance, instantaneously disclosed,
Was of a mighty city-boldly say
A wilderness of building, sinking far
And self-withdrawn into a boundless depth
Far sinking into splendour-without end!
Fabric it seemed of diamond and of gold,
With alabaster domes, and silver spires,
And blazing terrace upon terrace, high
Uplifted; here, serene pavilions bright
In avenues disposed; there, towers begirt
With battlements that on their restless fronts
Bore stars-illumination of all gems!

By earthly nature had the effect been wrought
Upon the dark materials of the storm
Now pacified on them, and on the coves
And mountain-steeps and summits, whereunto

The vapours had receded, taking there
Their station under a cerulean sky.

Oh, 'twas an unimaginable sight!

Clouds, mists, streams, watery rocks, and emerald turf, Clouds of all tincture, rocks and sapphire sky

Confused, commingled, mutually inflamed,

Molten together, and composing thus,

Each lost in each, that marvellous array

Of temple, palace, citadel, and huge
Fantastic pomp of structure without name,
In fleecy folds voluminous enwrapped.

Right in the midst, where interspace appeared
Of open court, an object like a throne
Under a shining canopy of state
Stood fixed; and fixed resemblances were seen
To implements of ordinary use,

But vast in size, in substance glorified;
Such as by Hebrew Prophets were beheld
In vision-forms uncouth of mightiest power
For admiration and mysterious awe.
This little Vale, a dwelling-place of Man,

Lay low beneath my feet; 'twas visibleI saw not, but I felt that it was there. That which I saw was the revealed abode

Of Spirits in beatitude: my heart
Swelled in my breast.-"I have been dead," I cried,
"And now I live! Oh! wherefore do I live?"
And with that pang I prayed to be no more.

The second of the nine books of the "Excursion" having thus introduced the Solitary, the Third Book, entitled "Despondency," develops in dialogue the change from glow of hope to blank despair, in many minds that looked for a new birth of humanity from the throes of the French Revolution. The Solitary had in the days of the philosophes before the fall of the Bastile, shared all their questioning that touched the worth of the authority on which the institutions and beliefs of civilised life seemed to depend.

Then my soul

Turned inward,-to examine of what stuff
Time's fetters are composed; and life was put
To inquisition, long and profitless!

By pain of heart-now checked and now impelled-
The intellectual power, through words and things,
Went sounding on, a dim and perilous way!
And from those transports, and these toils abstruse,
Some trace am I enabled to retain

Of time, else lost; existing unto me
Only by records in myself not found.

From that abstraction I was roused,-and how?
Even as a thoughtful shepherd by a flash
Of lightning startled in a gloomy cave

Of these wild hills. For, lo! the dread Bastile,
With all the chambers in its horrid towers,
Fell to the ground-by violence overthrown
Of indignation; and with shouts that drowned
The crash it made in falling! From the wreck
A golden palace rose, or seemed to rise,
The appointed seat of equitable law
And mild paternal sway. The potent shock
I felt the transformation I perceived,

As marvellously seized as in that moment
When, from the blind mist issuing, I beheld
Glory-beyond all glory ever seen,
Confusion infinite of heaven and earth,
Dazzling the soul. Meanwhile, prophetic harps
In every grove were ringing, "War shall cease;
Did ye not hear that conquest is abjured?
Bring garlands, bring forth choicest flowers, to deck
The tree of Liberty."-My heart rebounded;

My melancholy voice the chorus joined;
-"Be joyful all ye nations; in all lands,
Ye that are capable of joy be glad!
Henceforth, whate'er is wanting to yourselves
In others ye shall promptly find;-and all,
Enriched by mutual and reflected wealth,

Shall with one heart honour their common kind.”

That was the ideal, and it was not only unattained, but the endeavour to attain it had brought new disgrace upon human society. The wrong suffered in his individual life seemed to the Solitary to be as great as the triumph of evil in society. Out of society, among the simple savages of the Far West, he had

failed as completely to discover the pure arch-type of human greatness, man as he ought to be.

There, in his stead, appeared

A creature squalid, vengeful, and impure;
Remorseless, and submissive to no law
But superstitious fear, and abject sloth.

In the Fourth Book of the "Excursion," "Despon dency Corrected" the despair of the Solitary is brought into conflict with the Wanderer's shrewd thought quickened by religion, this part of the argument dwelling much upon the relation between man and the world in which he is placed. With the Fourth Book the third day of the Excursion ends, not counting the afternoon with which it opens. The Fifth Book introduces the Pastor, for whose place in the argument the way is now prepared. The Solitary after their night's rest in the little valley by the tarn, goes with his friends to the point from which descent into the next vale begins, and would there have parted from them, but they led him on until the trees of a churchyard offered them a little shelter from heat of the sun. The place set the Solitary musing. A careless tune hummed by the grave-digger broke his reverie, and led him to return to their old argument.

"Much," he continued with dejected look,
"Much, yesterday, was said in glowing phrase
Of our sublime dependencies, and hopes
For future state of being; and the wings
Of speculation, joyfully outspread,
Hovered about our destiny on earth;

But stoop, and place the prospect of the soul
In sober contrast with reality,

And man's substantial life. If this mute earth
Of what it holds could speak, and every grave
Were as a volume, shut, yet capable

Of yielding its contents to eye and ear,

We should recoil, stricken with sorrow and shame,
To see disclosed by such dread proof how ill
That which is done accords with what is known
To reason, and by conscience is enjoined;
How idly, how perversely, life's whole course
To this conclusion deviates from the line,
Or of the end stops short, proposed to all
At her aspiring outset.

The Recluse himself owns justice in the complaint. of life misspent.

Earth is sick,

And heaven is weary, of the hollow words
Which states and kingdoms utter when they talk
Of truth and justice. Turn to private life
And social neighbourhood; look we to ourselves;
A light of duty shines on every day

For all; and yet how few are warmed or cheered!
How few who mingle with their fellow men
And still remain self-governed!

As the friends talked thus the Pastor-well known to the Wanderer, came into the churchyard.

A friendly greeting was exchanged; and soon
The Pastor learned that his approach had given
A welcome interruption to discourse
Grave, and in truth too often sad." Is Man
A child of hope? Do generations press

On generations without progress made?"

With the Pastor, who unites the offices of Squire and Priest, in the most intimate relation with his people, the reasoning is continued, and through his memories of his people the graves of the dead are made to speak in the Sixth Book and the Seventh. The poem passes thus from abstract reasoning to pathetic records of the actual life of man in words of heartfelt truth

Tending to patience when affliction strikes; To hope and love; to confident repose

In God; and reverence for the dust of Man.

In the Eighth Book of the "Excursion" the friendly Pastor brings the three, even the shrinking Solitary, as guests to the Parsonage. Under its roof, and finally in presence of the glorious prospect from the Terrace upon Loughrigg Fell, to which they row across, the argument is closed.

Here there recurs, nobly attuned to the full music of life, the plaint of one of Wordsworth's lyrics of 1798, "Lines Written in Early Spring."

I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sat reclined,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link

The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played-
Their thoughts I cannot measure,
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from Heaven be sent, If such be Nature's holy plan, Have I not reason to lament

What man has made of man.

So Wordsworth wrote in 1798, and thus in 1814 he wove the thought into the closing argument of the "Excursion."

Alas! what differs more than man from man? And whence that differer.ce? whence but from himself?

For see the universal Race endowed

With the same upright form!-The sun is fixed,

And the infinite magnificence of heaven
Fixed, within reach of every human eye;
The sleepless ocean murmurs for all ears;
The vernal field infuses fresh delight

Into all hearts. Throughout the world of sense,
Even as an object is sublime or fair,
That object is laid open to the view
Without reserve or veil; and as a power

Is salutary, or an influence sweet,

Are each and all enabled to perceive

That power, that influence, by impartial law.
Gifts nobler are vouchsafed alike to all;
Reason, and, with that reason, smiles and tears;
Imagination, freedom in the will;

Conscience to guide and check; and death to be
Foretasted, immortality conceived

By all, a blissful immortality,

To them whose holiness on earth shall make
The Spirit capable of heaven, assured.

Strange, then, nor less than monstrous, might be deemed
The failure, if the Almighty, to this point
Liberal and undistinguishing, should hide
The excellence of moral qualities

From common understanding; leaving truth
And virtue, difficult, abstruse, and dark;
Hard to be won, and only by a few;

Strange, should He deal herein with nice respects,
And frustrate all the rest! Believe it not:
The primal duties shine aloft-like stars;
The charities that soothe, and heal, and bless,
Are scattered at the feet of Man-like flowers.
The generous inclination, the just rule,

Kind wishes, and good actions, and pure thoughts-
No mystery is here! Here is no boon

For high-yet not for low; for proudly graced-
Yet not for meek of heart. The smoke ascends
To heaven as lightly from the cottage-hearth
As from the haughtiest palace. He, whose soul
Ponders this true equality, may walk

The fields of earth with gratitude and hope;
Yet, in that meditation, will he find
Motive to sadder grief, as we have found;
Lamenting ancient virtues overthrown,
And for the injustice grieving that hath made
So wide a difference between man and man.

Pictures of happy children in the Parsonage blend with the strain of hope based upon the fidelity of each life to its duty. There is no leap possible from the weakness of the present to the future strength. No reshaping of society at large, that leaves as they are the men and women of which it is formed, can lift our little world. Man by man, in generation after generation century after century, each must seek to achieve the change within himself, helping meanwhile to furnish aids and remove hindrances to the advance of any others whom his life can touch. The first condition of this labour of each on the upward path is, that every child born into a land should be taught. In the year before Waterloo, Wordsworth distinctly pointed to that next step towards the civilisation of our country, which was not taken until half a century later.

"Oh, for the coming of that glorious time
When, prizing knowledge as her noblest wealth
And best protection, this imperial Realm,
While she exacts allegiance, shall admit

An obligation, on her part, to teach
Them who are born to serve her and obey;
Binding herself by statute to secure

For all the children whom her soil maintains
The rudiments of letters, and inform
The mind with moral and religious truth,
Both understood and practised,-so that none,
However destitute, be left to droop

By timely culture unsustained; or run

Into a wild disorder; or be forced

To drudge through a weary life without the help Of intellectual implements and tools;

A savage horde among the civilised,

A servile band among the lordly free!
This sacred right the lisping babe proclaims
To be inherent in him, by Heaven's will,
For the protection of his innocence;
And the rude boy—who, having overpast
The sinless age, by conscience is enrolled,
Yet mutinously knits his angry brow,

And lifts his wilful hand on mischief bent,
Or turns the godlike faculty of speech

To impious use-by process indirect

Declares his due, while he makes known his need.
-This sacred right is fruitlessly announced,
This universal plea in vain addressed,

To eyes and ears of parents who themselves
Did, in the time of their necessity,

Urge it in vain; and, therefore, like a prayer
That from the humblest floor ascends to heaven,
It mounts to reach the State's parental ear;
Who, if indeed she own a mother's heart,
And be not most unfeelingly devoid

Of gratitude to Providence, will grant
The unquestionable good-which England, safe
From interference of external force,
May grant at leisure; without risk incurred
That what in wisdom for herself she doth,
Others shall e'er be able to undo."

"Yes," he continued, kindling as he spake,
"Change wide, and deep, and silently performed,
This Land shall witness; and as days roll on,
Earth's universal frame shall feel the effect;
Even till the smallest habitable rock,
Beaten by lonely billows, hear the songs
Of humanised society; and bloom

With civil arts, that shall breathe forth their fragrance,
A grateful tribute to all-ruling Heaven.
From culture, unexclusively bestowed
On Albion's noble Race in freedom born,
Expect these mighty issues: from the pains

And faithful care of unambitious schools
Instructing simple childhood's ready ear:
Thence look for these magnificent results!
-Vast the circumference of hope-and ye
Are at its centre, British Lawgivers;

Ah! sleep not there in shame! Shall Wisdom's voice
From out the bosom of these troubled times

Repeat the dictates of her calmer mind,

And shall the venerable halls ye fill

Refuse to echo the sublime decree?

Trust not to partial care a general good;
Transfer not to futurity a work

Of urgent need.-Your Country must complete
Her glorious destiny. Begin even now,
Now, when oppression, like the Egyptian plague
Of darkness, stretched o'er guilty Europe, makes
The brightness more conspicuous that invests
The happy Island where ye think and act;
Now, when destruction is a prime pursuit,
Show to the wretched nations for what end
The powers of civil polity were given."

The poem is closed with vesper thoughts of prayer by the priest as he looks from the slope of Loughrigg Fell upon the sunset over Grasmere Lake:

GRASMERE.

Let Thy Word prevail,

Oh, let Thy Word prevail to take away
The sting of human nature. Spread the law
As it is written in Thy Holy Book
Throughout all lands; let every nation hear
The high behest, and every heart obey;
Both for the love of purity, and hope
Which it affords, to such as do Thy will
And persevere in good that they shall rise
To have a nearer view of Thee in heaven.
- Father of good! this prayer in bounty grant,
In mercy grant it to Thy wretched sons!
Then, nor till then, shall persecution cease,
And cruel wars expire.

In the Third Part of the "Recluse," Wordsworth's plan was to represent the restoration of faith in the

mind of the Solitary, who was to be gradually influenced by the home scenery of Scotland, and the Sabbath song of simple worshippers among his native hills. But he had uttered his main thought in the "Excursion," which will always stand complete in its own strength. Few cared for Wordsworth's poem when it first appeared. A single edition of five hundred copies lasted the public of those days for six years. The next edition of five hundred it took seven years to sell. No matter. When Robert Southey heard of a critic who boasted that he had crushed the "Excursion," Southey exclaimed, "He crush the Excursion!' Tell him he may as well think he can crush Skiddaw!"

86

WAVERLEY,

66

published in 1814, was begun by Walter Scott in 1805, and the second title of the novel, ""TIS SIXTY YEARS SINCE," dates back its action from 1805 to 1745, the memorable year of the gathering of Highlanders in support of the attempt of the Chevalier or Young Pretender. The great success of his metrical romance in 1805 and some discouragement of friendly criticism upon the first chapters of his novel, caused "Waverley" to be put aside. In "the Postscript which should have been a Preface," added to the book when published, Scott wrote of his endeavour to paint life of the Scottish Highlands and Lowlands as it was in the days of the grandfathers of men of his own generation, and as it then survived in many a tradition,-"It has been my object to describe these persons, not by a caricatured and exaggerated use of the national dialect, but by their habits, manners, and feelings; so as in some distant degree to emulate the admirable Irish portraits drawn by Miss Edgeworth, so different from the Teagues" and "dear joys" who so long, with the most perfect family resemblance to each other, occupied the drama and the novel. I feel no confidence, however, in the manner in which I have executed my purpose. Indeed, so little was I satisfied with my production, that I laid it aside in an unfinished state, and only found it again by mere accident among other waste papers in an old cabinet, the drawers of which I was rummaging in order to accommodate a friend with some fishing tackle, after it had been mislaid for several years." The part thus found formed the first volume of the story; the other two volumes were written on the summer evenings between the 4th of June and the 1st of July, 1814, during all which time Scott was attending his duty in court as a Clerk of Session. One of a party of young men left with their wine after dinner in a house within sight of Scott's windows became visibly disturbed. A companion thought he was unwell. "No," he said, "I shall be well enough presently, if you will only let me sit where you are, and take my chair; for there is a confounded hand in sight of me here, which has often bothered me before, and now it won't let me fill my glass with a good will. Since we sat down I have been watching it it fascinates my eye-it never stops-page after page is finished and thrown on that heap of MS. and still it goes on unwearied-and so it will be till

candles are brought in, and I don't know how long after that. It is the same every night-I can't stand a sight of it when I am not at my books." "Some poor dog of an engrossing clerk!" somebody suggested. "No, boys," said the host. "I know whose hand it is 'tis Walter Scott's." It was Scott writing "Waverley." Edward Waverley, the hero of the story, is the son of Richard Waverley, and nephew of Sir Everard Waverley of Waverley Honour, an estate worth ten thousand a year. Sir Everard, the head of the family, had yielded his early love to a friend, who appears towards the close of the story as Colonel Talbot. He is a bachelor at seventy-two, who looks upon his nephew as his son and heir. Sir Everard is a Tory and High Churchman, with goodwill to the Stuarts and no affection for the House of Hanover.

SIR WALTER SCOTT IN 1830. From the Picture by John Watson Gordon.

Richard Waverley, the hero's father, of less generous nature than his elder brother, has swerved from the family politics, and seeks in London political advancement by joining a faction of the Whigs. Edward Waverley spends in youth part of his time with his father, and more with his uncle, so that he has been in relation with two forms of opinion, and trained without definite aims. He is of high spirit, bookish, imaginative, and is in danger of ascribing supernatural beauty to Miss Cecilia Stubbs, when his aunt Rachel and his uncle Everard think he should travel with a tutor on the Continent. But the Government offers to the son of Mr. Richard Waverley, and heir to a great fortune, a captain's commission in Gardiner's regiment of dragoons, stationed at Dundee. With recruits from among the tenantry, thick MSS. of Jacobite reasoning on Church and State from the chaplain, and letters of introduction from his uncle Everard, "To Cosmo Comyne Bradwar

dine, Esq., of Bradwardine, at his principal mansion of Tully Veolan in Perthshire, North Britain;" with a turn for romance, a fertile cultivated mind, and a high sense of honour, but with a will easily led by the course of events, Waverley joined his regiment at Dundee. After some military training, he obtained from his colonel, a brave and religious man, leave of absence from the regiment. "The truth was that the vague and unsatisfactory course of reading which he had pursued, working upon a temper naturally retired and abstracted, had given him that wavering and unsettled habit of mind which is most averse to study and attention." The wavering temper that brings the hero now to one side now to the other in his choice between two parties in war, and between two women in love, probably influenced Scott in the invention of his name, Waverley.

Waverley, having obtained leave of absence from duty, visited his uncle Everard's friend Bradwardine of Tully Veolan, a fine-hearted old pedant, who had seen service as a soldier, and had, through help from Sir Everard, narrowly escaped forfeiture for being out with the rebels in 1715. Here, in an old Scottish manor-house, Waverley had experience of life as it was in 1745 within hail of the Highland border, and first became acquainted with the gentle charms of the Baron Bradwardine's daughter Rose.

After six weeks at Tully Veolan the Baron had his milch cows driven off in the night by a party of caterans, who made a border raid from the Highlands. The chief of the neighbouring Highland clan was Fergus Mac Ivor, called from his estate Glennaquoich, and from a famous ancestor, Son of John the Great, Vich Ian Vohr. There had been an old quarrel between the Baron and Fergus, who protected the goods of Lowland lairds if they paid him for their security. Fergus, after the plunder of Bradwardine, sent his follower Evan Dhu Maccombich, on friendly errand to Bradwardine, renewing old friendship and offering aid in the recovery of the milch cows. Evan Dhu knew the robber and his haunt. Waverley, who had obtained extension of his leave of absence, had his imagination stirred, and gladly took part in the expedition to the fastnesses of Donald Bean Lean the border robber. Donald gave a certain allegiance to Fergus Mac Ivor, but also speculated in diplomacy as well as plunder on his own account. Every chapter of "Waverley" presents a distinct picture to the mind. After the journey with Evan through a Highland glen, and the pause at night on the shore of an unknown lake till a boat manned by four or five Highlanders pushed into a little inlet near them, Waverley took his seat in the boat, and thus was taken to

THE HOLD OF A HIGHLAND ROBBER.

The party preserved silence, interrupted only by the monotonous and murmured chant of a Gaelic song sung in a kind of low recitative by the steersman, and by the dash of the oars, which the notes seemed to regulate as they dipped to them in cadence. The light, which they now approached more nearly, assumed a broader, redder, and more irregular splendour. It appeared plainly to be a large fire, but whether kindled upon an island or the mainland, Edward could not determine. As he saw it, the red glaring orb seemed to rest