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The Excursion,' it appears, is only a portion of a Poem,' and belongs to the second part of a long and laborious work, which is to consist of three parts. This section is published first, because it refers more to passing events, and to an existing state of things, than the others were meant to do ;' nor does it depend on the preceding' so much as to injure its particular interest. The whole work is to be entitled "THE RECLUSE," being a philosophical Poem, containing views of Man, Nature, and Society; and having for its principal Subject the sensations and opinions of a Poet living in retirement.' We are further informed, that the Author has written a preparatory piece, which is biographical, and conducts the history of his mind to the point, when he was emboldened to hope that his faculties were sufficiently matured for entering upon the arduous labour' of constructing a literary work that might live. We love to pry curiously into the secrets of a human heart; and since no living Author affords such familiar and complete access to his heart as Mr. Wordsworth does, we rejoice in every opportunity of visiting and exploring its inexhaustible riches of thought, imagery, and sentiment. How these were originally discovered, and how they have been gradually accumulated, we are desirous of knowing; and it is earnestly to be wished, by all bis admirers, that he will not withhold from them so reasonable a gratification, as this introductory poem has been long finished.

The preface to "The Excursion" concludes with an extract from the preceding portion of the Poem, in which the Author commences his plan, and invokes celestial aid.

Urania, I shall need

hy guidance, or a greater Muse, if such
Descend to earth or dwell in highest heaven!
For I must tread or shadowy ground, must sink
Deep-and, aloft ascending, breathe in worlds
To which the heaven of heavens is but a veil.
All strength-all terror, single or in bands,
That ever was put forth in personal form;
Jehovah with his thunder, and the choir
Of shouting Angels, and the empyreal thrones,
I pass them, unalarmed. Not Chaos, not

The darkest pit of lowest Erebus,

Nor aught of blinder vacancy-scooped out

By help of dreams, can breed such fear and awe

As fall upon us often when we look

Into our Minds, into the Mind of Man,

My haunt, and the main region of my Song.' pp. xi, xii.

We have said, that Mr. Wordsworth discerns throughout Nature an omnipresent Spirit, and that it is sometimes difficult

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to distinguish the reverence which he pays to it, from the homage due to God alone. In the following lines we do not clearly comprehend who is the prophetic spirit,' and who the dread power;' whether they are two or one;-a creature of the imagination, or the Creator himself; or whether the first be not the creature of imagination, and the second the Creator. If the dread power' means not God, it is difficult to imagine how the Author can justify the language which immediately follows that phrase, as addressed to any other being.

-Come thou prophetic Spirit, that inspir'st
The human Soul of universal earth,
Dreaming on things to come; and dost possess
A metropolitan Temple in the hearts
Of mighty Poets; upon me bestow
A gift of genuine insight; that my Song
With star-like virtue in its place may shine;
Shedding benignant influence,-and secure,
Itself, from all malevolent effect

Of those mutations that extend their sway
Throughout the nether sphere!-And if with this
I mix more lowly matter; with the thing
Contemplated, describe the Mind and Man
Contemplating; and who, and what he was,
The transitory Being that beheld

This Vision,-when and where, and how he lived ;—
Be not this labour useless. If such theme

May sort with highest objects, then, dread Power,
Whose gracious favour is the primal source
Of all illumination, may my Life

Express the image of a better time,

More wise desires, and simpler manners;-nurse

My Heart in genuine freedom :-all pure thoughts
Be with me ;-so shall thy unfailing love

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Guide, and support, and cheer me to the end?' pp. xiii. xiv. Nothing can be more artless than the narrative, or externally more unpretending than the characters of The Excursion nor would any thing be more easy (according to the fashionable practice of reviewers) than, with that insidious candour, which tells the truth so as to insinuate a lie, and secure a false impression, to detail the story, and exhibit the persons in such a manner as to cast unmerited ridicule both on the Author and on his subject. With us, however, it is no self-denial to forego the occasion of attempting to shine at the expense of genius such as Mr. Wordsworth's. Selecting men of low estate, and incidents of every-day occurrence, he throws around both such a colouring of imagination as to exalt them far above the stalking heroes, and monstrous adventures of romance. His powers are pecu

liar; his descriptions, his figures, his similes, and his reflections, are all homogeneous and unique. He writes almost as if he had never read, and while he unperceivedly avails himself of the experience and wisdom of others, he seems to utter only his own observations from his own knowledge. Corresponding with this originality of mind, he has invented a style more intellectual than that of any of his contemporaries, and in contradiction to his own theory, (See the Preface to Lyrical Ballads, &c.) as different from the most energetic language of ordinary minds in excitement, as the strain of his argument is elevated above vulgar reasoning. Hence this poem is not more distinguished by depth, compass, and variety of speculation, than by exquisite choice of ornament, and inimitably appropriate diction, The poet possesses the rare felicity of seizing the evanescent forms of thought, at any moment of their change, and fixing them in any point of view, in phraseology so perfect, that the words seem rather the thoughts themselves made palpable, than the symbols of thoughts. No difficulty of mastering his conceptions ever discourages him from attempting the full expression of them; he resolutely faces his subject, fastens on it, wrestles with it, and never quits it till he has won his whole purpose. This may be the true secret of his superiority; others, his equals perhaps in genius, are sooner weary of labour, or impatient of delay, and content themselves with less than the highest attainable reward; Mr. Wordsworth seems always to do his best; he is not satisfied with conquering, he must also triumph. We will offer one example of his success in subduing a most untractable thought, and enriching himself with its spoils.

I have seen

A curious Child, who dwelt upon a tract
Of inland ground, applying to his ear
The convolutions of a smooth-lipped Shell
To which, in silence hushed, his very soul
Listened intensely; and his countenance soon
Brightened with joy; for murmurings from within
Were heard, sonorous cadences! whereby,
To his belief, the Monitor expressed
Mysterious union with its native Sea.
Even such a Shell the Universe itself
Is to the ear of Faith; and there are times,
I doubt not, when to You it doth impart
Authentic tidings of invisible things;
Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power;
And central peace, subsisting at the heart
Of endless agitation. Here you stand,

Adore, and worship, when you know it not;
Pious beyond the intention of your thought;

Devout above the meaning of your will. p. 191, 192.

We doubt whether any other living writer could have so gracefully presented the image, or so sublimely applied it to elucidate a mysterious subject.

In love there is a certain charm, which renders all things lovely to the eye or the fancy of the lover: the beauty, which he follows with fondness, leaves its light on every object where it has shone. Some such ineffable spell Mr. Wordsworth possesses; the meanest circumstance he raises into dignity; to the homeliest features he communicates grace; whatever, in Nature, Man, or Society,' was indifferent to us before, becomes interesting and romantic, when it comes under his notice. He says, in his introduction,

Beauty, a living Presence of the earth,
Surpassing the most fair ideal Forms,
Which craft of delicate Spirits hath composed
From earth's materials-waits upon my steps;
Pitches her tents before me as I move,
An hourly neighbour. Paradise, and groves
Elysian, Fortunate Fields-like those of old
Sought in the Atlantic Main, why should they be
A history only of departed things,

Or a mere fiction of what never was?
For the discerning intellect of Man,
When wedded to this goodly universe

In love and holy passion shall find these

A simple produce of the common day.' p. xii.

Neither is our praise extravagant, nor is this boasting of the Poet self delusion. The reader who is not affected in the manner we have intimated, will be but very slightly affected by the tenderness, the tranquillity, and the grandeur united, which give inexpressible repose amidst animation, to the scenes and the sentiments of this poem,

On a summer forenoon, the Author walks across a common to a ruined cottage, in a grove, where he meets an ancient friend, of whom he gives some account. This personage, who is distinguished by the appellation of The Wanderer,' was born in Scotland, of poor parents; but having received the rudiments of a plain education, and feeling within himself the motions of a mighty Spirit, that would not let him take root in his native mountain, he becomes one of those travelling merchants—a race now almost extinctre wont to carry their shops on their backs, and who wer amiliarly known in the north of England,

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by the name of Scotchmen.' These itinerants performed their stated rounds as regularly as the seasons, passing from village to village, and calling on families, whom they furnished with drapery and other small wares for use or finery. It was one of the most daring experiments in modern poetry, to make a quondam Pedlar the hero of a literary work, that might live;' and we will venture to say it has been one of the most successful. Our readers will observe with what ease the Poet lifts him above his mean estate, and invests him with that moral and intellectual dignity, which is not hereditary in the palaces of Princes, but which Nature, or rather the God of Nature, in his sovereign bounty, bestows on select individuals, few in number, remote in locality, distant in time, and scattered through every rank of life.

• From his sixth year, the Boy of whom I speak,
In summer, tended cattle on the Hills;
But, through the inclement and the perilous days
Of long-continuing winter, he repaired

To his Step-father's School, that stood alone,
Sole Building on a mountain's dreary edge,
Far from the sight of City spire, or sound
Of Minster clock! From that bleak Tenement
He, many an evening to his distant home
In solitude returning, saw the Hills
Grow larger in the darkness, all alone
Beheld the stars come out above his head,

And travelled through the wood, with no one near
To whom he might confess the things he saw.
So the foundations of his mind were laid.
In such communion, not from terror free,
While yet a Child, and long before his time,
He had perceived the presence and the power
Of greatness; and deep feelings had impress'd
Great objects on his mind, with portraiture
And colour so distinct, that on his mind
They lay like substances, and almost seemed
To haunt the bodily sense. He had received
(Vigorous in native genius as he was)

A precious gift; for, as he grew in years,
With these impressions would he still compare
All his remembrances, thoughts, shapes, and forms;
And, being still unsatisfied with aught
Of dimmer character, he thence attaind
An active power to fasten images

Upon his brain; and on their pictured lines
Intensely brooded, even till they acquired
The liveliness of dreams. Nor did he fail,
While yet a Child, with a Child's eagernes■

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