head. His attitude to Napoleon proves that. When he had recovered from the despair of 1793 and the following years, a political faith, founded on reason, and inseparable from his philosophy of life, kept him shrewd and steady ever after. His faith, which changed only in details, if at all, from that which had made him a champion of the Revolution, was in nationalities. The soil and the virtues of the soil are his constant cry; he preaches them alike in the great sonnets of the Napoleonic wars and when a railway threatens the mountains of the Lake district. He believed intensely in nationality, because he believed intensely that there was a national spirit and national virtues, the national "soul" as he calls them, which demanded and thrived in a state of freedom. That is the burden of all the sonnets of 1808 to 1811. Crowns, armies, learning, wealth, even "moral prudence"-nothing is of value except this national soul.

Winds blow and waters roll, Strength to the brave, and Power, and Deity;

Yet in themselves are nothing! One decree

Spake laws to them, and said that by the soul

Only, the Nations shall be great and free.

He sums it all up in the last sonnet but one of the series:

The power of Armies is a visible thing,

Formal, and circumscribed in time and

space;

But who the limits of that power shall trace

Which a brave People into light can bring

Or hide, at will,-for freedom combating

By just revenge inflamed? No foot may chase,

No eye can follow, to a fatal place That power, that spirit, whether on the wing

MoU

Like the strong wind, or sleeping like the wind

Within its awful caves.-From year to year

Springs this indigenous produce far and near;

No craft this subtle element can bind, Rising like water from the soil, to find In every nook a lip that it may cheer.

It was the faith in the ultimate victory of this national soul over tyranny that enabled him to hope on, and even to rejoice when, in 1806, the English were "the last that dare to struggle with the Foe." And it was no visionary aspiration, of the kind which draws men away from the praises of their country to sing of deeds and heroes of the past, or to build themselves remote palaces of art. Wordsworth's thought worked

Not in Utopia,-subterranean fields,Or some secreted island, Heaven knows where!

But in the very world, which is the world

Of all of us,-the place where, in the end,

We find our happiness, or not at all!

Though he wrote his pamphlet on the Convention of Cintra, "not 'mid the world's vain objects that enslave," but in the "school sublime" of "mighty Nature," he philosophized not "in the air," but with an eye that meanwhile was noting every detail of the actual struggle.

It almost follows from this attitude of mind that his poetry is concerned comparatively little with battles and victories. He saw through and beyond success and failure in the field. And in that Ode on the Great Thanksgiving which, in spite of the terrible lines about the "tubed engine" in church, is one of the finest odes in the language, he speaks very straight on the subject. As in defeat his "pure song" had not shrunk from "the paramount duty" of hope, so in victory his joy was tem

pered and fortified by humility based still on his reasoned faith in God and man. It is this unity of principle which gives its permanence and its value to Wordsworth's patriotic poetry. And for its beauty, the sluggishness which needed a strong stimulus found it in the agonies of those tremendous years. In quoting, we have been forced here and there to mutilate; and the desire to incorporate almost every sonnet of the 1802-1803, or the 1808The Times.

1811 periods has led, perhaps, to a selection made on philosophic rather than poetic grounds. The form checked Wordsworth's tendency to redundance; the spirit that fired him was at once intense and exalted. If Wordsworth was happy in being an Englishman in those great days, England is happy in having had a poet to sing her achievement so temperately, so wisely, and so loftily as Wordsworth.

The little village of Oakleigh appeared to be holding a special spring festival of its own when old Robert Inkpen betook himself homewards for the midday meal. The dozen or so of ancient irregularly built houses clinging to the steep hillside were embowered in blossom, while the little gardens to the rear of each were enlivened by patches of wallflowers and early stocks, primroses and forget-me-nots; here and there a few lingering daffodils and jonquils lent a special brightness. Moreover, it being Monday, the budding hedges were bespread with newly washed linen, while from the lines overhead a variety of dangling garments added their share of picturesqueness to the scene. Blue shirts, pink pinafores, here a fine scarlet petticoat, yonder a man's nankeen jacketthe lighter objects occasionally fluttering in the brisk breeze, the heavier ones flapping and swaying; there was color and activity everywhere.

But old Robert's keen blue eyes gazed neither to right nor left; they looked fixedly, almost vengefully, in front of them, out of their network of lines; the mouth, too, was pinched and resolute: it was easy to guess that the old man was evolving some weighty purpose as he stumped along.

Turning in at a battered little wooden gate set midway in a hedge that was partly of privet and partly of furze (the latter all ablaze with bloom), he went quickly up the flagged path bordered with polyanthuses, and throwing open the house door, burst into the kitchen.

"What's this I do hear about a ploughin'-match?" he inquired, throwing his hat on the table.

Mrs. Inkpen, a meek old woman in a faded print dress and limp sun-bonnet, cast a timid and deprecating glance upon her lord.

"What ploughin'-match?" she stammered, making the query obviously with the desire to gain time.

"Be there more than one?" retorted Robert sarcastically.

"Fred Stuckhey telled I to-day all about it. He did stop outside the field· where I were hedgin', an' he telled I how 'twas all settled an' the names gived in an' all. There, to think as I did never hear one word about it! He could scarce believe it. 'Well!' he says, 'that be a-servin' of 'ee bad, you as did used to be the champion plougher, too.' But as I did say to en, 'I do know very well why 'twas kep' a secret from I,' an' I do know.-Where's

Lyddy?"

"She be gone for your beer-she'll be back in a minute."

Mrs. Inkpen nervously removed her "master's" hat from among the plates and knives and forks in the center of the table, and began to arrange these in orderly fashion. Dinner would be ready in a minute, and Robert had not yet, according to his usual custom, performed his ablutions at the tap, but she did not dare remind him of the fact; he sat with his gnarled, earthy hands folded on the head of his stick, his mouth pursed, and his eyes riveted on the open doorway.

Presently the little gate creaked on its hinges, and Lyddy's trim figure came in sight; a slender lassie with a complexion as pink and white as apple-blossom, and hair that flamed in the sunshine.

"Halloa, father!" cried she. "You'm early to-day."

"Halloa, hussy!" rejoined he with terrible emphasis. "I do 'low I be early. I comed home early a-purpose. I've a word or two to say to 'ee. You'm fond enough o' tittle-tattlin' when there be nothin' to tattle about, but you go an' keep sich a piece o' news as this here about the ploughin' match a secret from your father, what had the best right to know. Come now, what did 'ee do that for?"

Lyddy's face became suffused with guilty roses; she glanced appealingly at her mother, but receiving no help from that quarter, endeavored to carry off the situation by a desperate attempt at unconcern.

"There now, didn't I tell 'ee about the ploughin' match? Well, I wonder what I can ha' been thinkin' on. It's to be on Thursday week in the big field at back of the Black Horse, an' the prize be a silver watch. Ye'll like to go an' look at it, won't ye, father?"

"I be a-goin' for to do more nor that," rejoined Robert sternly. "I be a-goin' for to com-pete. That do surprise 'ee,

I d' 'low," he added. "You didn't think I'd be likely to want to do sich a thing, did ye? Else ye mid ha' chanced to mention it, midn't ye? It wasn't along o' not wantin' me to com-pete that ye kep' it a secret, was it?"

He fired off these queries with a mixture of severity and slyness, delivering the last, however, with a kind of roar that was nothing if not terrifying. Both women were loud in protestation against the accusation, but Lyddy grew pinker and pinker, and Mrs. Inkpen's hands trembled over their work. They just hadn't chanced to think of naming the matter. How could they suppose he'd be that much upset about it? Of course if they'd known he'd mind one way or another they would certainly have told him.

Robert rose, and marching solemnly across the room, pointed with his stick to three small frames which hung beside the chimney-piece.

"D'ye see this here?" he inquired, designating the first. "What do it say? It do say as Robert Inkpen was the winner o' Oakleigh Ploughin' Match in the year eighteen hundred an' fifty-four. I were but a lad then, an' we ploughed wi' oxen-ah, 'twas a curious sight that. Well, an' see here again. In eighteen hundred an' sixtyeight Robert Inkpen won Oakleigh Ploughin' Match again; an' in eighteen hundred an' ninety-two, which was the last time there was a ploughin' match held in Oakleigh, I done the same thing. Folks did allus say I were the Ploughin' Champion o' Oakleigh village. An' now it seems there's goin' to be another ploughin' match in Oakleigh-in memory o' old times they do tell I Parson do say-an' if it hadn't ha' been for chance the Oakleigh champion 'ud have heard nothin' about it till 'twas too late to com-pete. There must be a reason for that, an' I do know the reason very well-you'm afeared as the wold Champion 'ull win

the prize again as he did win it afore. There's somebody else what you do want to win the prize, Lyddy. A body don't need the wisdom o' King Solomon to guess that."

Again the duet of protest and denial was renewed, and received by the old man with equal incredulity.

"There, no need to tell lies about it," he remarked, gradually recovering his good humor at the sight of their discomfiture; "I do know all about it, an' there bain't a bit o' use tryin' for to deceive I. James Fry reckons he'll have it all his own way and carry off the prize same as he do reckon to carry you off, Lyddy, my maid; wi'out enough, nor half enough, to keep ye, an' a poor match every way. He do think he need only crook his finger at ye an' ye'll march off wi' he-an' I reckon ye'd be soft enough to do it too, if ye hadn't a-got your old father to look after ye."

A dead pause ensued, and Robert wagged his head sagaciously.

"Ye haven't much to say, have ye?" he cried triumphantly. "Ye reckoned ye'd nothin' to do but hold your tongues about the ploughin' match, an' Master James 'ud carry all before en; but I've put a spoke in his wheel for once. I've a-wrote my name down, an' 'tis me what'll win the prize, same as I did win the other prizes, an' Master Jim 'ull jist have to do without it."

Mother and daughter looked at each other in silence; and after a pause Mrs. Inkpen, in a small, insinuating voice, informed her husband that diuner was ready.

The meal was a somewhat gloomy one, but every now and then Robert cast a triumphant glance at his womenkind, obviously congratulating himself on the skill with which he had asserted his own rights and routed the pretensions of his rival.

Even after he had left the house, Mrs. Inkpen spoke in a whisper.

"He's altogether unfit for it," she said. "It'll fair break his heart if he don't win."

"How can he win?" returned Lyddy, not without a certain pride amid her discomfiture. "He mid ha' been able to get the better of a few old folks, but I don't see how he can look to beat Jim. Everybody do say there's never been Jim's match in the parish."

"If he and your father started out i' the wold days he wouldn't ha' found it so easy to beat en," said Mrs. Inkpen, with some indignation. "But at father's time o' life-goin' on seventy, and so scraggled as he be wi' the rheumatics, he must be mad to think on't. An' what he'll do when he finds hisself beat I can't think. He never could abear to be beat in anything, and he did always reckon hisself champion at the ploughin'."

"Well, 'tis a very bad job, I'm sure," groaned Lyddy. "Father's set enough again Jim as it be, wi'out this-I'd 'low this'll about finish his chance."

"Ah, but I'm thinkin' o' father hisself," returned the mother, shaking her head. "He be so down on us, along o' thinkin' we kep' it from him to prevent his winnin', when all we wanted was to prevent his losin'. But you'm right for one thing," she added, with a certain gloomy satisfaction, "It'll put an end to Jim's coortin'-the poor chap 'ull never be let cross the door again. Dear to be sure, I can't think whatever put it into Parson's head to start this here match! I'm sure the menfolks is ready enough to get fightin' an' quarrelin' for nothin' wi'out the Reverend settin' 'em by the ears. I be sorry for 'ee, Lyddy, my dear, but I be afeard ye'll have to say goodbye to Jim."

Lyddy pondered with a downcast face, as she removed the dinner things; but presently her mother heard her singing in a cheerful voice as she washed them up at the sink.

"I'm sure I'm glad you be a-brightenin' up a bit, my dear," she called out.

"I've got a plan," rejoined Lyddy, and hurrying up to her mother she caught her face in her damp hands and whispered in her ear.

"That's a good notion, bain't it?" she ended triumphantly. "That'll make it all right."

"It will," conceded Mrs. Inkpen, doubtfully, "if he'll agree."

In the afternoon Lyddy pulled down her sleeves, put on a clean apron over the print that was still crackling in its Monday freshness, and betook herself to the top of the lane to wait till Jim should stroll that way, as he generally did when his work was done.

Presently his tall active figure came in sight, swinging along at a brisk pace which quickened as he saw her.

"You'm in very good time to-day, maidie," he remarked, after the first amenities. "I thought I was early an' reckoned I'd have to hang about for a bit."

"I made so much haste as I could," rejoined Lyddy, disengaging herself. "I've summat to tell 'ee."

"No bad noos, I hope?" said Jim anxiously.

Jim's face relaxed into a slow smile. "Be that what he do think?"

"He do. He've reg'lar made up his mind he be a-goin' to beat ye-an' I'll tell ye summat, Jim-he must beat ye." "What?" cried Jim, falling back aghast.

"Ye'll have to let him beat ye," repeated Lyddy firmly; "ye'll have to let him beat ye for love o' me."

"Well, but" the young man began, and then stopped short in mingled wrath and consternation.

"It be a good deal to ask," resumed Lyddy, "but when I do tell 'ee 'tis for my sake ye'll not think it too much. Father have always been again ye, Jim, fro' the first," she added with extreme candor, "an' if you do go an’ win the prize what he've a-set his heart on, an' shame him what used to be the champion, he'll never let I speak to ye again-an' what's more it'll kill him like as not, an' then I myself 'ull be forced to hate ye."

Though young Fry was evidently struck by this latter argument, he was not altogether convinced of its justice. He gazed at the girl with a somewhat lowering brow, scratching his jaw meditatively the while.

"It be pretty cool of ye to say that, my maid," he remarked; "you do seem to be pretty cool altogether-jist about cool," he added with increasing indignation. "I be to make a fool of myself before the whole parish jist to please your father what had never so much as a civil word for me."

"Not to please my father," rejoined Lyddy, with dignity, "to please me. Ye did always talk so much about bein' wishful for to please me, an' now as I do show ye how to do it ye hang back.” "How can I help hangin' back?" cried the poor young fellow. "There, I d' 'low it bain't right what ye want I to do. It do seem to be a kind o' cheatin'. The folks as come to look on reckons everyone be a-doin' his best