Here was evidence that the soul of the poet was settling down, if we may say so, to something like repose, preparatory to the grand aim and purpose of his life. He begins to see that idleness and pleasure will not last--will not serve any end in the world; and that man must be a worker, with high endeavours, if he is indeed to be or do anything worthy of a man.--And this light breaking in upon him, through the twilight of Nature and his own soul, is soothing, consolatory, and hopeful to him. He begins, likewise, to take a fresh interest in the daily occupations of the people around him; read the opinions and thoughts of these plain living people, “now observed with clearer knowledge;” and saw “with another eye” “the quiet woodman in the woods,” and the shepherd roaming over the hills. His love for the grey-headed old dame returns to him again and again in these latter pages of the “Prelude,” and he pictures her as a dear object in the landscape, as she goes to church, ----“Equipped in monumental trim; Short velvet cloak, (her bonnet of the like,) A mantle, such as cavaliers Wore in old time.” And then her ----“smooth domestic life, Affectionate, without disquietude, Her talk, her business pleased me, and no less Her clear, though shallow stream of piety, That ran on Sabbath days a fresher course; With thoughts unfelt till now, I saw her read Her Bible on hot Sunday afternoons, And loved the book, when she had dropped asleep, And made of it a pillow for her head.” It would be impossible to follow the poet in all those minute relations of incident and feeling which run throughout the “Prelude,” during this first vacation amongst the hills.--One anecdote, however, must be told, for it is an inlet into the poet’s nature, and shewed that he had a heart, and deep sympathies also for suffering and poverty, let the critics say what they will. During the autumn, while Wordsworth was wandering amidst the hills round Windermere,--with no living thing in sight, and breathless silence over all,--he was suddenly startled by the appearance of an uncouth shape, in a turning of the road. At first he was a little timid, and perhaps alarmed, for it was close to him, and he knew not what to make of it. The dusky light of the evening increased the mystery, and Wordsworth retreated noiselessly under the shadow of a thick hawthorn, that he might watch it unobserved. It turned out to be a poor wanderer, of tall stature, “A span above man’s common measure, tall, Stiff, lank, and upright; a more meagre man Was never seen before, by day or night. Long were his arms, pallid his hands; his mouth Looked ghastly in the moonlight; from behind A mile-stone propped him up.” He wore a faded military garb, and was quite alone--