SUTHERLAND
WILLIAM
WORDSWORTH
828
W930
$9
1892
B 969,028

PROPERTY OF THB
University of
Michigan
Libraries
1817
ARTES
SCIENTIA VERITAS
828
W930
$9:
1892
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
425-56
The Story of his Life,
WITH CRITICAL REMARKS ON HIS WRITINGS.
+
BY
JAMES MIDDLETON SUTHERLAND.
二
​'He
gave us eyes, he gave us ears,
And humble cares, and delicate fears;
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
And love, and thought, and joy.'
'Blessings be with him, and eternal praise,
Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares-
The Poet, who on earth has made us heirs
Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays !'
SECOND EDITION,
REVISED AND ENLARGED.
LONDON :
ELLIOT STOCK, 62, PATERNOSTER ROW.
1892.
[All rights reserved.]
Dedication.
TO MY WIFE.
To thee, Beloved, nearest, dearest, best,
As unto one whose meed is honour great,
With all its faults, nor few nor small confest,
This story of a life I dedicate.
Thou knowest, for thy presence still was nigh,
With what delight the pages have been penned,
And how the poet's golden lays supply
My mind with feasts of fancy without end.
Take, HARRIE, then, unworthy tho' it be,
In token of my love, this book of mine,
Which owes in part its origin to thee,
And hence 'tis meet our names should thus entwine.
Come weal or woe, success or failure all,
United, steadfast, let us stand or fall.
AT THE GRAVE OF WORDSWORTH.
(November 9, 1887.)
The world doth sadly need such hearts as thine,
High Priest in Nature's temple, now at rest;
Among thy lovers do I stand confest;
Thy lays, a glorious legacy, are mine.
In thee I see a genius half divine,
A man whose love for Man was deep, sincere ;
In purpose fixed and strong, in vision clear;
Singer at once and sage-in feeling fine.
Tho' dead thou speakest, noble minstrel, seer;
For thy inspiring verse no more can die
Than can thy spirit gone to God who gave.
Accept my homage as I linger here,
Between thy sacred ashes and the sky,
And humbly place this wreath upon thy grave.
ON REVISITING THE SAME.
(September 17, 1889.)
Again, great bard, on this September day,
I gaze upon thy grave, to memory dear,
Believing it is good to linger here
And meditate above thy sacred clay.
How noble wert thou, One alone can say,
How just, how gentle, patient to the end!-
The foe of none that lived, of all the friend,
Thy bright ensample ne'er shall pass away.
Sleep on, sweet soul, thine earthly task is done,
Thy song in hearts untold hath found a shrine,
And will while stand the everlasting hills;
Sustaining, cheering many a weary one,
Dispelling care, and doubt, and 'fear that kills,'
And giving joy, and hope, and peace divine.
1
PREFACE.
IN issuing this unpretending volume on William
Wordsworth, I need offer but few prefatory
remarks.
Whilst there are, as is well known, several indis-
pensable hand-books on this great meditative poet,
all more or less elaborate and exhaustive in their
way, there is, perhaps, none that is precisely what
this professes to be-a popular story of his life;
and it is in the hope of supplying one, however
humble, that this condensed monograph, the
writing of which has indeed been a labour of love,
is given to the public.
The Memoirs of William Wordsworth,' by the
poet's nephew, the Right Rev. Christopher Words-
worth, D.D., late Lord Bishop of Lincoln, and the
'Biography,' by the late Rev. E. Paxton Hood, are
viii
PREFACE.
daily becoming more scarce, having long been out
of print, and there would appear to be little likeli-
hood that publications of such magnitude will be
reissued; and it is believed that many will find
leisure to peruse this brief sketch who would,
doubtless, be deterred from reading volumes of
greater length and merit.
'Poets,' it has been well said, ' are the unacknow-
ledged legislators of the world,' and the name of
Wordsworth has grown to be a power in the land
that even he in his most ambitious moments never
could have anticipated; whilst his influence on the
spirit of the age, and on readers of all kinds—
perhaps more especially on the young-is simply
incalculable. To know something, therefore, of
such a man, is not only essential, but desirable to
a degree; and the present work, within its limited
compass, contains, in general at least, accurate and
comprehensive information on, at all events, the
leading incidents in his prolonged and truly
honourable career.
Wordsworth is not the poet of passion and senti-
ment, but rather-and this is his praise-of reflec
tion, purity, and humanity; and it is good at
times, particularly in these nineteenth-century
PREFACE.
ix
days of life-at-high-pressure-when, in the words
of Pope, we have 'too much thinking to have
common thought'-for man to be alone; to with-
draw himself at intervals from his fellows; and to
commune with Nature and with his own heart.
I have to acknowledge my deep indebtedness to
a large number of authorities, too extensive to
mention in a preface; and if I have inadvertently
made use of any copyright matter without the
necessary permission, I must ask those interested
to accept the expression of my unfeigned regret,
and to grant their kind indulgence. I have not
wilfully trespassed in this respect. To F. W. H.
Myers, Esq., author of the excellent volume on
Wordsworth, published in the English Men of Letters
Series, I have to avow my hearty and special
thanks for his cheerful consent to give the extract
from the important letter of Dorothy Wordsworth,
with reference to 'The White Doe of Rylstone,
and any others I might require to make.
I desire also to embrace this-the earliest-op-
portunity of publicly thanking, most cordially, Miss
Quillinan, of Loughrigg Holme, Rydal; the Rev.
Henry M. Fletcher, Rector of Grasmere; J. Fleming
Green, Esq., of Grasmere; and Robert Crewdson,
PREFACE.
Esq., of Rydal Mount; for their generous kindness,
and for the valuable assistance afforded by one and
all, during my recent visit to the Lake District.
If the perusal of this biography lead to any of
its readers making or renewing their acquaintance
with the imperishable writings of the poet, and
impart but a tithe of the pleasure experienced by
me in its composition, I shall accomplish the
objects I had in view throughout, and be more
than abundantly rewarded.
'He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
Who dares not put it to the touch,
To win or lose it all.'
J. M. S.
November 1887.
PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
IN sending forth a further edition of this little
book, I have to express my heart-felt thanks for
the support accorded by the public to the first
edition, and for the favourable reception granted
to the same by the press in general throughout the
country. A selection of critical opinions will be
found at the close of the volume.
Though substantially the same as when it origin-
ally appeared, the contents have yet been consider-
ably enlarged, while the entire work has been
carefully and minutely revised, with the result
that it is now, I trust, more worthy not only of
the attention of the reader, but also of the exalted
subject of which it treats.
The longer I meditate on the life and writings
of Wordsworth-who wrote, as the great Apelles
painted, for eternity!-the more am I constrained
to admire and venerate his ennobling character as
a man and his transcendent genius as a poet; and
it is to me a source of intense satisfaction to feel
xii
PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
that I have done something, however little, to
extend the increasing circle of his fame. The
value of Wordsworth as a poet can be adequately
estimated only by those who really love him and
are in sympathy with him, and, happily, they are
by no means few; still, it is undeniable that there
are thousands and tens of thousands who, to
quote his own glowing language,
'Speak the tongue
That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold
Which Milton held,'
to whom his works, in which they would find
comfort and consolation, are, even yet, practically
a sealed book. That such should be the case,
'cannot but make the judicious grieve'; all true
Wordsworthians must, therefore, hail with pleasure
every effort to bring him closer to the masses.
Whether I shall at some future time expand the
scope of this biography is at present doubtful;
meanwhile, I have the gratifying assurance—so
ungrudgingly given-of one of the most competent
critics of the day, that into its pages I have com-
pressed 'a general statement of all that it concerns
the public to know of the life of one of the first
of English poets.' To that public I commend the
work.
1892.
J. M. S.
¡
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
Some tributes to Wordsworth's eminence as a poet-
His birth (April 7, 1770) and parentage-His mother
dies (1778)-Is sent to the Grammar School, Hawks-
head, where he makes his first attempts at poetry-
His impressions of his mother-Early days at Penrith
and Cockermouth-His boyish pastimes described—
His father dies (1783)-Is sent to Cambridge (Oct.,
1787)-Does not like the restraint of university life-
Studies Italian and the earlier English poets-Enjoys
life at the university-Spends his first summer vaca-
tion in the Vale of Esthwaite-His self-dedication to
Nature-Writes An Evening Walk,' etc.-In 1790,
his last vacation, makes a tour through France, Swit-
zerland, and the North of Italy-Takes his B. A.
degree (Jan., 1791), and quits the university
CHAPTER II.
-
Wordsworth makes a tour in North Wales-Is urged
to enter the Church-His misgivings-He revisits
France (Nov., 1791) during the Revolution - His
sympathy with the movement-Becomes a patriot-
Associates with the military officers in Paris-Forms
a friendship with Beaupuis at Orleans-Proceeds
thence to Blois-Returns to Paris, and finds France
a Republic-Hears Robespierre denounced-Is com-
pelled to return to England-Is again urged to em-
brace the clerical profession-Obstacles in the way
-Deplores the results of the Revolution-Is opposed
to the Bar-Annoyance of his relatives-'An Even-
ing Walk' (1793)—' Descriptive Sketches' (1793)—
Visits the Isle of Wight, where Raisley Calvert lies
ill-Spends his time afterwards in visiting his friends
-His dreary prospects-Contemplates starting the
Philanthropist-Hears of the fall of Robespierre —
His thankfulness thereupon-Is reduced to extremity,
PAGE
1
xiv
CONTENTS.
PAGE
and seeks employment on the Metropolitan press-
Raisley Calvert dies, and bequeaths him £900 (1795)—
Is restored to the companionship of his sister Dorothy 18
CHAPTER III.
Wordsworth settles with his sister at Racedown Lodge,
near Crewkerne, Dorsetshire (1795)-Devotes himself
assiduously to poetry--His style of living-Is visited
by Coleridge (June, 1797)—Descriptions of Coleridge
-Coleridge's impressions of Wordsworth, and his de-
scription of Dorothy Wordsworth-Her influence on
Wordsworth-Removes to Alfoxden (July, 1797)—
Composes the 'Lyrical Bal'ads '-Makes a tour in
Devonshire Origin of 'The Ancient Mariner'
Completes his tragedy of The Borderers,' which is
rejected-Coleridge's account of the origin of the
'Lyrical Ballads Wordsworth becomes acquainted
with Charles and Mary Lamb, and Hazlitt-Descrip-
tion of Wordsworth by the latter
CHAPTER IV.
The Lyrical Ballads' (1798) - Wordsworth, accom-
panied by his sister and Coleridge, sets out for Germany
(September, 1798)-Coleridge parts from them at
Hamburg-They winter at Goslar, where he produces
some charming poems-Commences The Prelude 'on
leaving Goslar (February, 1799)-Returns to England
Resides no more at Alfoxden-Makes a tour into
Cumberland and Westmoreland--Visits Grasmere
with Coleridge-Settles there with his sister (Decem-
ber, 1799)
CHAPTER V.
Grasmere described-Dove Cottage-' Lyrical Ballads,'
in two volumes (1800)-Wordsworth is visited by his
brother John-His great poetic period (1795-1800)
referred to-Is visited by Coleridge (August, 1800)—
Life at Dove Cottage-Visits France with his sister
CHAPTER VI.
•
Wordsworth marries (October 4, 1802)-His poetical
tributes to his wife-His children-Makes acquain-
tance of De Quincey-De Quincey's description of
Wordsworth-Visits Scotland with his sister (August,
1803)-Becomes acquainted with Scott-His friend-
34
54
69
CONTENTS.
XV
ship with Southey-Sir George Beaumont — His
brother John dies (1805)-Scott visits Grasmere-
'The Prelude' and 'The Waggoner' finished
CHAPTER VII.
'Poems in Two Volumes' (1807)-The Lake School-
Wordsworth takes up his abode at Coleorton, Leices-
tershire-Visits London with his wife, and returns
with Scott (1807)-Removes into Allan Bank, Gras-
mere (1808)-'Essay on the Convention of Cintra'
(1809) Contributes Essay on Epitaphs' to the
Friend (1810)-Writes introduction to 'Select Views
in Cumberland, Westmoreland, and Lancashire'
Resides temporarily at the Parsonage House, Grasmere
(1811) -His little daughter Catharine dies (June 4,
1812), and his second son, Thomas (December 1,
1812)
CHAPTER VIII.
-
Wordsworth removes to Rydal Mount (1813)-Descrip-
tion of the same-Is appointed Distributor of Stamps
for Westmoreland-Declines the Collectorship of
Whitehaven "The Excursion' (1814) - ' Poems:
including Lyrical Ballads,' etc., in two volumes (1815)
"The White Doe of Rylstone' (1815)-Extracts
from the poem -
CHAPTER IX.
-
Wordsworth's domestic happiness Leigh Hunt's
account of his appearance-His literary friendships
-His brother Richard dies (1816)-'Peter Bell' (1819)
'The Waggoner' (1819)-'The River Duddon,' etc.
(1820)—Visits Switzerland and Italy, and, returning,
narrowly escapes shipwreck (1820)-Is thrown from
his horse and seriously injured (1822)—' Memorials
of a tour on the Continent, 1820' (1822)- Ecclesias-
tical Sketches' (1822)-Visits Belgium and Holland
(1823)-Makes a tour in North Wales (1824)-His
library-His habit of reading and correcting his own
poems-Sir George Beaumont dies, and bequeaths him
an annuity of £100 (1827)-Makes an excursion with
his daughter and Coleridge into Flanders (1828)—
Visits Ireland (1829)-His eldest son marries (1830)—
Visits Sir Walter Scott at Abbotsford (1831)-Death
of Scott (1832) -
PAGE
86
106
126
143
xvi
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER X.
Wordsworth visits the Isle of Man en route for Scotland
(1833)-Poems and incidents relating to the Island-
Coleridge dies (July 25, 1834)-Charles Lamb dies
(Dec. 27, 1834)-Loses several friends by death
(1835)-Yarrow Revisited, and other Poems' (1835)
-'Evening Voluntaries '-His alleged Pantheism.
Sarah Hutchinson dies (1836)—Visits Italy (1837)—
'The Sonnets of William Wordsworth' (1838) Uni-
versities of Durham and Oxford confer D.C.L. degrees
upon him (1838-1839)-Is acknowledged to be the
greatest living poet-Is visited by Mrs. Sigourney
(1840)-Meets with an alarming accident-His darling
daughter, Dora, marries Edward Quillinan (1841)-
Makes a farewell excursion in Devonshire and
Somersetshire -'Sonnets upon the Punishment of
Death' (1841)-Classified collection of his poems in
six volumes (1842)-' Poems: chiefly of Early and
Late Years, including "The Borderers, a Tragedy
(1842)-Resigns the Distributorship of Stamps-Is
awarded by the Crown a pension of £300 per annum
CHAPTER XI.
"""
-
Southey dies (March 21, 1843)-Wordsworth is ap-
pointed Poet Laureate-Jeffrey's 'Essays' republished
Is presented to the Queen (1845)-Reference to
Dorothy, his invalid sister-His brother Christopher
dies (1846)-Is nominated for the Lord Rectorship of
Glasgow University-His younger son marries (1847)
-Dora Quillinan dies (July 9, 1847)-Hartley Cole-
ridge dies (1849)— Daily life at Rydal Mount-
Mr. Ellis Yarnall's account of the poet's appearance
-Anecdotes of Wordsworth
CHAPTER XII.
P
Wordsworth attends Divine Service at Rydal Chapel
for the last time (March 10, 1850)-Is taken ill two
days later, and dies in his eighty-first year (April 23,
1850)-Is interred in Grasmere Churchyard-Inscrip-
tion on his tombstone-Text of tablet in the church
CHAPTER XIII.
On Wordsworth's Poetry
-
PAGE
162
182
201
- 211
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
CHAPTER I.
'At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel,
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school.'
-Shakespeare.
Some tributes to Wordsworth's eminence as a poet-His
birth (April 7, 1770) and parentage-His mother dies
(1778)-Is sent to the Grammar School, Hawkshead,
where he makes his first attempts at poetry-His impres-
sions of his mother-Early days at Penrith and Cocker-
mouth-His boyish pastimes described-His father dies
(1783)—Is sent to Cambridge (Oct., 1787)-Does not like
the restraint of university life-Studies Italian and the
earlier English poets-Enjoys life at the university-
Spends his first summer vacation in the Vale of Esthwaite
His self-dedication to Nature-Writes 'An Evening
Walk,'etc.-In 1790, his last vacation, makes a tour through
France, Switzerland, and the North of Italy-Takes his
B.A. degree (Jan., 1791), and quits the university.
It has been well said, 'What a glorious gift God
bestows on a nation when He gives them a poet!'
1
2
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
and William Wordsworth is, by common consent,
one of the brightest stars in the firmament of
English literature. Let us be quite clear, in start-
ing, upon this point.
Southey says of him: A greater poet than
Wordsworth there never has been, nor ever will
be.' 'Two or three generations must pass before
the public affect to admire such poets as Milton
and Wordsworth. Of such men the world scarcely
produces one in a millennium.' Wilson, in one of
his masterly essays, thus writes of him: 'We
believe that Wordsworth's genius has now a greater
influence on the spirit of poetry in Britain than
was ever exercised by any individual mind. He
was the first man who impregnated all his descrip-
tions of external nature with sentiment and passion.
. . . He was the first man that vindicated the
native dignity of human nature, by showing that
all her elementary feelings were capable of poetry
-and in that, too, he has been followed by other
true poets, although here he stands, and probably
ever will stand, unapproached. He was the first
man that stripped thought and passion of all vain
or foolish disguises, and showed them in their just
proportions and unencumbered power. He was the
first man who, in poetry, knew the real province of
language, and suffered it not to veil the meanings
of the spirit. In all these things-and in many
more Wordsworth is indisputably the most
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
3
•
original poet of the age; and it is impossible in the
very nature of things that he ever can be eclipsed.'
'Mr. Wordsworth,' observes Hazlitt, 'is the most
original poet now living. His poetry is not
external, but internal; it does not depend upon
tradition, or story, or old song; he furnishes it
from his own mind, and is his own subject.
Of many of the Lyrical Ballads, it is not possible to
speak in terms of too high praise.
. . They open
a finer and deeper vein of thought and feeling than
any poet in modern times has done, or attempted.'
Coleridge writes: 'I speak with heart-felt sincerity,
and, I think, unblinded judgment, when I tell
you that I feel myself a little man by his side.'
And, again: 'The giant Wordsworth-God love
him!.. He has written near twelve hundred
lines of blank verse, superior, I hesitate not to aver,
to anything in our language which in any way re-
sembles it.' And, lastly, to be brief, William
Ellery Channing says: 'The great poet of our
times, Wordsworth-one of the few who are to live
-has gone to common life, to the feelings of our
universal nature, to the obscure and neglected por-
tions of society, for beautiful and touching themes.
Genius is not a creator, in the sense of fancying or
feigning what does not exist. Its distinction is to
discern more of truth than common minds. It
sees under disguises and humble forms everlasting
beauty. . . . Wordsworth is the poet of humanity;
1-2
4
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
he teaches reverence for our universal nature; he
breaks down the factitious barriers between human
hearts.'
With the sound of these weighty tributes ringing
in our ears, let us now proceed to consider the life
and writings of this 'mighty orb of song.'
William Wordsworth, the greatest metaphysical
and philosophical poet that England has ever pro-
duced, was born at Cockermouth, in Cumberland,
on the 7th of April, 1770, the year of Chatterton's
melancholy death. He was the second son of John
Wordsworth, attorney-at-law, and law-agent, or
solicitor, to Sir James Lowther, afterwards Earl of
Lonsdale. His mother, whose Christian name was
Anne, was the only daughter of William Cookson,
a mercer of Penrith. Both his parents came of
ancient families, and that of his father could be
traced back to before the Conquest. The poet,
who could, therefore, justly boast of the claims
of long descent,' was the second of five children-
four sons and one daughter. His earliest years
were spent between Cockermouth and Penrith,
where his mother expired in 1778. He thus alludes
to her removal:
C
'Early died
My honoured mother, she who was the heart
And hinge of all our learnings and our loves.
She left us destitute.'
She died of a decline, brought on by a cold, the
consequence of being put, at a friend's house in
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
5
10
London, in what used to be called "a best bed-
room.",
In 1778, he was sent, with his brother
Richard, to the Grammar School, at Hawkshead, in
Lancashire, where his first attempts at poetry, in
which he afterwards became so famous, were made.
A school-boy's days, it is said, are the happiest
days of his life; and that Wordsworth's boyhood
was a golden age there is abundant evidence to
prove, the first two books of 'The Prelude' being
devoted to his childhood and school-time. His
father, who never got over the death of the poet's
mother, died, in the course of the Christmas holi-
days, in 1783, through the effects of a chill con-
tracted during a night's exposure on Coldfell
Mountain, where he had the misfortune to lose
'Ere we to school returned,' sings
his way.
Wordsworth,
"That dreary time,-ere we had been ten days
Sojourners in my father's house, he died;
And I and my three brothers, orphans then,
Followed his body to the grave. The event,
With all the sorrow that it brought, appeared
A chastisement.'
before he had com-
His impressions of
He was thus left an orphan
pleted his fourteenth year.
his parents, therefore, could not have been very
defined, which is greatly to be regretted, as he
would otherwise, doubtless, have referred to them
in his poems more fully than he has done.
"
'I remember my mother,' he remarks, only in
6
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
some few situations, one of which was her pinning a
nosegay to my breast when I was going to say the
catechism in the church, as was customary before
Easter. I remember also telling her on one week-
day that I had been at church, for our school stood
in the churchyard, and we had frequent oppor-
tunities of seeing what was going on there. The
occasion was, a woman doing penance in the church
in a white sheet. My mother commended my
having been present, expressing a hope that I
should remember the circumstance for the rest of
my life.
"But," said I, "mamma, they did not give me
a penny, as I had been told they would."
"Oh !" said she, recanting her praises, "if that
was your motive, you were very properly dis-
appointed."
'My last impression was having a glimpse of her
on passing the door of her bedroom during her last
illness, when she was reclining in her easy-chair.
An intimate friend of hers, Miss Hamilton by name,
who was used to visit her at Cockermouth, told me
that she once said to her, that the only one of her
five children about whose future life she was
anxious, was William; and he, she said, would be
remarkable either for good or for evil. The cause
of this was, that I was of a stiff, moody, and
violent temper; so much so, that I remember going
once into the attics of my grandfather's house at
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
7
Penrith, upon some indignity having been put upon
me, with an intention of destroying myself with
one of the foils which I knew was kept there. I
took the foil in hand, but my heart failed. Upon
another occasion, while I was at my grandfather's
house at Penrith, along with my eldest brother,
Richard, we were whipping tops together in the
large drawing-room, on which the carpet was only
laid down upon particular occasions. The walls
were hung round with family pictures, and I said
to my brother :
"Dare you strike your whip through that old
lady's petticoat ?"
'He replied:
"No; I won't."
"Then,” said I, "here goes," and I struck my
lash through her hooped petticoat, for which, no
doubt, though I have forgotten it, I was properly
punished. But, possibly from some want of judg
ment in punishments inflicted, I had become per-
verse and obstinate in defying chastisement, and
rather proud of it than otherwise.
'Of my earliest days at school I have little to
say, but that they were very happy ones, chiefly
because I was left at liberty, then and in the vaca-
tions, to read whatever books I liked. For example,
I read all Fielding's works, "Don Quixote," "Gil
Blas," and any part of Swift that I liked; "Gulli-
ver's Travels," and the "Tale of the Tub," being
8
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
both much to my taste.*
It may be, perhaps,
as well to mention, that the first verses which I
wrote were a task imposed by my master; the
subject, “The Summer Vacation"; and, of my own
accord, I added others upon "Return to School."
There was nothing remarkable in either poem ; but
I was called upon, among other scholars, to write
verses upon the completion of the second centenary
from the foundation of the school in 1585, by
Archbishop Sandys. These verses were much ad-
mired, far more than they deserved, for they were
but a tame imitation of Pope's versification, and a
little in his style.'
We attach no slight importance to the foregoing
account of the poet's early life, inasmuch as he
himself tells us that 'the child is father of the
man'; and this was pre-eminently true in his own
case. Like Cowper, he lost his mother, who was
a woman of amiable, pious, and affectionate dispo-
sition, when he was very young; and her decease,
coupled with that of his father, must naturally
have exercised a chastening, if not a depressing
effect upon his character. Wide and varied as are
the subjects upon which Wordsworth wrote, we
search in vain for any trace of the comic element
in his verse. Whatever else he was, therefore, he
* It is noteworthy that Wordsworth, who is one of the
purest and most forcible of English writers, must have been
greatly indebted to these admirable authors, upon whose
undying works his diction is so largely moulded.
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
was not a mirth-provoking poet; his ideal of poetry
was higher and more spiritual.
Cockermouth, the poet's birthplace, which is
thirteen miles distant from Keswick, the most
beautifully-situated town in England, stands near
the banks of the Derwent, and was in every way
favourable to the development of his poetic genius.
Having received the rudiments of education at
Penrith at a dame's school, where he had as class-
mate a little girl of the name of Mary Hutchinson,
his own cousin, he spent a year or two at Cocker-
mouth, under the tuition of the Reverend Mr. Gil-
banks. What pleasant rambles the poet in embryo
must have had by the side of the bright blue
river,' which he subsequently so greatly celebrated!
He alludes, in feeling language, to its influence
upon him, in the following lines:
<
'One, the fairest of all rivers, loved
To blend his murmurs with my nurse's song,
And, from his alder shades and rocky falls,
And from his fords and shallows, sent a voice
That flowed along my dreams.'
The town is one of some antiquity, with its
dismantled baronial castle and broken battlements;
and it is easy to picture the careless Child of
Nature wandering about the ruined citadel; enter
ing, half-afraid, into its dark dungeon; chasing,
cap in hand, the butterfly through its green courts;
or climbing, with boyish pride, to snatch the
nodding flowers that grew upon its walls. It is
10
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
interesting to know that the house-a large old
mansion-in which Wordsworth was born, is still
standing. It faces the principal street, while its
garden runs down to the verge of the river, the
banks of which near Cockermouth are very beau-
tiful. His father's remains repose in the church-
yard. In his delightful autobiographical poem,
'The Prelude,' the poet refers at some length to
his reminiscences of Cockermouth and Hawkshead.
He tells us how, many a time, when but five years
old, he 'made one long bathing of a summer's
day,' in a mill-race; how, before he was ten, he
used in winter
"To range the open heights where woodcocks run
Along the smooth green turf';
how, in the spring, he loved to go plundering the
raven's nest, at the imminent risk of his life; and
how, one summer evening, prompted by nature, he
stealthily entered a boat which he found moored
by the lake of Esthwaite to a willow-tree, and,
unloosing the chain, rowed off in triumph. The
passage in which he narrates what followed, is one
of the finest in his writings, and must, in part, be
cited:
'Like one who rows,
Proud of his skill, to reach a chosen point
With an unswerving line, I fixed my view
Upon the summit of a craggy ridge,
The horizon's utmost boundary; far above
Was nothing but the stars and the grey sky.
She was an elfin pinnace; lustily
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
11
I dipped my oars into the silent lake,
And, as I rose upon the stroke, my boat
Went heaving through the water like a swan ;
When, from behind that craggy steep till then
The horizon's bound, a huge peak, black and huge,
As if with voluntary power instinct,
Upreared its head. I struck and struck again,
And growing still in stature the grim shape
Towered up between me and the stars, and still,
For so it seemed, with purpose of its own
And measured motion like a living thing,
Strode after me.'
His experiences as a skater are graphically given
in a spirited outburst of verse, which has been
quoted and admired times without number. His
nutting and fishing expeditions, together with his
'unfading recollections' of kite-flying, are also
gracefully referred to. Those must have been.
golden days at Hawkshead; and the picturesque
scenery amidst which he strayed must have equipped
him with many never-to-be-forgotten pictures, hung
in the brightest gallery of his memory, to furnish
poems in the after-time.
Much of his poetical tendency, we think, must be
attributed to his father, who was a man of strong
and vigorous mind, and possessed of considerable
eloquence, and who gave him, at a very early age,
portions of the best English poets to be learned by
heart, with the gratifying result that he could,
while yet a boy, repeat many of the choicest passages
in Spenser, Shakespeare, and Milton.
By the death of his father, which, as we have
12
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
incidentally stated, occurred in 1783, the prospects
of the family were greatly clouded, the Earl of
Lonsdale being indebted to him to the extent
of some five thousand pounds, for cash advanced
and professional services. All attempts to recover
the money during the lifetime of this remarkable
peer proved hopelessly futile; and when it is
mentioned that this amount represented the bulk
of the property of the family, some idea of their
position may be gathered. It remains to be re-
corded that the debt was not discharged until
1802, nineteen years afterwards, when the second
earl, eager to make amends for the unfeeling con-
duct of his father, liquidated the same, with
interest, by a payment of £8,500.
In October, 1787, Wordsworth, being in his
eighteenth year, was sent by his uncles, Richard
Wordsworth and Christopher Crackanthorpe, who
were also his guardians, to St. John's College,
Cambridge, where he remained rather more than
three years, and where his portrait, painted at
Rydal Mount by Pickersgill, now graces the walls.
His impressions on his arrival, and during his
residence, are fully described in 'The Prelude,'
and were, perhaps, upon the whole, pretty much
what might be expected in the case of one who
had been born and bred among the mountains,
and whose
'Favourite school
Had been the fields, the roads, and rural lanes,'
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
13
not to mention the limpid lakes and rivers that
beautify the region of his birth. Poet-like, he did
not take very kindly to the restraint of university
life, and he made, generally speaking, little pro-
gress in the higher mathematics. But he made
great advances in learning of other kinds. He
read the classics diligently, and studied Italian
and the earlier English poets, especially Chaucer,
Spenser, Shakespeare, and Milton. He was a
dreamer, and, consequently, but a desultory reader.
The remembrance of his early years, spent amid
the beautifully-varied scenery of the Lake District,
was ever present with him; 'the sounding cataract,'
'the tall rock, the mountain, and the deep and
gloomy wood, their colours and their forms—all
these haunted him like a passion.
He entered heartily into the pleasures of uni-
versity life, however:
'Companionships,
Friendships, acquaintances, were welcome all.
We sauntered, played, or rioted; we talked
Unprofitable talk at morning hours;
Drifted about along the streets and walks,
Read lazily in trivial books, went forth
To gallop through the country in blind zeal
Of senseless horsemanship, or on the breast
Of Cam sailed boisterously, and let the stars
Come forth, perhaps without one quiet thought.'
He had a deep sense of the sacredness of the
university-' that garden of great intellects-and
he could not lightly pass to and fro through the
gateways, or sleep in the chambers, with which so
14
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
many of the illustrious dead were associated. It
so happened that one of his college friends was
domiciled 'in the very room honoured by Milton's
name,' and it is a notable fact that Wordsworth,
'one of a festive circle,' drank copious libations of
wine to the memory of the departed bard, to such
a degree that, for the first and last time in his life,
he became may we not say under the circum-
stances?—rapturously, but excusably, inebriated.
We yield to none in our love and heart-felt rever-
ence for Wordsworth, and our object in thus
recording what some might, perhaps, be inclined
to wish had been omitted, is simply to show-but
that strongly that he was a man of like passions
with ourselves, subject, too, to temptation as we
are, and not without sin. Near his rooms in the
university, he tells us,
'Hung Trinity's loquacious clock,
Who never let the quarters, night or day,
Slip by him unproclaimed, and told the hours
Twice over with a male and female voice.
Her pealing organ was my neighbour too;
And from my pillow, looking forth by light
Of moon or favouring stars, I could behold
The antechapel where the statue stood
Of Newton with his prism and silent face,
The marble index of a mind for ever
Voyaging through strange seas of thought, alone.'
Wordsworth's university career, as may be in-
ferred, grievously disappointed his friends, and
not, perhaps, without sufficient reason; since,
instead of applying himself with all his mind, and
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
15
with all his strength, to his studies, with the view
of gaining the highest academic honours, he passed
his time 'in vague and loose indifference.' Yet
who can wonder at it? He was but 'a stripling
of the hills,' and had been brought up, particularly
since the death of his parents, in a delightful state
of liberty; he had never been disciplined in any
of the great public schools; and, moreover, with
regard to the university, he had a feeling that he
was not for that hour, nor for that place.' He
spent his first summer vacation, not, as he might
have done, amongst his books, but in the beautiful
Vale of Esthwaite. And, no doubt, it was well
that he did so, since prolonged absence from the
scenes he prized so deeply might have caused his
love for them to diminish. With what enthusiasm he
renewed his acquaintance with Nature in his beloved
regions, can be better imagined than described—
'When first I made
Once more the circuit of our little lake,
If ever happiness hath lodged with man,
That day consummate happiness was mine,
Wide-spreading, steady, calm, contemplative.'
He occupied the very bed in which he had been
accustomed to sleep during his school-days. And
now occurred an incident that shaped the course
of his after-life. He had devoted the night to
dancing and gaiety—
"Mid a throng
Of maids and youths, old men, and matrons staid,
A medley of all tempers
16
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
and was returning at daybreak, when a sunrise of
extraordinary splendour and magnificence burst
upon his enraptured vision, and melted his very
soul. A more glorious spectacle he had never
beheld.
'My heart was full; I made no vows, but vows
Were then made for me; bond unknown to me
Was given, that I should be, else sinning greatly,
A dedicated Spirit. On I walked
In thankful blessedness, which yet survives.'
We love to think of the happy hours enjoyed by
the youthful Wordsworth, after the seclusion of
college life, in the beguiling company of the 'frank-
hearted maids of rocky Cumberland.'
It is somewhat remarkable that, although he
remained four sessions at Cambridge, he wrote
but little verse; indeed, he produced only one or
two poems. It was here that 'An Evening Walk'
was composed; the scenery depicted, however, is
not that round about Cambridge, as might be pre-
sumed, but that of the fascinating haunts of his
youth. But of this poem more anon. Here, too,
he penned the 'Lines written while sailing in a
boat at evening.' The influence of the university
was unmistakably anti-poetic, and 'froze the genial
current of his soul.'
The several vacations were passed by Words-
worth in various parts of the country; but during
the last one, that of 1790, he made a pedestrian
tour with an esteemed fellow-collegian, Robert
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
17
Jones, a Welshman, afterwards a clergyman of the
Church of England, through France, Switzerland,
and the North of Italy. 'We went,' he tells us,
'staff in hand, without knapsacks, and carrying
each his needments tied up in a pocket-handker-
chief, with about £20 apiece in our pockets.'
They crossed from Dover and landed at Calais on
the 13th of July, 1790, the eve of the memorable
day on which the King-Louis XVI.-took the oath
of fidelity to the New Constitution; and there they
saw,
'In a mean city, and among a few,
How bright a face is worn when joy of one
Is joy for tens of millions.'
After an absence of about fourteen weeks, they
returned to England.
In January, 1791, having taken his degree of
B.A., Wordsworth quitted the university.
2
CHAPTER II.
'There's a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will.'
Shakespeare.
Wordsworth makes a tour in North Wales-Is urged to
enter the Church-His misgivings-He revisits France
(Nov., 1791) during the Revolution-His sympathy with
the movement-Becomes a patriot-Associates with the
military officers in Paris- Forms a friendship with
Beaupuis at Orleans-Proceeds thence to Blois-Returns
to Paris, and finds France a Republic-Hears Robespierre
denounced-Is compelled to return to England-Is again
urged to embrace the clerical profession-Obstacles in
the way-Deplores the results of the Revolution-Is
opposed to the Bar-Annoyance of his relatives—' An
Evening Walk' (1793)-' Descriptive Sketches' (1793)—
Visits the Isle of Wight, where Raisley Calvert lies ill-
Spends his time afterwards in visiting his friends-His
dreary prospects-Contemplates starting the Philanthropist
-Hears of the fall of Robespierre-His thankfulness there-
upon-Is reduced to extremity, and seeks employment
on the Metropolitan press--Raisley Calvert dies, and
bequeaths him £900 (1795) — Is restored to the com-
panionship of his sister Dorothy.
AFTER leaving Cambridge, and spending about
four months in London, Wordsworth made a tour
on foot through North Wales with his friend
Jones; and, if we may judge from some of the
sights they saw, the excursion must indeed have
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
19
been an enjoyable one. We can picture to our-
selves the 'two travellers plodding slowly along
the road side by side, each with his little knapsack
of necessaries upon his shoulders.' Wordsworth
especially must have drank in the beauty and
grandeur of the scenery through which they
passed, and he refers, in a dedicatory epistle to
his fellow-traveller, to 'the sea-sunsets, which give
such splendour to the Vale of Clwyd, Snowdon,
the Chair of Idris, the quiet village of Bethgelert,
Menai and her Druids, the Alpine steeps of the
Conway, and the still more interesting windings of
the wizard stream of the Dee.'
About this time the influence of his relatives
was brought to bear upon him with regard to
entering the Church, but he was not yet of age
for ordination. He had grave misgivings, more-
over, touching his general fitness for holy orders, as
we shall see presently; and, without making up
his mind respecting his future career, in Novem-
ber, 1791, he again set out for France. On this
occasion he travelled alone. He made his way to
Paris, and remained there for some little time;
but he soon quitted it for Orleans, where he might
be more retired, for the purpose of studying the
language. His stay in France extended to some
thirteen months, during which period he witnessed
much that he could never forget. Those were
stirring times. The Revolution was raging far
2-2
20
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
and wide like a tempest. Wordsworth, like most
youthful poets-Coleridge and Southey amongst
the number-was a violent republican, and he
hailed the event with feelings of intense ardour,
looking forward to the advent of a new and
'glorious era of liberty and happiness to mankind.
No wonder, therefore, that he, in all the enthu-
siasm of poetic fervour, allowed himself to be
sucked into the vortex of the political excitement.
It would have been more remarkable had he
escaped the danger.
"Twas in truth an hour
Of universal ferment; mildest men
Were agitated; and commotions, strife
Of passion and opinion, filled the walls
Of peaceful houses with unquiet sounds.
The soil of common life was, at that time,
Too hot to tread upon.'
He had welcomed the inception of the Revolu-
tion in thrilling terms:
'Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive,
But to be young was very heaven !'
He lived long enough, however, to find that he
had been wofully mistaken, and to change his
opinions; and in later life he became a Conserva-
tive. But this by the way. On his arrival in
Paris, where he spent a few days, he visited many
places ' of old or recent fame':
'In both her clamorous Halls,
The National Synod and the Jacobins,
I saw the Revolutionary Power
Toss like a ship at anchor, rocked by storms.'
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
21
He wandered about staring and listening to
bands haranguing in the streets, and gathered up
a stone from the ruins of the Bastile, which, in his
infatuation, he placed in his pocket as a precious
relic. He became a patriot, and gave his heart to
the people. He associated with the officers of the
military stationed in the city. At Orleans he
became the intimate friend of Beaupuis, the gallant
republican general, with whom in solitude he often
spoke
About the end
Of civil government, and its wisest forms;
Of ancient loyalty, and chartered rights,
Custom and habit, novelty and change;
Of self-respect, and virtue in the few
For patrimonial honour set apart,
And ignorance in the labouring multitude.'
Their most frequent walk was along the banks of
the beautiful Loire,
'With festal mirth
Resounding at all hours, and innocent yet
Of civil slaughter,
Or in wide forests of continuous shade,
Lofty and over-arched, with open space
Beneath the trees, clear footing many a mile-
A solemn region.'
He pays a noble, glowing tribute to the memory
of this brave officer, philosopher, and patriot, who
'Perished fighting, in supreme command,
Upon the borders of the unhappy Loire,
For liberty, against deluded men,
His fellow country-men.'
From Orleans he proceeded in the spring to
22
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
Blois. Longfellow charmingly describes this region,
which, he says, 'is justly called the garden of
France. From Orleans to Blois, the whole valley
of the Loire is one continued vineyard. The
bright green foliage of the vine spreads, like the
undulations of the sea, over all the landscape, with
here and there a silver flash of the river, a seques-
tered hamlet, or the towers of an old château, to
enliven and variegate the scene.'
On his return to Paris in the autumn,
'From his throne
The King had fallen, and that invading host-
Presumptuous cloud, on whose black front was written
The tender mercies of the dismal wind
That bore it—on the plains of Liberty
Had burst innocuous.'
France had been declared a Republic. The no-
bility and all titles of distinction had been swept
away as by a flood, and all were alike commoners.
Manifestations of rejoicing were on every hand ;
the air echoed and re-echoed with the roll of drums
and volleys of musketry; while multitudes paraded
the streets to the inspiring strains of the 'Marseil-
laise.' Cheered with hope, he
'Ranged, with ardour heretofore unfelt,
The spacious city, and in progress passed
The prison where the unhappy Monarch lay,
Associate with his children and his wife
In bondage; and the palace, lately stormed
With roar of cannon by a furious host.
I crossed the square (an empty area then !)
Of the Carrousel, where so late had lain
The dead, upon the dying heaped.'
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
23
The ever memorable massacres of September
had taken place in his absence, deluging the streets
and squares of the capital with blood; the monarchy,
as we have seen, had been abolished; and Robes-
pierre had arisen, and was himself soon to come
under the power of the guillotine. That night
Wordsworth repaired to his high and lonely room,
where his feelings so wrought upon him, as he
'thought of those September massacres,' that he
seemed
"To hear a voice that cried,
To the whole city, "Sleep no more!"
The recollection of this awful period haunted his
memory for years afterwards.
Early the next morning, he heard Robespierre
denounced for his crimes, and saw Louvet accuse
him openly in the Tribune. The downfall of the
Incorruptible was drawing near. What followed
in 1793, the year after Wordsworth's departure
from France, is well known to every student of
history. The King, 'whose fate will be com-
miserated, whose memory revered, whose murderers
execrated, so long as justice and mercy shall pre-
vail upon the earth,' after a term of ignominious
imprisonment, was tried, condemned, and executed,
whereupon England declared war against France;
the Girondists fell victims to the seditionary power
they themselves had created, and the Reign of
Terror set in with all its diabolical fury and
24
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
tyranny; the Queen and the Duke of Orleans
were beheaded; frightful executions and massacres
-the most revolting ever known in the history of
the world-were perpetrated-seventy and eighty
persons being guillotined daily; Notre Dame was
converted into a Temple of Reason (so called);
religion was universally abandoned, and Deism
was everywhere in the ascendant; the churches
were closed; the observance of the Sabbath was
abrogated; Lyons was in insurrection, and soon
fell; infernal atrocities were committed at Nantes,
and the Loire, for a distance of sixty miles, for
weeks together, was crimsoned with human blood.
Here, as many as 15,000 perished in a single month
by the hand of the executioner; and it is estimated
that the total number of victims in this place alone
during the Reign of Terror must have exceeded
30,000. At Toulon, upwards of 14,000 were cut
off between the guillotine, the fusillades, and
drowning; while many military engagements took
place throughout the country. These are amongst
the events that occurred in 1793, the year pre-
ceding the fall of Robespierre and his faction,
which brought the Reign of Terror to a close.
What the consequences, therefore, might have
been had Wordsworth remained but a little longer
in Paris, God only knows; it is more than pro-
bable that he would have shared the fate of the
Brissotins, with whom he was intimately associated,
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
25
and thus have added another to the myriads of
those who, in that sanguinary era, lost their heads.
by the guillotine! Circumstances, however, necessi-
tated his return to England-the funds were stopped
-and he reached London immediately before the
close of 1792.* The following are his own words
on this absorbing point:
'Dragged by a chain of harsh necessity,
So seemed it, now I thankfully acknowledge,
Forced by the gracious providence of Heaven,-
To England I returned, else (though assured
That I both was and must be of small weight,
No better than a landsman on the deck
Of a ship struggling with a hideous storm)
Doubtless, I should have then made common cause
With some who perished; haply perished too,
A poor mistaken and bewildered offering,-
Should to the breast of Nature have gone back,
With all my resolutions, all my hopes,
A poet only to myself, to men
Useless.'
We have often thought what a Divine blessing
it was that he was twice preserved on occasions of
most imminent peril; first, in childhood, when he
was about to perish, like Chatterton, 'the marvel-
lous boy,' by his own hand; and, secondly, while
in Paris, during the Revolution. What English
poetry would have been without Wordsworth, it is
almost impossible to conceive, more especially when
we take into account the wide-spread influence he
* In 1849, the year before his death, speaking of France,
Wordsworth, addressing his wife, remarked: 'I wonder how
I came to stay there so long, and at a period so exciting.'
26
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
has had, and still exercises, on the poets of the
nineteenth century.
In a letter dated December the 22nd, 1792,
Dorothy, his sister, says: 'William is in London;
he writes to me regularly, and is a most affec-
tionate brother.'
On his return to London, which he made his
head-quarters, some of his relations were solicitous
that he should enter the Church, and it is not im-
probable that he would have complied with their
wishes, but for certain obstacles that stood in the
way. He had not yet been able to abandon his
political theories, which stuck to him in spite of
all that he had seen and heard. His mind was
greatly unsettled; he had found his ardent expecta-
tions with regard to the Revolution frustrated; he
had lost faith in the virtue of the people, from
whom he had looked for better things; he had
learned that anarchy was not government; that
liberty had degenerated into license; and he was
almost in a state of despair. In a pamphlet which
he wrote about this time, entitled 'A Letter to the
Bishop of Llandaff on the Political Principles con-
tained in an Appendix to one of his Lordship's
recent Sermons,' the sentiments he expresses are
clearly republican. He is opposed to hereditary
monarchy and nobility, and believes that all titles
of distinction and merit should be conferred only
by the elective voice of the people. And, writing
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
27
to his friend Mathews, he says:‘.
. . . I am not
among the admirers of the British constitution.
I conceive that a more excellent system of civil
policy might be established among us; yet in my
ardour to attain the goal, I do not forget the
nature of the ground where the race is to be run.
The destruction of those institutions which I con-
demn, appears to me to be hastening on too
rapidly. I recoil from the very idea of a revolution.
I am a determined enemy to every species of
violence. I see no connection, but what the
obstinacy of pride and ignorance renders necessary,
between justice and the sword,-between reason
and bonds. I deplore the miserable condition of
the French, and think that we can only be guarded
from the same scourge by the undaunted efforts of
good men. . . . I severely condemn all inflam-
matory addresses to the passions of men. I know
that the multitude walk in darkness. I would put
into each man's hands a lantern, to guide him;
and not have him to set out upon his journey
depending for illumination on abortive flashes
of lightning, or the coruscations of transitory
meteors.'
Holding such opinions as these, he could not
conscientiously take holy orders, and he was op-
posed to the Bar. Yet he had been sent to
college with a view to the profession of the Church
or Law.' His disinclination to both naturally
28
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
caused his relations much annoyance, and he was
regarded by them with coldness.
In 1793, in consequence of the atrocious execu-
tion of the King, England declared war against
France. This was a further trial to his feelings,
and soured and corrupted his sentiments.
In the course of the year, he published his first
volumes of verse, entitled 'An Evening Walk' and
'Descriptive Sketches—taken during a pedestrian
tour among the Alps'; the former being 'addressed
to a young lady'—his sister—and the latter to the
Rev. Robert Jones, Fellow of St. John's College,
Cambridge. Both of these poems, which were
written in the rhyming couplets of Pope, fell
almost stillborn from the press, attracting but
little public attention. One of them, however,
the 'Descriptive Sketches,' had the good fortune
to fall in the way of Coleridge, who had entered
Cambridge the year that Wordsworth had left it;
and he did not hesitate to assert, concerning the
publication, that 'seldom, if ever, was the emer-
gence of an original poetic genius above the
literary horizon more evidently announced.' Thus
was laid the foundation of a friendship between
these two afterwards illustrious men, only to be
terminated by the death of Coleridge. The
following extract from the Critical Review of
July, 1793, respecting An Evening Walk,' will,
doubtless, prove interesting to the reader :
(
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
29
'Local description is seldom without a degree of
obscurity, which is here increased by a harshness
both in the construction and the versification; but
we are compensated by that merit which a poetical
taste most values-new and picturesque imagery.
There are many touches of this kind which would
not disgrace our best descriptive poets.'
Speaking of the lines or passages in these poems,
De Quincey says: 'Some are delicately, some
forcibly picturesque; and the selection of circum-
stances is occasionally very original and felicitous.'
Notwithstanding the measure of praise accorded to
these early volumes, they never reached a second
edition; indeed, it was long before the first editions,
which would probably be small, were exhausted.
Towards the close of the summer, Wordsworth
paid a visit of a month's duration to the Isle of
Wight, where a young friend-since immortalized
in his verse-Raisley Calvert, son of the steward
to the Duke of Norfolk, was suffering from con-
sumption. Here he was in view of the British
Fleet, which was preparing off Portsmouth for war
with France. After leaving the Isle of Wight, he
wandered on foot for two days over Salisbury
Plain, where he commenced his poem of that name.
He then bent his steps along the Wye to North
Wales. The impressions produced upon his mind
by this excursion are exquisitely portrayed in his
inimitable poem, 'Lines, composed a few miles
30
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
above Tintern Abbey, on revisiting the banks of
the Wye, during a tour: July 13, 1798.'
By this time he was of age for ordination,
having entered upon his twenty-fourth year, but
he was still averse to the idea of clerical life.
Having no fixed abode, he spent his time in visit-
ing his various friends, and in a letter written in
February, 1794, from Halifax, to Mathews, he
says: 'My sister is under the same roof with me;
indeed, it was to see her that I came into this
country. I have been doing nothing, and still
continue to do nothing. What is to become of
me, I know not.' Having expressed his deter-
mination not to take orders, he continues : As
for the law, I have neither strength of mind, purse,
or constitution, to engage in that pursuit.' What
was indeed to become of him! He was now re-
duced almost to the necessity of taking pupils.
From Halifax he proceeded, accompanied by his
sister, to Kendal, by way of Whitehaven. 'I
walked,' writes his sister, 'with my brother at my
side, from Kendal to Grasmere, eighteen miles, and
afterwards from Grasmere to Keswick, fifteen miles,
through the most delightful country that was ever
seen. We are now at a farmhouse, about half a
mile from Keswick. When I came, I intended
to stay only a few days; but the country is so
delightful, and, above all, I have so full an enjoy-
ment of my brother's company, that I have deter-
mined to stay a few weeks longer.'
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
31
At a loss for something to do, Wordsworth now
contemplated the idea of starting a monthly mis-
cellany, to be called the Philanthropist, which in
politics was to be republican, but not revolutionary.
In a letter to Mathews, to whom he proposed the
scheme, he says: 'He would communicate critical
remarks on poetry, the arts of painting, gardening,
etc., besides essays on morals and politics.' But it
came to nothing. Meanwhile, he was engaged in
correcting and extending the poems already pub-
lished. They have been treated with unmerited
contempt,' he writes, 'by some of the periodicals,
and others have spoken in higher terms of them
than they deserve.'
(
Shortly after this, news reached England of the
fall of Robespierre-intelligence that filled the poet
with joy and thankfulness. He was crossing the
sands of Ulverston when he heard the tidings, and
he thus alludes to his feelings :
'Great was my transport, deep my gratitude
To everlasting Justice, by this fiat
Made manifest. "Come now, ye golden times,"
Said I, forth-pouring on those open sands
A hymn of triumph: as the morning comes
From out the bosom of the night, come ye:
Thus far our trust is verified; behold!
They who with clumsy desperation brought
A river of blood, and preached that nothing else
Could cleanse the Augean stable, by the might
Of their own helper have been swept away;
Their madness stands declared and visible;
Elsewhere will safety now be sought, and earth
March firmly towards righteousness and peace."
"; }
32
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
He was now in a condition of financial embar-
rassment. His friends had been disappointed in
him, and he was out of favour with them. He
now, in his extremity, sought employment on the
Metropolitan press; but he was providentially
saved in the hour of need. The days of Raisley
Calvert were numbered, and the distressed poet
nursed him with unremitting assiduity and affec-
tion. My friend has every symptom of a con-
firmed consumption,' writes Wordsworth, on the
7th of November, 1794; and I cannot think of
quitting him in his present debilitated state.' And,
writing on the 7th of January, 1795, he observes:
'I have been here [Penrith] for some time. I am
still much engaged with my sick friend; and sorry
am I to add that he worsens daily . . . he is
barely alive. . . . Death at length occurred; and
it was found that the departed youth had be-
queathed him a legacy of £900.
Alluding to this most opportune gift, Words-
worth thus beautifully says:
'A youth-(he bore
The name of Calvert-it shall live, if words
Of mine can give it life,) in firm belief
That by endowments not from me withheld
Good might be furthered-in his last decay
By a bequest sufficient for my needs
Enabled me to pause for choice, and walk
At large and unrestrained, nor damped too soon
By mortal cares. Himself no poet, yet
Far less a common follower of the world,
He deemed that my pursuits and labours lay
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
33
Apart from all that leads to wealth, or even
A necessary maintenance insures,
Without some hazard to the finer sense;
He cleared a passage for me, and the stream
Flowed in the bent of nature.'
He has also enshrined his memory in a striking
sonnet, to which the reader is referred.
The death of Raisley Calvert was unquestionably
the turning-point in Wordsworth's career, and it is
pleasing to know that his name will assuredly go
down to posterity as the benefactor of the greatest
poet of the century. At this time Wordsworth's
religious views were greatly unsettled, and it is
impossible to say what phase they might not have
assumed, had he not now been restored to the
companionship and ennobling influence of his 'sole
sister,' significantly named Dorothy-gift of God.
"Then it was—
Thanks to the bounteous Giver of all good!—
That the beloved sister in whose sight
Those days were passed, now speaking in a voice
Of sudden admonition-like a brook
That did but cross a lonely road, and now
Is seen, heard, felt, and caught at every turn,
Companion never lost through many a league-
Maintained for me a saving intercourse
With my true self;
She whispered still that brightness would return,
She, in the midst of all, preserved me still
A poet, made me seek beneath that name,
And that alone, my office upon earth.'
3
CHAPTER III.
'An elegant sufficiency, content,
Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books,
Ease and alternate labour, useful life,
Progressive virtue, and approving Heaven!'
-Thomson.
Wordsworth settles with his sister at Racedown Lodge, near
Crewkerne, Dorsetshire (1795)-Devotes himself assidu-
ously to poetry-His style of living-Is visited by Cole-
ridge (June, 1797)-Descriptions of Coleridge-Coleridge's
impressions of Wordsworth, and his description of Dorothy
Wordsworth-Her influence on Wordsworth-Removes to
Alfoxden (July, 1797)-Composes the 'Lyrical Ballads'
Makes a tour in Devonshire-Origin of 'The Ancient
Mariner'-Completes his tragedy of The Borderers,'
which is rejected-Coleridge's account of the origin of the
'Lyrical Ballads'-Wordsworth becomes acquainted with
Charles and Mary Lamb, and Hazlitt-Description of
Wordsworth by the latter.
BEING relieved from his pecuniary difficulties by
the timely benevolence of Raisley Calvert, Words-
worth was now in a position to settle down some-
where; and, accordingly, in the autumn of 1795,
he took up his abode with his sister at Racedown
Lodge, near Crewkerne, in Dorsetshire. Hence-
forth she was to be his constant companion and
guardian angel through a long course of years.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
35
Some idea of the quiet and seclusion of this,
their first home, may be inferred from the fact
that they had little or no society, and but one post
a week. Yet, blest with each other's affectionate
and helpful company, they were intensely happy,
and wanted for nothing. The country,' writes
his sister, 'is delightful; we have charming walks,
a good garden, a pleasant house."
Wordsworth never possessed many books, but
the shelves of his new dwelling were pretty well
stocked, and he and his sister were most industrious
readers. Their time was happily spent in reading,
writing, gardening, and walking. Wordsworth
was busily enough occupied. He was engaged in
composing some Imitations of Juvenal, and finish-
ing 'Salisbury Plain, or Guilt and Sorrow.' Here,
too, he commenced his first and only tragedy, 'The
Borderers.'
From this time forth he dedicated himself with
all his heart, with all his mind, with all his soul,
and with all his strength,' to the service of poetry.
It was the principal business of his life. He com-
posed verses upon anything and everything, sticking
unswervingly to his purpose, like a limpet to a
rock. No lover ever wooed his mistress with
greater fervour and pertinacity than he did the
Muse; no painter nor sculptor ever devoted him-
self more assiduously to his art; to excel in poetry
was to him, in a very deep sense, the one thing
3-2
36
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
needful. Everything was subordinated to this.
Knowing the incalculable influence of inspiring
natural scenery and surroundings, he invariably
through life resided in the most beautiful and pic-
turesque regions. His method of composition was
peculiar. He composed, for the most part, in the
open air, and his productions were afterwards com-
mitted to paper. Indeed, nine-tenths of his verses
were produced in this way.
Wordsworth's style of living at this period was
necessarily frugal. It was a bold proceeding on
his part to turn his back upon the world, forsaking
all ideas of professional life and of employment of
every kind, and to fix his residence in a secluded,
out-of-the-way district, with only £900 at his com-
mand. But he was justified in so doing. Though
but twenty-five years of age, yet he knew what
manner of man he was, and he was fully conscious
of his own strength. Having once put his hand
to the plough, he was not the one to look back.
He had a purpose; and he had, too, an inflexible
will. He had, doubtless, counted the cost before
throwing the die, and he was prepared for a life, if
need be, of 'plain living and high thinking.' Such
was the daily round of the youthful poet and his
sister. But if their means were small, their wants
were few; and comfortably domiciled amidst the
beauties of nature, they had all that they required.
In June, 1797, a most important event occurred.
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
37
They were visited at Racedown by no less a per-
sonage than Samuel Taylor Coleridge, destined to
become so famous in the world of letters.
Let us pause for a moment to look at Coleridge.
Born in October, 1772, he was but in his twenty-
fifth year; but, young as he was, he had had
strange and exceptional experiences. He had
already, in a fit of despondency, enlisted as a pri-
vate and been bought out of the ranks; had been
an ardent advocate of Pantisocracy with Southey
and others; had posed as an arrant republican,
having been deeply infected with the revolutionary
movement in France; and had-mirabile dictu !—
figured as a Unitarian preacher, his first sermon
having been delivered to a congregation of some
seventeen persons.
He was no ordinary visitor, therefore. He is
thus described by Dorothy Wordsworth, in an
epistle to a friend: 'You had a great loss in not
seeing Coleridge. He is a wonderful man. His
conversation teems with soul, mind, and spirit.
At first I thought him very plain, that is, for about
three minutes: he is pale, thin, has a wide mouth,
thick lips, and not very good teeth, lougish, loose-
growing, half-curling, rough black hair. But, if
you hear him speak for five minutes, you think no
more of them. His eye is large and full, and not
very dark, but grey, such an eye as would receive
from a heavy soul the dullest expression; but it
38
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
speaks every emotion of his animated mind: it has
more of "the poet's eye in a fine frenzy rolling "
than I ever witnessed. He has fine dark eyebrows,
and an overhanging forehead.'
The following is Wordsworth's description of
this remarkable character:
'A noticeable man with large grey eyes,
And a pale face that seemed undoubtedly
As if a blooming face it ought to be ;
Heavy his low-hung lip did oft appear,
Depressed by weight of musing phantasy;
Profound his forehead was, though not severe.'
And he elsewhere refers to him as
'The rapt one of the godlike forehead,
The heaven-eyed creature.'
Notwithstanding the fact that there is grave
difficulty in connection with the identification of
the portraits given us by Wordsworth in the poem
whence the first of the above poetical quotations
is taken-Stanzas written in my Pocket-copy of
Thomson's "Castle of Indolence"-in which he
alludes, as all the world has thought, to Coleridge,
thus:
'Ah! piteous sight it was to see this man
When he came back to us, a withered flower,'
and so on, the verses having been written in 1802,
whereas Coleridge did not return in shattered health
from Malta until 1806, we cannot admit the ap-
plicability of the lines to any but Coleridge. Is
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
39
it not probable that Wordsworth altered the stanzas
after Coleridge's return, prior to their publication
in 1815 Mr. Hall Caine, in his masterly and
delightful monograph of Coleridge, effectually dis-
poses, in our opinion, of Professor Dowden's theory
that the description refers to William Calvert, the
colour of whose eyes places the matter beyond
dispute. Besides, it tallies to a nicety with Dorothy
Wordsworth's account of Coleridge's appearance.
Hazlitt's sketch of him is well known.
• His
complexion,' he says, 'was clear, and even bright,
"As are the children of yon azure sheen ";
<
his forehead was broad and high, as if built of
ivory, with large projecting eyebrows, and his eyes
rolling beneath them, like a sea, with darkened
lustre.
"A certain tender bloom his face o'erspread";
a purple tinge, as we see it in the pale, thoughtful
complexions of the Spanish portrait - painters
Murillo and Velasquez. His mouth was rather
open, his chin good-humoured and round, and his
nose small,'
'The first thing,' writes Dorothy Wordsworth,
'that was read after he came was William's new
poem, "Ruined Cottage," with which he was much
delighted; and after tea he repeated to us two acts
and a half of his tragedy, "Osorio." The next morn-
ing, William read his tragedy, "The Borderers.""
40
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
C
Coleridge was greatly pleased with his visit, and
wrote in warm strains of his friend Wordsworth,
asserting that he felt a little man by his side.'
And, in the following year, 1798, he observes:
'When I speak in the terms of admiration due to
his intellect, I fear lest those terms should keep
out of sight the amiableness of his manners. He
has written near twelve hundred lines of blank
verse, superior, I hesitate not to aver, to anything
in our language which in any way resembles it.'
This high tribute relates to 'The Ruined Cottage,'
which now forms the opening book of 'The Ex-
cursion.'
And now a word as to Dorothy Wordsworth's
appearance. We will let Coleridge speak first.
Writing in 1797, he says: 'Wordsworth and his
exquisite sister are with me. She is a woman
indeed, in mind, I mean, and in heart; for her
person is such that if you expected to see a pretty
woman, you would think her ordinary; if you
expected to see an ordinary woman, you would
think her pretty; but her manners are simple,
ardent, impressive. In every motion her innocent
soul out-beams so brightly, that who saw her
would say, "Guilt was a thing impossible with
her." Her information various; her eye watchful
in minutest observation of Nature; and her taste
a perfect electrometer.'
It would be simply impossible to exaggerate the
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
41
irresistible influence of this beloved sister on
Wordsworth. She weaned him altogether, at this
time, from politics, which, as we have seen, exer-
cised such a depressing and dispiriting power over
him; and led him, in more than a figurative sense,
'to fresh woods and pastures new.' A more
gentle, loving, spiritual, and inspiring creature
probably never existed. Wordsworth beautifully
says of her:
'I knew a maid,
A young enthusiast,
·
Birds in the bower, and lambs in the green field,
Could they have known her, would have loved; methought
Her very presence such a sweetness breathed,
That flowers, and trees, and even the silent hills,
And everything she looked on, should have had
An intimation how she bore herself
Towards them, and to all creatures. God delights
In such a being; for, her common thoughts
Are piety, her life is gratitude.'
She led him out of himself, restored his mind to
harmony and peace, brought him forth into the
light of things,' and made him, in a large measure,
what he afterwards became. No one knew this
better than he did.
'She gave me eyes, she gave me ears;
And humble cares, and delicate fears;
A heart, the fountain of sweet tears;
And love, and thought, and joy.'
In July, 1797, Wordsworth and his sister re-
moved to Alfoxden, near Nether Stowey, a charm-
42
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
ingly-situated village at the foot of the Quantock
Hills, in Somersetshire, where Coleridge then
resided. 'There is everything there' (in the
neighbourhood of Stowey), writes Dorothy Words-
worth, on the 4th of July, 'sea, woods wild as
fancy ever painted, brooks clear and pebbly as in
Cumberland, villages so romantic; and William
and I, in a wander by ourselves, found out a
sequestered waterfall in a dell formed by steep
hills covered with full-grown timber trees. The
woods are as fine as those at Lowther, and the
country more romantic; it has the character of
the less grand parts of the neighbourhood of the
lakes.' On the 14th of August, writing from Al-
foxden, she says: 'Here we are in a large mansion,
in a large park, with seventy head of deer around
us. But I must begin with the day of leaving
Racedown to pay Coleridge a visit. You know
how much we were delighted with the neighbour-
hood of Stowey. . . . We spent a fortnight at
Coleridge's in the course of that time we heard
that this house was to let, applied for it, and
took it. Our principal inducement was Coleridge's
society. It was a month yesterday since we came
to Alfoxden.
:
The house is a large mansion, with furniture
enough for a dozen families like ours. There is a
very excellent garden, well stocked with vegetables
and fruit. The garden is at the end of the house,
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
43
and the favourite parlour, as at Racedown, looks
that way.
In front is a little court, with grass
plot, gravel walk, and shrubs; the moss-roses were
in full beauty a month ago. The front of the
house is to the south, but it is screened from the
sun by a high hill which rises immediately from it.
This hill is beautiful, scattered irregularly and
abundantly with trees, and topped with fern,
which spreads a considerable way down it. The
deer dwell here, and sheep, so that we have a
living prospect. From the end of the house we
have a view of the sea, over a woody meadow-
country; and exactly opposite the window where
I now sit is an immense wood, whose round top
from this point has exactly the appearance of a
mighty dome. In some parts of this wood there
is an under grove of hollies which are now very
beautiful. In a glen at the bottom of the wood is
the waterfall of which I spoke, a quarter of a mile
from the house. We are three miles from Stowey,
and not two miles from the sea. Wherever we
turn we have woods, smooth downs and valleys
with small brooks running down them, through
green meadows, hardly ever intersected with
hedgerows, but scattered over with trees. The
hills that cradle these valleys are either covered
with fern and bilberries, or oak woods, which are
cut for charcoal. ... Walks extend for miles over
the hill-tops; the great beauty of which is their
44
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
wild simplicity: they are perfectly smooth, with-
out rocks.
The Tor of Glastonbury is before our eyes
during more than half of our walk to Stowey; and
in the park wherever we go, keeping about fifteen
yards above the house, it makes a part of our
prospect.'
It is believed that this delightful mansion, which
belonged to the family of the St. Aubins, was let
to the Wordsworths on the condition that they
should keep it in repair. Be this as it may, the
inspiring influence of its lovely surroundings upon
Wordsworth cannot be over-estimated. He con-
tinued to reside here for about a year, and he
describes this period as a very pleasant and pro-
ductive time of his life.' And such it unquestion-
ably was. During his residence here he wrote the
whole of his contributions to the first volume of
the 'Lyrical Ballads,' with the single exception of
"The Female Vagrant,' originally called 'Salisbury
Plain,' where, as already intimated, the poem was
commenced. And we are well assured that the
life of this remarkable trio-Wordsworth, Cole-
ridge, and Dorothy Wordsworth-at this stage
must indeed have been blissful in the extreme.
What charming and elevating conversations, and
enchanting walks, must they not have had! Had
the former been preserved, how invaluable would
they be!
Here some of the most enraptured
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
45
strains that have ever been uttered by humanity
were composed-poems which will glide into
oblivion only with that of the language in which
they are written.
Wordsworth had a decided predilection for
travelling, and it was during a pedestrian tour in
Devonshire, with his sister and Coleridge, that
'The Ancient Mariner' was commenced. The
idea was to sell it, and thus defray the expenses
of the excursion. Concerning this poem Words-
worth says:
'Much the greatest part of the story
was Mr. Coleridge's invention; but certain parts.
I suggested; for example, some crime was to be
committed which should bring upon the Old Navi-
gator, as Coleridge afterwards delighted to call
him, the spectral persecution, as a consequence of
that crime and his own wanderings. I had been
reading in Shelvocke's Voyages, a day or two
before, that, while doubling Cape Horn, they fre-
quently saw albatrosses in that latitude, the largest
sort of sea-fowl, some extending their wings twelve
or thirteen feet. "Suppose," said I, "you repre-
sent him as having killed one of these birds on
entering the South Sea, and that the tutelary
spirits of these regions take upon them to avenge
the crime." The incident was thought fit for the
purpose, and adopted accordingly.
I also sug-
gested the navigation of the ship by the dead men,
but do not recollect that I had anything more to
46
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
do with the scheme of the poem.
We began
the composition together, . . . I furnished two or
three lines at the beginning of the poem, in par-
ticular-
""And listen'd like a three years' child;
The mariner had his will.
In a note to the opening verse of the fourth
part of this highly fanciful work, reading—
'I fear thee, ancient Mariner!
I fear thy skinny hand!
And thou art long, and lank, and brown,
As is the ribbed sea-sand'
Coleridge observes: 'For the two last lines of this
stanza, I am indebted to Mr. Wordsworth. It was
on a delightful walk from Nether Stowey to Dul-
verton, with him and his sister, in the autumn of
1797, that this poem was planned, and, in part,
composed.'
"" "
The manner of the two poets was, however, 'so
widely different' that Wordsworth handed over
the treatment of the subject as a whole to Cole-
"The Ancient Mariner,"
ridge.
continues
Wordsworth, 'grew and grew till it became too
important for our first object, which was limited
to our expectation of five pounds; and we began
to think of a volume which was to consist, as Mr.
Coleridge has told the world, of poems chiefly on
supernatural subjects, taken from common life,
but looked at, as much as might be, through an
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
47
imaginative medium. Accordingly I wrote "The
Idiot Boy," "Her Eyes are Wild," etc., and "We
are Seven," "The Thorn," and some others.' This
was after their return to Alfoxden.
At length, in November, 1797, Wordsworth
completed his tragedy, 'The Borderers'; and, in
the same month, Dorothy Wordsworth writes:
'William's play is finished, and sent to the
managers of the Covent Garden Theatre. We
have not the faintest expectation that it will be
accepted.' Certain alterations were suggested, and
both brother and sister went up to London. It
was fortunate that they had entertained no hopes
of its acceptance; for it was rejected. The reason
is not far to seek. There was nothing of the
dramatic in Wordsworth's genius, which was
essentially reflective. Two or three years later
he says:
'The moving accident is not my trade;
To freeze the blood I have no ready arts:
'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade,
To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.'
The drama was clearly not his forte, and it was
well that he thus discovered the fact. He was
only one of the many great poets who failed in
dramatic composition. Byron and Scott are no-
table examples. Coleridge, too, narrowly escaped
failure; and Tennyson, in our own day, can
scarcely be pronounced successful as a playwright,
48
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
backed as he has been by the greatest of living
actors. Wordsworth, speaking of this work in
1843, the year after its publication-it had slum-
bered in manuscript nearly fifty years-said: 'I
never thought of the stage at the time it was
written.' Its rejection, therefore, caused him no
disappointment; and, instead of decreasing his
poetical efforts, he continued to compose with, if
possible, greater activity. We cannot proceed
further without excerpting one or two brief pas-
sages from this tragedy. The first was greatly
admired by Hazlitt, and describes, in apt lan-
guage, the remorse which follows a hastily-com-
mitted crime:
'Action is transitory-a step, a blow,
The motion of a muscle-this way or that-
'Tis done, and in the after-vacancy
We wonder at ourselves like men betrayed :
Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark,
And shares the nature of infinity.'
The following words are put into the mouth of a
female beggar, who has a child in her arms:
'I've had the saddest dream that ever troubled
The heart of living creature.-My poor babe
Was crying, as I thought, crying for bread
When I had none to give him; whereupon,
I put a slip of foxglove in his hand,
Which pleased him so, that he was hushed at once:
When, into one of those same spotted bells
A bee came darting, which the child with joy
Imprisoned there, and held it to his ear,
And suddenly grew black, as he would die.'
!
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
49
The two attached poets were now busily engaged
upon the 'Lyrical Ballads'; and, pending their
completion, we will let Coleridge state their origin.
He says: 'During the first year that Mr. Words-
worth and I were neighbours, our conversations
turned frequently on the two cardinal points of
poetry-the power of exciting the sympathy of
the reader by a faithful adherence to the truth of
nature, and the power of giving the interest of
novelty by the modifying colours of imagination.
The sudden charm which accidents of light and
shade, which moonlight or sunset, diffused over a
known and familiar landscape, appeared to repre-
sent the practicability of combining both. These
are the poetry of nature. The thought suggested
itself (to which of us I do not recollect) that a series
of poems might be composed of two sorts. In the
one, the incidents and agents were to be, in part
at least, supernatural; and the excellence aimed at
was to consist in the interesting of the affections
by the dramatic truth of such emotions as would
naturally accompany such situations, supposing
them real. And 'real,' in this sense, they have
been to every human being who, from whatever
source of delusion, has at any time believed him-
self under supernatural agency. For the second
class, subjects were to be chosen from ordinary
life the characters and incidents were to be such
as will be found in every village and its vicinity
•
4
50
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
where there is a meditative and feeling mind to
seek after them, or to notice them when they pre-
sent themselves. In this idea originated the plan
of the "Lyrical Ballads"; in which it was agreed
that my endeavours should be directed to persons
and characters supernatural, or at least romantic;
yet so as to transfer from our inward nature a
human interest and a semblance of truth sufficient
to procure for these shadows of imagination that
willing suspension of disbelief for the moment,
which constitutes poetic faith. Mr. Wordsworth,
on the other hand, was to propose to himself, as
his object, to give the charm of novelty to things
of every day, and to excite a feeling analogous to
the supernatural, by awakening the mind's atten-
tion from the lethargy of custom, and directing it
to the loveliness and the wonders of the world
before us—an inexhaustible treasure, but for which,
in consequence of the film of familiarity and selfish
solicitude, we have eyes, yet see not, ears that hear
not, and hearts that neither feel nor understand.
With this view I wrote "The Ancient Mariner,"
and was preparing, among other poems, "The Dark
Ladie," and the "Christabel," in which I should
have more nearly realized my ideal than I had done
in my first attempt. But Mr. Wordsworth's in-
dustry had proved so much more successful, and
the number of his poems so much greater, that my
compositions, instead of forming a balance, ap-
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
51
peared rather an interpolation of heterogeneous
matter.'
Writing to his friend Cottle, of Bristol, on the
12th of April, 1798, Wordsworth remarks: You
will be pleased to hear that I have gone on very
rapidly adding to my stock of poetry. Do come
and let me read it to you under the old trees in
the park. We have little more than two months
to stay in this place.'
C
His motto at this time, and indeed throughout
almost the whole of his long life, might most
appropriately have been, Nulla dies sine lined.'
Poetical composition was to him, in a measure, as
necessary as his daily bread; he prayed for the
one, and he laboured indefatigably at the other.
It was during their residence at Alfoxden that
the Wordsworths made the acquaintance of Charles
Lamb (the gentle Elia) and his sister. Lamb and
Coleridge were old and attached friends, having
been boys together at Christ's Hospital. Now, too,
Hazlitt paid his first visit to Wordsworth. He
had been spending a few weeks with Coleridge at
Nether Stowey, and, naturally enough, he was in-
troduced to the Wordsworths. He has given us a
delightful account of the matter in his essay en-
titled My First Acquaintance with Poets,' to
which the reader is specially referred. 'Words-
worth himself was from home,' he tells us, ' but his
sister kept house, and set before us a frugal repast;
4-2
52
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
and we had free access to her brother's poems, the
Lyrical Ballads," which were still in manuscript,
or in the form of "Sybilline Leaves." I dipped
into a few of these with great satisfaction, and
with the faith of a novice. I slept that night in
an old room with blue hangings, and covered with
the round-faced family portraits of the age of
George I. and II., and from the wooded declivity
of the adjoining park that overlooked my window,
at the dawn of day, could
““ Hear the loud stag speak."
After breakfast the following morning, seated in
the open air on the trunk of an old tree, Coleridge
read aloud the ballad of 'Betty Foy,' with which
Hazlitt was not very particularly impressed. 'But
in "The Thorn," "The Mad Mother," and "The
Complaint of a Poor Indian Woman," he says, 'I
felt that deeper power and pathos which have been
since acknowledged,
"In spite of pride, in erring reason's spite,"
as the characteristics of this author; and the sense
of a new style and a new spirit in poetry came over
me. It had to me something of the effect that
arises from the turning up of the fresh soil, or of
the first welcome breath of spring:
""While yet the trembling year is unconfirmed.'
C
Wordsworth was quaintly dressed,' says Hazlitt,
"(according to the costume of that unconstrained
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
53
period) in a brown fustian jacket and striped
pantaloons. There was something of a roll, a
lounge in his gait, not unlike his own "Peter Bell."
There was a severe, worn pressure of thought about.
his temples, a fire in his eye (as if he saw some-
thing in objects more than the outward appear-
ance), an intense, high, narrow forehead, a Roman
nose, cheeks furrowed by strong purpose and feel-
ing, and a convulsive inclination to laughter about
the mouth, a good deal at variance with the solemn,
stately expression of the rest of his face.
Haydon's head of him, introduced into the "En-
trance of Christ into Jerusalem," is the most like
his drooping weight of thought and expression.'
We have it on the authority of De Quincey that
the Wordsworths received at Alfoxden a visit from
their cousin, Mary Hutchinson, who, it will be
remembered, was one of the poet's school-mates at
the dame's school at Penrith.
A tour made during the summer along the banks
of the Wye, Wordsworth being accompanied by
his sister, produced the exquisite poem known as
'Tintern Abbey,' which was indeed a marvellous
inspiration, not a line of it being altered after its
composition.
And now he was again about to throw the die.
He had sufficient poems for a further volume.
Accordingly, to be nearer the printer, he proceeded
for a while with his sister to Bristol.
CHAPTER IV.
'What shall I do to be for ever known,
And make the age to come my own?'
-Cowley.
The 'Lyrical Ballads' (1798)-Wordsworth, accompanied by
his sister and Coleridge, sets out for Germany (September,
1798)-Coleridge parts from them at Hamburg-They
winter at Goslar, where he produces some charming poems
-Commences 'The Prelude' on leaving Goslar (February,
1799)-Returns to England-Resides no more at Alfoxden
-Makes a tour into Cumberland and Westmoreland-
Visits Grasmere with Coleridge-Settles there with his
sister (December, 1799).
C
THE Lyrical Ballads,' an epoch-making book, was
published anonymously in the autumn of 1798, by
Joseph Cottle, of Bristol, in a small 12mo. volume,
containing 210 pages. As this work has now
become a rara avis, and as many readers of Words-
worth are unacquainted with its contents, a list of
the poems comprised therein is subjoined. They
are as under :-
The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere.
The Foster Mother's Tale.
Lines left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree, which stands
near the Lake of Esthwaite.
&
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
The Nightingale; a Conversational Poem.
The Female Vagrant.
Goody Blake and Harry Gill.
55
Lines written at a small Distance from my House,
and sent by my little Boy to the Person to
whom they are addressed.
Simon Lee, the old Huntsman.
Anecdote for Fathers.
We are Seven.
Lines written in early Spring.
The Thorn.
The Last of the Flock.
The Dungeon.
The Mad Mother.
The Idiot Boy.
Lines written near Richmond upon the Thames, at
Evening.
Expostulation and Reply.
The Tables Turned; an Evening Scene on the
same Subject.
Old Man Travelling.
The Complaint of a Forsaken Indian Woman.
The Convict.
Lines written a few Miles above Tintern Abbey.
The edition, which consisted only of 500 copies,
proved much too large, and the publisher states:
'The sale was so slow, and the severity of most of
the reviews so great, that its progress to oblivion
seemed to be certain. I parted with the largest
56
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
proportion of the 500, at a loss, to Mr. Arch, a
London bookseller.' How true is it that, as quaint
Thomas Fuller observes, 'Learning hath gained
most by those books by which the printers have
lost'!
The volume was published as an experiment,'
and as a protest against the artificial style and
diction of the poetry of the period; and its publi-
cation came not a moment too soon.
That it was
received on all sides with howls of ridicule and
derision was but natural, as will readily be seen
upon reflection. Wordsworth, as we have learned,
was a reformer. He had commenced active life as
a republican; had become deeply interested in the
revolutionary movement in France; and now he
proposed a complete revolution in English litera-
ture. And he met the fate of reformers in general.
But the odium and censure heaped upon the work
had no effect whatever upon him; he knew that a
reform in poetry, as in politics, was inevitable, and
must come sooner or later; and he had not hesitated
to sound a timely alarm. It was not to be expected
that the public taste, which had long been treated to
the smoothest of smooth compositions, decked with
all the graces-if such they can be called-of
gaudy, meretricious, and artificial diction and
polish, in which there was little of the spirit of
poetry, though the many knew it not, would re-
ceive and be satisfied with the homely but whole-
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
57
some fare placed before it in this little but highly
important volume. It was regarded as an outrage
against common-sense, and an insult to the judg-
ment and understanding of its readers. Instead of
having their taste gratified with poetry written in
the hitherto refined and sentimental, namby-pamby
style, treating of the lords and ladies, fops and
fripperies of the period, they were treated, for the
most part, to a selection of verses which had for
their subjects characters drawn from humble life,
such as female vagrants, old huntsmen, mad
mothers, and idiot boys. Everybody's hand was
raised against the book, but it did not for all that
glide down the stream of oblivion. It was reserved
for a better fate than that. It had been written
with a noble object in view, and it was, notwith-
standing its reception, to act as a lever that would
ere long move the whole world of poetry. It
aimed at being natural, as opposed to the artificial.
The authors had endeavoured to fit 'to metrical
arrangement a selection of the real language of
men in a state of vivid sensation.' One by one,
admirers were found, and a new public was created;
and henceforth the growth of the Wordsworthian
theory was slow but sure.
Amongst the literary organs that referred to the
volume were the Critical Review and the Monthly
Review, the former of which stated: 'In the whole
range of English poetry we scarcely recollect any-
58
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
thing superior to a passage in "Lines written near
Tintern Abbey," and it summed up by saying:
'Yet every piece discovers genius; and ill as the
author has frequently employed his talents, they
certainly rank him with the best of living poets';
while the latter observed: 'So much genius and
originality are discovered in this publication, that
we wish to see another from the same hand,
written on more elevated subjects and in a more
cheerful disposition.'
With regard to the charge of simplicity and
puerility so repeatedly preferred against some of
the 'Lyrical Ballads,' a few remarks are perhaps
necessary. It has been well said that there is but
one step from the sublime to the ridiculous; and
there is such a thing as sublime simplicity, be-
tween which and silliness the distance is painfully
slight. Little wonder, therefore, that Wordsworth,
in his efforts to be natural, occasionally degener-
ated into excessive tameness, and even simpleness
itself. It is no use blinking the truth. The fact
is incontrovertible. Extremes are proverbially
dangerous; and Wordsworth, it must be admitted,
in some few of the ballads, such as 'The Idiot
Boy,' and 'Goody Blake and Harry Gill,' carried
his early poetical theory too far. There is a sim-
plicity which is not poetry, and into this he fell
more often than his better judgment should have
allowed him. That such was the case in his own
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
59
opinion, is abundantly proved by the alteration
and sometimes removal of certain of the more
notable and exceptionable passages which occurred
in the original ballads. Amongst these may be
mentioned the following:
'A little child, dear brother Jem,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?'
The words printed in italics, it is but fair to
say, were Coleridge's; but as Wordsworth adopted
them, he cannot disclaim his responsibility. One
of our foremost living writers and critics, however,
assures us that he does not consider them in the
least out of harmony with the general tenor of the
beautiful poem, We are Seven,' in which they
originally appeared. He sees no good reason for
their omission. For ourselves, we prefer the
stanza as it is now printed in the various editions
of the poems. Again, after a description of a pond
of water, we are gravely informed:
'I've measured it from side to side,
'Tis three feet long, and two feet wide.'
This is decidedly trivial, if not puerile. These are
some instances—of which, alas! there are too many
-in which the poet has greatly over-ridden his
hobby, and which go to prove that a theory good
in itself may be overdone. Poetry, or we are
much mistaken, cannot be reduced to a system or
60
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
fixed rules. Unlike prose, it cannot be ordered ad
libitum; it is something like the wind-' we cannot
tell whence it cometh.'
Of the twenty-three poems contained in the
'Lyrical Ballads,' all were Wordsworth's with the
exception of four-The Rime of the Ancyent
Marinere,' 'The Nightingale,' 'The Foster Mother's
Tale,' and 'The Dungeon.' It is hard to imagine
that a reception so unfavourable should have been
accorded to a volume which, in addition to Cole-
ridge's exquisite contributions, gave birth to such
beautiful conceptions as the 'Lines left upon a
Seat in a Yew-tree,' 'We are Seven,' 'Lines
written in early Spring,' 'The Thorn,' 'The Mad
Mother,' 'The Complaint of a Forsaken Indian
Woman,' and 'Tintern Abbey'—all indeed pearls
of great price-unless the reason is to be found in
the fact that the selection proclaimed with no un-
certain sound that a revolution in poetry was
imminent. But
'The world is often sadly wrong;
It censures him who most aspires,
And often most the one admires
Who is a very child in song.
'But Time, that sets all things aright,
Proves what will live and what will die
;
In silence passes numbers by,
And brings neglected worth to light.'
It remains to be added, on the authority of his
sister, that Wordsworth received thirty guineas as
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
61
his share of the copyright, which, soon after pub-
lication, the publisher having given up business,
and transferred all his copyrights to Messrs. Long-
man and Co., of London, was valued at nil. It
was, therefore, returned at Cottle's request, and by
him very kindly presented to the authors. It is
worthy of note, also, that numerous copies of the
work were sold to sailors, who regarded it as a
sea-book, so many of its pages being devoted to
'The Ancient Mariner.'
And now, having a small surplus of cash, Words-
worth and his sister, accompanied by Coleridge, in
September, 1798, set out for Germany, their main
object being the study of the language. They
landed at Hamburg on the 18th of the month, and
about a week later made the acquaintance of Klop-
stock, the celebrated author of the 'Messiah,' whom
Coleridge humorously nicknamed 'Klubstick.' The
conversations between Wordsworth and Klopstock,
which were of a most interesting character, are to
be found in 'Satyrane's Letters,' published by
Coleridge in his 'Biographia Literaria,' where the
reader would do well to peruse them.
At Hamburg, Coleridge parted from the Words-
worths, and proceeded to Ratzeburg, a distance of
some thirty-five miles, while Wordsworth and his
sister went on to Goslar, in Hanover, where they
arrived on the 6th of October, at eight o'clock in
the evening. Here they passed the winter of
62
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
1798-9, which was bitterly cold, and said to be the
severest of the eighteenth century.
They had hoped, in addition to prosecuting their
studies in German, to mix a little in the society
of the place; but they were disappointed in this
respect. Their acceptance of local invitations
would, to some extent, have necessitated hospi-
tality on their part, and as their means were
humble, they prudently spent their time in com-
parative retirement. Perhaps it is fortunate for
us that they did so, as the poetical genius of
Wordsworth was now in its very flower. He does
not appear to have drank deeply of the springs of
German metaphysics and philosophy, which so
much infected Coleridge, and so largely coloured
the current of his thought afterwards. Words-
worth's heart, though in a strange land, yearned
for the scenes he had left behind him and in
1;
imagination he wandered along the banks of the
limpid rivers, and through the deep woods, of his
native country. He writes:
'I travelled among unknown men,
In lands beyond the sea;
Nor, England! did I know till then
What love I bore to thee.
"Tis past, that melancholy dream !
Nor will I quit thy shore
A second time; for still I seem
To love thee more and more.'
Here it was that he conceived many of his best-
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
63
known poems. Amongst others he composed 'Lucy
Gray,' 'Nutting,' 'Wisdom and Spirit of the Uni-
verse,' 'Three years she grew in sun and shower,'
'Strange fits of passion have I known,' 'She dwelt
among the untrodden ways,' 'There was a boy;
ye knew him well, ye cliffs,' and 'A Poet's Epi-
taph'-sufficient in themselves to have earned a
richly-merited immortality. He sent the lines
beginning, 'There was a boy,' etc., in manuscript
to Coleridge, who writes in reply: 'They are very
beautiful, and leave an affecting impression. That
"""Uncertain heaven received
Into the bosom of the steady lake,"
I should have recognised anywhere; and had I
met these lines running wild in the deserts of
Arabia, I should have instantly screamed out
"Wordsworth!" While at Ratzeburg, Coleridge
produced some striking hexameters, which he for-
warded to Wordsworth, and which conclude in
strains which prove the strong bond of affection
that existed between them:
'William, my head and my heart! dear William and dear
Dorothea!
You have all in each other; but I am lonely, and want
you!'
On quitting Goslar, on the 10th of February,
1799, Wordsworth commenced 'The Prelude,'
breaking forth into impassioned, unpremeditated
verse as he and his sister left their winter-quarters
behind them.
64
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH':
They returned to England in the same month,
and, instead of again taking up their abode at
Alfoxden, passed several months with their friends,
the Hutchinsons, at Sockburn-on-Tees. About this
time, Wordsworth, writing to Cottle, says: 'We
are now in the county of Durham, just upon the
borders of Yorkshire. We left Coleridge well at
Göttingen a month ago. We have spent our time
pleasantly enough in Germany, but we are right
glad to find ourselves in England-for we have
learnt to know its value.'
The circumstances under which they left Alfox-
den are specially remarkable. Political feeling in
England ran high during the period of their resi
dence there, and, incredible though it may seem,
Wordsworth and Coleridge were actually under
suspicion, being followed about in their various
rambles here and there by a mysterious person,
who was eventually discovered to be a spy in the
pay of the Government. The fact of two indi-
viduals of no ostensible occupation, who were ever
observed to be in close conversation whenever they
took their walks abroad-and they were fre-
quently to be met with in the most out-of-the-way
places, looking at the sea in moonlight, and so
forth-residing in the district, had, doubtless,
attracted and disturbed the attention of some of
the rustic numskulls; and, accordingly, representa-
tions on the subject were made to the authorities.
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
65
Coleridge, in his 'Biographia Literaria,' relates :
'I was so fortunate as to acquire, shortly after my
settlement there [at Stowey], an invaluable blessing
in the society and neighbourhood of one [Words-
worth] to whom I could look up with equal rever-
ence, whether I regarded him as a poet, a philo-
sopher, or a man. His conversation extended to
almost all subjects, except physics and politics;
with the latter he never troubled himself. Yet
neither my retirement nor my utter abstraction
from all the disputes of the day could secure me
in those jealous times from suspicion and obloquy,
which did not stop at me, but extended to my
excellent friend, whose perfect innocence was even
adduced as a proof of his guilt. One of the many
busy sycophants of that day . . . uttered the fol-
lowing deep remark: "As to Coleridge, there is
not so much harm in him, for he is a whirl-brain
that talks whatever comes uppermost; but that
; he is the dark traitor. You never hear
him say a syllable on the subject." According to
Coleridge's version of the affair, they were tracked
for three weeks by a spy 'actually sent down from
the Government,' who skilfully managed to place
himself within hearing of their conversation as
they sat before a bank at the seaside, and who was
forced to admit that they were as good subjects,
for aught he could discover to the contrary, as any
in his Majesty's dominions.' 'At first,' says Cole-
<
5
66
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
ridge, he fancied that we were aware of our
danger; for he often heard me talk of one Spy
Nozy, which he was inclined to interpret of him-
self, and of a remarkable feature belonging to him;
but he was speedily convinced that it was the
name of a man who had made a book, and lived
long ago.'
Cottle thus refers to this incident: Mr. Words-
worth had taken the Alfoxden house, near Stowey,
for one year (during the minority of the heir), and
the reason why he was refused a continuance by
the ignorant man who had the letting of it arose,
as Mr. Coleridge informed me, from a whimsical
cause, or rather a series of causes, The wiseacres
of the village had, it seemed, made Mr. Words-
worth the subject of their serious conversation.
One said that he had seen him wandering about
by night, and look rather strange at the moon!
And then he roamed over the hills like a partridge !
Another said he had heard him mutter, as he
walked, in some outlandish brogue that nobody
could understand! Another said: "It is useless
to talk, Thomas. I think he is what people call a
wise man (a conjurer)." Another said: "You are
every one of you wrong. I know what he is. We
have all met him tramping away toward the sea.
Would any man in his senses take all that trouble
to look at a parcel of water? I think he carries on
a snug business in the smuggling line, and in these
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
67
journeys is on the look-out for some wet cargo !"
Another, very significantly, said: "I know that he
has got a private still in his cellar; for I once
passed his house at a little better than a hundred
yards' distance, and I could smell the spirits as
plain as an ashen faggot at Christmas!" Another
said: "However that was, he was surely a desperd
(desperate) French Jacobin; for he is so silent and
dark that nobody ever heard him say one word
about politics!" And thus these ignoramuses drove
from their village a greater ornament than will
ever again be found amongst them.'
Truer words than those contained in the last
sentence were probably never written, for, as
Southey says: 'Of such men the world scarcely
produces one in a millennium.' When will it ever
see such another ?
Coleridge arrived in England in July, and took
up his abode with his wife and family at Nether
Stowey, remaining there until the end of August.
In September, Wordsworth made a tour into Cum-
berland and Westmoreland, accompanied by his
sailor-brother, John, Coleridge, and Cottle of Bristol.
The latter left the party at Greta Bridge; and John
Wordsworth, after spending a few days with them,
also quitted them. The two united poets then
continued their excursion together, and they were
equally impressed with the bewitching scenery of the
district through which they passed. Wordsworth,
68
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
writing to his sister at this time, observes: The
evening before last we walked to the upper waterfall
at Rydal, and saw it through the gloom, and it was
very magnificent. Coleridge was much struck with
Grasmere and its neighbourhood. I have much to
say to you. You will think my plan a mad one,
but I have thought of building a house there by
the lake-side. John would give me £40 to buy
the ground. There is a small house at Grasmere
empty, which, perhaps, we may take; but of this
we will speak.'
After Wordsworth's return to Sockburn, where
he rejoined his sister, it was decided that, instead
of building, they should rent the cottage referred
to, which had originally been an inn. It was, ac-
cordingly, secured, and they arrived in their new
home on the evening of the 21st of December, 1799
-the shortest day in the year-having walked the
greater part of the way, 'accomplishing as much as
twenty miles in a day, over uneven roads, frozen
into rocks, in the teeth of a keen wind and a
driving snow.'
'The frosty wind, as if to make amends
For its keen breath, was aiding to our steps,
And drove us onward like two ships at sea;
Or like two birds, companions in mid-air,
Parted and reunited by the blast.
Stern was the face of nature: we rejoiced
In that stern countenance; for our souls thence drew
A feeling of their strength. The naked trees,
The icy brooks, as on we passed, appeared
To question us, "Whence come ye? To what end?"
CHAPTER V.
'Oh ! if there be an Elysium on earth,
It is this, it is this."
-Moore.
Grasmere described-Dove Cottage-'Lyrical Ballads,' in
two volumes (1800)-Wordsworth is visited by his brother
John-His great poetic period (1795-1800) referred to-Is
visited by Coleridge (August, 1800)-Life at Dove Cottage
-Visits France with his sister.
GRASMERE is unquestionably one of the sweetest
and most charmingly-situated villages in the Lake
District, or throughout the length and breadth of
the United Kingdom.
'Earth has not anything to show more fair :
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty.'
A more picturesque spot it would well-nigh be
impossible to imagine, nestling as it does upon the
border of the lovely little lake that bears its name,
surrounded by the everlasting hills, with its white
scattered buildings dotting the green landscape
here and there like sheep, and its old church (dedi-
cated to St. Oswald) towering amid the abounding
trees. The lake, which is scarcely half a mile wide
70
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
at its broadest part, is a beautiful sheet of water,
and presents an exquisite picture, with its crystal
wavelets kissing the fertile fields; while the mag-
nificent mountain scenery, clothed at times in all
the colours of the rainbow, forms a bewitching
background which, like Cleopatra's person,' beggars
all description.' As one gazes upon the tranquil
bosom of the mere, bathed in golden glory, or on
the encircling hills 'framed in the prodigality of
nature,' unless he have no poetry in his soul, he must
perforce exclaim in the dulcet language of Moore :
'. . . If there's peace to be found in the world,
A heart that was humble might hope for it here.'
The poet Gray, who died in 1771, the year after
Wordsworth was born, has given us an unrivalled
word-painting of Grasmere, which he visited in
October, 1769. Of course, the scene has been some-
what disfigured during the intervening century.
He says: 'Passed by the little chapel of Wiborn
[Wythburn], out of which the Sunday congregation
were then issuing. Passed a beck [rivulet] near
Dunmailrouse [Dunmailraise], and entered West-
moreland a second time; now begin to see Helm-
crag, distinguished from its rugged neighbours, not
so much by its height, as by the strange, broken
outline of its top, like some gigantic building
demolished, and the stones that composed it flung
across each other in wild confusion. Just beyond
it, opens one of the sweetest landscapes that art
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
71
ever attempted to imitate. The bosom of the
mountains spreading here into a broad basin, dis-
covers in the midst Grasmere water; its margin is
hollowed into small bays with bold eminences,
some of them rocks, some of soft turf, that half
conceal and vary the figure of the little lake they
command. From the shore, a low promontory
pushes itself far into the water, and on it stands a
white village, with the parish church rising in the
midst of it; hanging inclosures, cornfields, and
meadows green as an emerald with their trees,
hedges, and cattle, fill up the whole space from the
edge of the water. Just opposite to you is a large
farmhouse, at the bottom of a steep, smooth lawn
embosomed in old woods, which climb half-way up
the mountain's side, and discover above them a
broken line of crags, that crown the scene. Not a
single red tile, no glaring gentleman's house or
garden-walls, break in upon the repose of this little
unsuspected paradise; but all is peace, rusticity,
and happy poverty, in its neatest and most be-
coming attire.'
Nathaniel Hawthorne thus writes of Grasmere :
This little town seems to me as pretty a place as
ever I met with in my life. It is quite shut in by
hills that rise up immediately around it, like a
neighbourhood of kindly giants. These hills de-
scend steeply to the verge of the level on which
the village stands, and there they terminate at
72
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
once, the whole site of the little town being as
even as a floor. I call it a village, but it is no
village at all; all the dwellings stand apart, each in
its own little domain, and each, I believe, with its
own little lane leading to it, independently of the
rest. Many of these are old cottages, plastered
white, with antique porches, and roses, and other
vines, trained against them, and shrubbery growing
about them, and some are covered with ivy. There
are a few edifices of more pretension and of modern
build, but not so striking as to put the rest out of
countenance. . . . The whole looks like a real
seclusion, shut out from the great world by those
encircling hills, on the sides of which, whenever
they are not too steep, you see the division lines of
property and tokens of cultivation-taking from
them their pretensions of savage majesty, but
bringing them nearer to the heart of man.'
Such is Grasmere, where Wordsworth and his
sister settled. The dwelling in which they resided,
known as Dove Cottage,* still retains its former
* It cannot but gratify every lover of literature to know
that this famous tenement, where Wordsworth resided
for more than eight years, and where many of his finest
poems were written, has been purchased and vested in
trustees for all time to come, the building and grounds
having been restored, as far as possible, to the condition in
which they were when in the occupation of the Words-
worths, For this desideratum the public are mainly
indebted to the praiseworthy efforts of the Rev. Stopford
Brooke, whose admirable little volume entitled 'Dove
Cottage' should be in the hands of every cultured reader.
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
73
character and appearance. It stands on the visitor's
right as he passes through Town End. In Words-
worth's days it was a charming retreat; and room
must be found for the following beautiful sonnet,
composed by the poet when in an admonitory
mood:
'Well may'st thou halt-and gaze with brightening eye!
The lovely cottage in the guardian nook
Hath stirred thee deeply; with its own dear brook,
Its own small pasture, almost its own sky!
But covet not the abode ;-forbear to sigh,
As many do, repining while they look ;
Intruders-who would tear from Nature's book
This precious leaf, with harsh impiety.
Think what the home must be if it were thine,
Even thine, though few thy wants !-Roof, window, door,
The very flowers are sacred to the poor,
The roses to the porch which they entwine:
Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the day
On which it should be touched, would melt away.'
But times are altered. The cottage is now
almost entirely concealed from sight from the high-
road, the course of which has been diverted some-
what nearer the lake, while a considerable row of
houses has since been erected; and the quiet and
privacy which, doubtless, rendered it so blissful an
abiding-place to the poet, are now, more especially
in the visiting season, things of the past. To the
Wordsworths it must truly have been an earthly
paradise; and the poet, deeply enamoured of his
choice, took, according to De Quincey, a seven or
eight years' lease of it. At that time the prospect
74
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
from the cottage, since gravely interrupted, was
almost unsurpassed, the building overlooking the
picturesque lake of Grasmere; while behind the
premises there was, and still is, a small garden, in
addition to an orchard, through which 'its own
dear brook' murmured pleasantly as it rippled
along, its banks in spring being brightly decked
with daffodils and primroses. The views from the
orchard are wide and varied, and beautiful in the
extreme.
Frequent allusions to the cottage and its sur-
roundings are to be found in Wordsworth's poems,
many of which were happily composed here. In
his stanzas, To a Butterfly,' he sings:
'This plot of orchard-ground is ours;
My trees they are, my sister's flowers.'
And, in the exquisite verses entitled 'A Farewell,'
he speaks of the
'Sweet garden-orchard, eminently fair,
The loveliest spot that man hath ever found.'
De Quincey, who occupied the dwelling for
twenty years after Wordsworth quitted it, de-
scribes it as 'a little white cottage, gleaming from
the midst of trees, with a vast and seemingly
never-ending series of ascents rising above it, to
the height of more than three thousand feet.'
The cottage was furnished, it is stated, by
Dorothy Wordsworth, who had been left a legacy
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
75
of £100 by her deceased uncle Crackanthorpe.
And now we are to suppose the immortal couple
-Wordsworth and his sister-comfortably settled
in their delightful home. The feelings with which
the noble-minded poet took up his residence here
are portrayed in a passage of the first book of
'The Recluse,'* which may be read in the 'Me-
moirs of Wordsworth,' by his nephew, the late
Bishop of Lincoln, of blessed memory, and which
thus concludes:
'Embrace me then, ye hills, and close me in.
Now in the clear and open day I feel
Your guardianship; I take it to my heart;
'Tis like the solemn shelter of the night.
But I would call thee beautiful; for mild,
And soft, and gay, and beautiful thou art,
Dear valley, having in thy face a smile,
Though peaceful, full of gladness. Thou art pleased,
Pleased with thy crags and woody steeps, thy lake,
Its one green island and its winding shores,
The multitude of little rocky hills,
Thy church, and cottages of mountain-stone
Clustered like stars some few, but single most,
And lurking dimly in their shy retreats,
Or glancing at each other cheerful looks,
Like separated stars with clouds between.
Wordsworth was now busily engaged in pre-
paring material for a second volume of miscel-
laneous poems. The first edition of the 'Lyrical
Ballads' was by this time exhausted, and in 1800,
* Since the former edition of this biography appeared,
'The Recluse' has been published for the first time in
extenso by Messrs. Macmillan and Co. (1888).
76
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
about the close of the year, it was republished,
together with a further volume, the publication
being entitled, as before, 'Lyrical Ballads.' The
second volume was composed, for the most part,
of the poems written in Germany, and others of
later date. Bad as was the fate accorded to the
first volume, that in store for the second was even
worse, the hostility against it being most bitter
and intense. This was provoked more especially
by the since famous preface prefixed to the second
edition, the merits of which have been so fre-
quently discussed that it would be idle to refer at
any great length to it. A brief reference, how-
ever, cannot be out of place. Writing with regard
to the first volume of the 'Lyrical Ballads,' Words-
worth states: 'I had formed no very inaccurate
estimate of the probable effect of those poems: I
flattered myself that they who should be pleased
with them would read them with more than
common pleasure; and, on the other hand, I was
well aware that, by those who should dislike them,
they would be read with more than common dis-
like. The result has differed from my expectation
in this only, that a greater number have been
pleased than I ventured to hope I should please.'
And he continues: The principal object, then,
proposed in these poems was to choose incidents
and situations from common life, and to relate or
describe them, throughout, as far as was possible,
C
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
77
in a selection of language really used by men, and,
at the same time, to throw over them a certain
colouring of imagination, whereby ordinary things
should be presented to the mind in an unusual
aspect; and, further, and above all, to make these
incidents and situations interesting by tracing in
them, truly though not ostentatiously, the primary
laws of our nature: chiefly, as far as regards the
manner in which we associate ideas in a state of
excitement.' He contends that each of his poems
has a worthy purpose; that 'all good poetry is the
spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings'; that
his endeavour was 'to imitate, and, as far as is
possible, to adopt the very language of men'; and
that 'a large portion of the language of every good
poem can, in no respect, differ from that of good
prose.' It is not too much to affirm that no man
but Wordsworth would have dared to publish such
a preface. From this preface,' says Coleridge,
'prefixed to poems in which it was impossible to
deny the presence of original genius, however mis-
taken its direction might be deemed, arose the
whole long-continued controversy. For, from the
conjunction of perceived power with supposed
heresy I explain the inveteracy and, in some
instances, I grieve to say, the acrimonious passions,
with which the controversy has been conducted
by the assailants.' The critics were almost unani-
mous in their ridicule and abuse, and, as a conse-
78
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
quence, the sale of the volumes was greatly
retarded. Some idea of Wordsworth's popularity,
or rather unpopularity, as a poet at this period
may be inferred from the fact that Messrs. Long-
man and Co. offered only £100 for two editions of
the two volumes! Many a poet would have
thrown aside his pen for ever on such treatment,
but Wordsworth was not the man to be so extin-
guished; he knew that his poetical creed was either
true or false; he had declared his faith
'That Nature never did betray
The heart that loved her';
and, after all, might he not be right, and his critics
wrong? So he kept the even tenor of his way,
and laboured on. Ere long the Temple of Fame,
in all its resplendent glory, would break into view
before his eager vision, and at length he would be
rewarded as he well deserved to be. He could
afford to wait, but it was hard.
As we have painted a bright picture of the poet's
settlement at Grasmere, it is, perhaps, only right
to state that, arriving as he did in December, he
and his devoted sister had an earnest of what a
winter in the Lake District is.
'Two months unwearied of severest storm,
It put the temper of our minds to proof,
And found us faithful.'
The visit of his brother John in the following
spring must have been a particularly pleasant one,
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
79
and in one of the 'Poems on the Naming of
Places,' commencing-
(
When, to the attractions of the busy world,'
an affectionate reference is made to the 'cherished
visitant.' In May the two brothers paid a visit to
the Hutchinsons, at Gallow Hill, near Malton,
York, returning on the 7th of June.
Most of the 'Poems on the Naming of Places,'
in addition to ‘The Brothers,' 'The Idle Shepherd
Boys,' 'The Pet Lamb,' and 'Michael,' were written
in the course of this delightful year--a proof that
the Muse must have been very lavish of her
favours. As in the case of Coleridge, Wordsworth's
poetical star was, perhaps, in its zenith from 1795
to 1800 inclusive, as a brief reference to his poems
composed within this period will abundantly prove.
And what a mine of gold do they constitute !
With the exception of one or two pieces, the whole
of his contributions to the first volume of the
'Lyrical Ballads' were written at this fruitful
time, besides which he produced his tragedy of
'The Borderers,' 'Lucy Gray,' 'The Idle Shep-
herd Boys,' Wisdom and Spirit of the Universe,'
'The Brothers,' 'Strange fits of passion have I
known,' 'She dwelt among the untrodden ways,'
''Tis said, that some have died for love,' 'The
Sailor's Mother,' 'The Childless Father,' 'Michael,'
most of the Poems on the Naming of Places,' 'A
C
80
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
C
whirl-blast from behind the hill,' 'The Waterfall
and the Eglantine,' 'The Oak and the Broom,'
'To a Sexton,' 'The Danish Boy,' 'Song for the
Wandering Jew,' 'There was a boy,' 'A Night-
piece,' 'Nutting,' 'The Simplon Pass,' 'Three years
she grew in sun and shower,' 'A slumber did my
spirit seal,' The Reverie of Poor Susan,' 'Ruth,'
'Hart-leap Well,' 'Peter Bell' (not published,
however, till 1819), 'A Character,' 'Lines written
in Germany, on one of the coldest days of the
century,' 'A Poet's Epitaph,' 'Matthew,' 'The
Two April Mornings,' 'The Fountain,' 'The Two
Thieves,' Animal Tranquillity and Decay,' The
Ruined Cottage,' 'The Pet Lamb,' 'The Old Cum-
berland Beggar,' and various other poems. "The
Prelude,' too, was commenced in 1799. It is
almost inconceivable that most of the works by
which Wordsworth is best known, and with which
his name will be handed down to posterity, were
written during this brief poetic period. That is to
say, his genius was then in the very spring-tide of
its glory' the vision and the faculty divine' were
never brighter. Surely it is not too much to
assert that had he never written after 1800 he
would justly be regarded as one of our finest
poets; nay more, he might, perhaps, by some be
esteemed more highly than he is. It is an open
secret that he wrote a great deal too much, making
all things that came in his way subjects for poetry.
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
81
Certain it is that, with many noteworthy excep-
tions, such as his greatest of all philosophical
poems, 'The Excursion,' the best of his sonnets,
'The Prelude,' and his imperishable 'Ode on the
Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of
Early Childhood,' he produced much after his
thirtieth year that did not add a single leaf to his
laurels. We think it important to insist on this
point, which appears, strangely enough, to have
been signally overlooked by previous writers. The
world has been directed over and over again to
Coleridge's great poetic era, that of his residence
at Nether Stowey, where most of his lovely and
best-known poems were written; but, in the case
of Wordsworth, the most productive period of his
life has received but scanty notice in this respect.
In the creations of his muse before 1801, a com-
plete epitome of the Wordsworthian philosophy is
enshrined, expanded and enlarged, no doubt, in
his subsequent poems. Take away the beautiful
lyrical and blank-verse compositions of Words-
worth written before the dawn of the present
century, and what would be his position as a
poet? The result would be pretty much like
the play of Hamlet' with the Prince of Denmark
omitted.
In August, 1800, Wordsworth received a visit
from his friend Coleridge, who, having quitted
London, where he had occupied lodgings for some
6
82
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
time, now resided at Greta Hall, near Keswick,
which is twelve miles from Grasmere.
Wordsworth's life at Dove Cottage does not pre-
sent, on the whole, many features to which it is
necessary to refer; but a few extracts from the
diary of Dorothy Wordsworth kept at this time
must be quoted to show what a happy existence it
was.
Nov. 6 (1801).-Coleridge came.
•
'Nov. 9.-Walked with Coleridge to Keswick.
'Nov. 18.-William walked to Rydal. .. The
lake of Grasmere beautiful. The church an image
of peace; he wrote some lines upon it.
'April 20 (1802).-W. wrote conclusion to the
"Poem to a Butterfly," "I've watched you,” etc.
Coleridge came.
April 30.-We went into the orchard after
breakfast, and sat there. The lake calm, sky
cloudy. W. began poem on the "Celandine."
'May 1.-Sowed flower-seeds: W. helped me.
We sat in the orchard. W. wrote the "Celandine."
Planned an arbour: the sun too hot for us.
May 7.-W. wrote the "Leech-Gatherer."
May 21.--W. wrote two sonnets on "Buona-
parte," after I had read Milton's sonnets to him.
May 29.-W. wrote his Poem on going to M.H.
I wrote it out.
'June 17.-W. added to the "Ode" he is
writing.
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
83
'June 19.-Read Churchill's "Rosciad.”
July 9.-W. and I set forth to Keswick on our
road to Gallow Hill (to the Hutchinsons, near
Malton, York). On Monday, 11th, went to Euse-
mere (the Clarksons). 13th, walked to Emont
Bridge, thence by Greta Bridge. The sun shone
cheerfully, and a glorious ride we had over the
moors; every building bathed in golden light: we
saw round us miles beyond miles, Darlington spire,
etc. Thence to Thirsk; on foot to the Hamilton
Hills-Rivaux. I went down to look at the ruins :
thrushes singing, cattle feeding among the ruins of
the Abbey; green hillocks about the ruins; these
hillocks scattered over with grovelets of wild roses,
and covered with wild flowers. I could have
stayed in this solemn, quiet spot till evening,
without a thought of moving, but W. was wait-
ing for me. Reached Hemsley at dusk: beautiful
view of Castle from top of the hill.-Friday,
walked to Kirby; arrived at Gallow Hill at seven
o'clock.
July 30.-Left London between five and six
o'clock of the morning, outside the Dover coach.
A beautiful morning. The city, St. Paul's, with
the river—a multitude of little boats, made a beau-
tiful sight as we crossed Westminster Bridge; the
houses not overhung by their clouds of smoke, and
were spread out endlessly; yet the sun shone so
brightly, with such a pure light, that there was
6-2
84
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
something like the purity of one of Nature's own
grand spectacles.'
It was, according to the poet's biographer, on
their departure from London on this memorable
occasion that the charming sonnet from which we
quote was written, on the roof of the Dover coach,
though the poem is entitled 'Composed upon
Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802':
'This city now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will :
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!'
The following extracts are also from the diary
referred to:
'Arrived at Calais at four in the morning of
July 31st.
'Delightful walks in the evenings: seeing far
off in the west the coast of England, like a cloud,
erested with Dover Castle, the evening star, and
the glory of the sky: the reflections in the water
were more beautiful than the sky itself; purple
waves brighter than precious stones for ever melt-
ing away upon the sands.
'On 29th Aug. left Calais at twelve in the
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
85
J
morning for Dover . . . bathed, and sat on the
Dover cliffs, and looked upon France: we could
see the shores almost as plain as if it were but an
English lake. Mounted the coach at half-past four;
arrived in London at six.
'30th Aug. stayed in London till 22nd Sep-
tember: arrived at Gallow Hill on Friday, Sept. 24.'
And now preparations are being made for a
highly important event in the life of Wordsworth.
'But there is matter for a second rhyme
And we to this would add another tale.
:
CHAPTER VI.
"The treasures of the deep are not so precious
As are the conceal'd comforts of a man
Locked up in woman's love. I scent the air
Of blessings, when I come but near the house.
What a delicious breath marriage sends forth !
The violet-bed's not sweeter.'
-Middleton.
Wordsworth marries (October 4, 1802) - His poetical
tributes to his wife-His children-Makes acquaintance of
De Quincey-De Quincey's description of Wordsworth-
Visits Scotland with his sister (August, 1803)-Becomes
acquainted with Scott-His friendship with Southey-Sir
George Beaumont-His brother John dies (1805)-Scott
visits Grasmere 'The Prelude' and 'The Waggoner
finished.
ON Monday, the 4th of October, 1802, Words-
worth was married at Brompton Church, near
Scarborough, to Mary Hutchinson, with whom, it
will be remembered, he went to school as a child at
Penrith, and whom he at once brought home as
his bride to Grasmere, which they reached at six
o'clock on the evening of the 6th. Before setting
out from Grasmere, he had written a truly beautiful
poem, entitled 'A Farewell,' in which, addressing
his home surroundings, he feelingly sings:
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
87
'We go for one to whom ye will be dear;
And she will prize this bower, this Indian shed,
Our own contrivance, building without peer!
-A gentle maid, whose heart is lowly bred,
Whose pleasures are in wild fields gathered,
With joyousness, and with a thoughtful cheer,
Will come to you; to you herself will wed;
And love the blessed life that we lead here.
*
*
*
'O happy garden! whose seclusion deep
Hath been so friendly to industrious hours;
And to soft slumbers, that did gently steep
Our spirits, carrying with them dreams of flowers,
And wild notes warbled among leafy bowers ;
Two burning months let summer overleap,
And, coming back with her who will be ours,
Into thy bosom we again shall creep.'
It is easy to form a very definite idea of the
domestic happiness which ensued on the alliance
of the poet with his amiable and devoted cousin,
from the various references to her which are to be
found in his writings. He had long been ardently
attached to her, and henceforth almost half a
century of connubial felicity was to be their portion.
A beautiful tribute to our mind the highest ever
paid to woman was rendered by the poet to this
sterling lady, in the immortal stanzas, written in
1804, commencing-
'She was a Phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament.'
On closer relationship with her, however, he can
sing:
88
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
'I saw her upon nearer view,
A spirit, yet a woman too!
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.'
Eventually, having gauged her spiritual character
as only a poet can, he exclaims :
'And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine ;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a spirit still, and bright
With something of angelic light.'
Not satisfied, however, with having thus immor-
talized the gentle partner of his joys and sorrows,
to whom he specially refers in the sixth book of
"The Prelude,' written about this period, he com-
posed, in 1824, twenty-two years after his marriage,
three other short poems, which at this stage every
lover of Wordsworth should read, as they convey
in the poet's own language his sentiments with
regard to her. The verses are well known. During
the interval, it should be remarked that, great as
was the sunshine which had steeped the married
life of the poet and his wife, the dark clouds had
been many. They had drank deeply of the cup of
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
89
sorrow, and they knew full well what it is to pass
through the furnace of affliction. They had taken
each other for better for worse, for richer for
poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to
cherish'; and nobly did they stand together. They
had lost two of their children, whom they dearly
loved, in early childhood, and they had learned by
painful experience how hard and bitter it is to sit
in the presence of the last enemy—
'The Shadow cloak'd from head to foot,
Who keeps the keys of all the creeds.'
We append the opening lines of two of the poems
referred to:
and
'Let other bards of angels sing,'
'Yes! thou art fair, yet be not moved,'
and the third we give in its entirety :
'O dearer far than light and life are dear,
Full oft our human foresight I deplore;
Trembling, through my unworthiness, with fear
That friends, by death disjoined, may meet no more!
'Misgivings, hard to vanquish or control,
Mix with the day, and cross the hour of rest
While all the future, for thy purer soul,
With "sober certainties" of love is blest.
That sigh of thine, not meant for human ear,
Tells that these words thy humbleness offend;
Yet bear me up-else faltering in the rear
Of a steep march: support me to the end.
'Peace settles where the intellect is meek,
And love is dutiful in thought and deed;
Through thee communion with that love I seek:
The faith Heaven strengthens where He moulds the creed.'
90
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
He had thought of her, on first view, as 'a Phan-
tom of delight,' as many have deemed their loved
ones in relation to the beautiful; but after three
years of wedded life, he sings :
'She came, no more a Phantom to adorn
A moment, but an inmate of the heart,
And yet a spirit, there for me enshrined
To penetrate the lofty and the low;
Even as one essence of pervading light
Shines in the brightest of ten thousand stars,
And the meek worm that feeds her lonely lamp
Couched in the dewy grass.'
We have not exhausted our references yet, but
our space forbids further quotation. For ourselves,
we seek not further to draw aside the veil from the
private life of the revered poet and his wife; those
who do are referred to De Quincey's account of his
visit to the Wordsworths in 1807, written evi-
dently in a fit of the spleen, and published, in
execrable taste, during the life-time of all the parties
concerned.
The advent of the poet's wife does not appear to
have in any way prejudicially affected the domestic
arrangements at Dove Cottage-quite the contrary;
and, accordingly, we find the happy trio-a trium-
virate of kindred hearts-agreeably settled, and
leading a blissful life indeed by the quiet lake of
Grasmere. Mrs. Wordsworth, it may be added,
was not without fortune, which was subsequently
largely augmented by a legacy of some thousands
of pounds from a deceased uncle.
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
91
The issue of Wordsworth's marriage was as
follows: John, born June 18, 1803; Dorothy
(called Dora), born August 16, 1804; Thomas,
born June 16, 1806; Catharine, born September 6,
1808; and William, born May 12, 1810.
That Wordsworth's affection for his children was
strong and deep is readily gathered from the
numerous allusions to them scattered throughout
his poems, to which the reader is in general re-
ferred; but space must be found for a few lines
from the 'Address to my Infant Daughter, Dora,
on being reminded that she was a month old that
day, September 16':
'Hast thou then survived-
Mild offspring of infirm humanity,
Meek infant !
Hail to thee,
Frail, feeble monthling !—by that name, methinks,
Thy scanty breathing-time is portioned out
Not idly.
On thy face
Smiles are beginning, like the beams of dawn,
To shoot and circulate; smiles have there been seen;
Tranquil assurances that Heaven supports
The feeble motions of thy life, and cheers
Thy loneliness: or shall those smiles be called
Feelers of love, put forth as if to explore
This unkind world, and to prepare thy way
Through a strait passage intricate and dim?'
Wordsworth was in his thirty-eighth year when
De Quincey first made his acquaintance; and
although the following description of his appear-
ance more properly belongs to a later chapter, it is
92
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
here inserted for the sake of convenience. The
great prose-writer says: 'He was, upon the whole,
not a well-made man. His legs were pointedly
condemned by all female connoisseurs in legs; not
that they were bad in any way which would force
itself upon your notice there was no absolute de-
formity about them; and undoubtedly they had
been serviceable legs, beyond the average standard
of human requisition; for I calculate, upon good
data, that, with these identical legs, Wordsworth
must have traversed a distance of 175,000 to
180,000 English miles-a mode of exertion which,
to him, stood in the stead of alcohol and all other
stimulants whatsoever to the animal spirits. . . .
But, useful as they have proved themselves, the
Wordsworthian legs were certainly not ornamental;
and it was really a pity, as I agreed with a lady in
thinking, that he had not another pair for evening
dress parties—when no boots lend their friendly
aid to mask our imperfections from the eyes of
female rigorists. . . . A sculptor would certainly
have disapproved of their contour. But the worst
part of Wordsworth's person was the bust; there
was a narrowness and a droop about the shoulders
which became striking, and had an effect of mean-
ness, when brought into close juxtaposition with a
figure of a more statuesque build.
And yet
Wordsworth was of a good height (five feet ten),
and not a slender man; on the contrary, by the
•
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
93
side of Southey, his limbs looked thick, almost in
a disproportionate degree. But the total effect of
Wordsworth's person was always worst in a state
of motion. Meantime, his face that was one
which would have made amends for greater defects
of figure. Many such, and finer, I have seen
amongst the portraits of Titian, and, in a later
period, amongst those of Vandyke, from the great
era of Charles I., as also from the Court of Elizabeth
- and of Charles II., but none which has more im-
pressed me in my own time. Wordsworth's fore-
head . . . the real living forehead, as I have been
in the habit of seeing it for more than five-and-
twenty years, is not remarkable for its height; but
it is, perhaps, remarkable for its breadth and ex-
pansive development. Neither are the eyes of
Wordsworth "large," as is erroneously stated
somewhere in "Peter's Letters "; on the contrary,
they are (I think) rather small; but that does not
interfere with their effect, which at times is fine,
and suitable to his intellectual character. . . . His
eyes are not, under any circumstances, bright,
lustrous, or piercing; but, after a long day's toil in
walking, I have seen them assume an appearance
the most solemn and spiritual that it is possible
for the human eye to wear. The light which re-
sides in them is at no time a superficial light; but,
under favourable accidents, it is a light which seems
to come from unfathomed depths; in fact, it is
94
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
more truly entitled to be held "the light that never
was on land or sea," a light radiating from some
far spiritual world, than any, the most idealizing,
that ever yet a painter's hand created. The nose,
a little arched, and large; which . . . has always
been accounted an unequivocal expression of animal
appetites organically strong. And that expressed
the simple truth: Wordsworth's intellectual pas-
sions were fervent and strong; but they rested
upon a basis of preternatural animal sensibility,
diffused through all the animal passions (or appe-
tites); and something of that will be found to hold
of all poets who have been great by original force
and power.
. . . The mouth, and the whole cir-
cumjacencies of the mouth, composed the strongest
feature in Wordsworth's face; there was nothing
specially to be noticed that I know of in the mere
outline of the lips; but the swell and protrusion of
the parts above and around the mouth are both
noticeable in themselves, and also because they
remind me of a . . portrait of Milton.' The
excellence of this likeness was attested by one of
the blind bard's daughters.
•
Speaking of this (Richardson's) portrait of
Milton, De Quincey says that it 'has the advan-
tage of presenting, not only by far the best likeness
of Wordsworth, but of Wordsworth in the prime
of his powers.
Not one member of that [the
Wordsworth] family but was as much impressed
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
95
as myself with the accuracy of the likeness. All
the peculiarities even were retained-a drooping
appearance of the eyelids, that remarkable swell
which I have noticed about the mouth, the way in
which the hair lay upon the forehead. In two
points only there was a deviation from the rigorous
truth of Wordsworth's features-the face was a
little too short and too broad, and the eyes were
too large.'
In 1802, the 'Lyrical Ballads,' in two volumes,
reached a further edition; and it may here be
noted that another was required in 1805.
(
On the 14th of August, 1803, Wordsworth and
his sister set out on a visit to Scotland, proceeding
by Keswick, where Coleridge joined them, and
became one of the party. Coleridge,' according
to Wordsworth, 'was at that time in bad spirits,
and somewhat too much in love with his own
dejection, and he departed from us, as is recorded
in my sister's journal, soon after we left Loch
Lomond.' Amongst other places of interest visited
on this occasion were Burns's grave, Loch Lomond,
the Trossachs, Rob Roy's grave, and Melrose
Abbey; and the poems composed as memorials of
this notable tour abundantly prove how inspiring
the scenery and associations were to the muse of
Wordsworth. The beautiful compositions-'At
the Grave of Burns,' 'To a Highland Girl,' 'Step-
ping Westward,' 'The Solitary Reaper,' 'Rob
96
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
Roy's Grave,' and 'Yarrow Unvisited,' all belong
to this period. The visit was a memorable one to
the Wordsworths, who made the acquaintance of
Sir Walter (then Mr.) Scott, 'the Wizard of the
North,' who conducted them personally to Melrose
Abbey, pointing out, as only he, perhaps, could,
every feature of interest in connection with the
beautifully picturesque ruins. They afterwards
dined with him at the inn. The two poets were
mutually pleased with each other; and it is grati-
fying to know that a life-long friendship sprang
up between them. The tour occupied exactly six
weeks. Wordsworth and his sister arrived at
Grasmere between eight and nine o'clock on the
evening of the 25th of September, when they found
'Mary in perfect health, Joanna Hutchinson with
her, and little John asleep in the clothes-basket by
the fire.' Mrs. Wordsworth, who had her maternal
duties to attend to, had naturally remained at
home during the excursion.
It was in September, 1803, that Southey fixed
his abode at Greta Hall, near Keswick, sharing
with his brother-in-law, Coleridge, the larger part
of the mansion, which consisted of two houses, one
of which was occupied by Mr. Jackson, the land-
lord. As may be imagined, the three poets soon
became strongly attached to one another. 'There
were giants in the earth in those days,'-' would
they could have stayed with us!'-and it may well
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
97
be doubted whether such a brilliant constellation
of poetic genius will ever again be witnessed by
mortal eyes. Shortly after his return from Scot-
land, Wordsworth addressed a most interesting
letter to Scott, in which he says: 'I had the
pleasure of seeing Coleridge and Southey at Kes-
wick last Sunday. Southey, whom I never saw
much of before, I liked much: he is very pleasant
in his manner, and a man of great reading in old
books, poetry, chronicles, memoirs, etc., particularly
Spanish and Portuguese.. My sister and I often
talk of the happy days that we spent in your com-
pany. Such things do not occur often in life. If
we live, we shall meet again; that is my consola-
tion when I think of these things.'
• •
It would be a grave and ungenerous omission iù
any biography of Wordsworth, not to refer, how-
ever briefly, to his friendship with Sir George H.
Beaumont, the painter-baronet, a lineal descendant
of the celebrated Elizabethan dramatist of that
name. It commenced in 1803, and came about in
this way. Sir George, who had been lodging with
Coleridge at Greta Hall, soon became aware of the
attachment which existed between the two poets,
and of their desire to be near each other; and,
accordingly, to his lasting honour, he purchased
and presented to Wordsworth a beautiful estate
called Applethwaite, near Keswick, in the hope
that he might build a suitable residence upon it.
7
98
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
This would have been a consummation devoutly
to be wished,' since, in addition to Coleridge,
Southey also resided at Keswick. In a letter,
dated October the 24th, 1803, Sir George thus
writes to Wordsworth: 'I had a most ardent
desire to bring you and Coleridge together. I
thought with pleasure on the increase of enjoy-
ment you would receive from the beauties of
nature, by being able to communicate more fre-
quently your sensations to each other, and that
this would be a means of contributing to the
pleasure and improvement of the world, by stimu-
lating you both to poetical exertions.' But Sir
George's anticipations were doomed to be frus-
trated. Coleridge, after his return from Scotland,
about the 1st of September, appears to have been
more or less prostrated by illness, his complaint
being rheumatism and gout, with a complication
of other disorders, and to have been confined to
his bed, except at intervals, for about six months.
Alas, poor Coleridge! He now, for the first time
in his life, resorted to the dreadful expedient of
opium-eating. In impaired health, in April, 1804,
he set out for Malta, where he remained for above
a year, having been invited thither by his friend
John Stoddart. Wordsworth was not slow to
appreciate the kindness of his benefactor, to whom
he pays a graceful tribute in a sonnet entitled 'At
Applethwaite, near Keswick'
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
99
'Beaumont ! it was thy wish that I should rear
A seemly cottage in this sunny dell,
On favoured ground, thy gift, where I might dwell
In neighbourhood with one to me most dear,
That undivided we from year to year
Might work in our high calling—a bright hope
To which our fancies, mingling, gave free scope
Till checked by some necessities severe.
His correspondence with Sir George at this time is
particularly interesting. He had hoped that the
baronet would become his neighbour at Grasmere,
especially as he had purchased Loughrigg Tarn,
and intended building by it; but this design, also,
was never carried into effect. When Sir George
subsequently sold the property, he very generously
placed the proceeds at Wordsworth's disposal, and
by this means the beautiful yew-trees that adorn
the picturesque churchyard of Grasmere were
planted by the poet.
In February, 1805, the shadow of a crushing
sorrow settled over the little home at Grasmere,
occasioned by the death of John Wordsworth, the
poet's affectionate sailor-brother, and commander
of a large East-Indiaman, the Earl of Abergavenny,
which sad event occurred on the 5th of the month,
the vessel foundering, through the incompetency
of the pilot, off the coast of Weymouth. The
ship, which had 402 souls on board, together with
£70,000 in specie, and a general cargo estimated
at about £200,000, had only left Portsmouth,
bound for India and China, when the frightful
7-2
UcrM
}
100
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
catastrophe happened. Captain Wordsworth might
easily have saved himself, and escaped with some
of the crew, but, in his characteristic devotion to
duty, he remained at his post, and perished like a
man, almost his last words being: 'O pilot, you
have ruined me! Such was the heroic end of a
truly noble man.
'Nothing in his life
Became him like the leaving it; he died,
As one that had been studied in his death,
To throw away the dearest thing he owed,
As 'twere a careless trifle.'
It will be remembered that he had visited his
attached brother and sister at Grasmere in 1800,
since which period he had made several voyages;
and this was probably to be his last. His inten-
tion was to make his abode with his loved ones at
Town End, and, by devoting a considerable part
of his fortune to his brother's use, to relieve him
from all anxiety with regard to pecuniary matters.
But it was not to be. The fates had ordained it
otherwise. The poet and his brother do not
appear to have met but once since 1800, and that
was in London, the briefness of the intervals be-
tween the various voyages preventing visits to
Grasmere. We make no apology for quoting at
this juncture the following extracts from Words-
worth's correspondence. The first is from a
letter to Sir George Beaumont, dated February
Maou
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
101
the 11th, 1805: 'The public papers will already
have broken the shock which the sight of this
letter will give you you will have learned by
them the loss of the Earl of Abergavenny East-
Indiaman, and, along with her, of a great propor-
tion of the crew-that of her captain, our brother,
and a most beloved brother he was. This calami-
tous news we received at two o'clock to-day, and I
write to you from a house of mourning. My poor
sister, and my wife who loved him almost as we
did (for he was one of the most amiable of men),
are in miserable affliction, which I do all in my
power to alleviate; but Heaven knows I want
consolation myself. I can say nothing higher of
my ever-dear brother, than that he was worthy of
his sister, who is now weeping beside me, and of
the friendship of Coleridge: meek, affectionate,
silently enthusiastic, loving all quiet things, and a
poet in everything but words.' And, in the post-
script, he adds: 'I shall do all in my power to
sustain my sister under her sorrow, which is, and
long will be, bitter and poignant. We did not
love him as a brother merely, but as a man of
original mind, and an honour to all about him.
Oh! dear friend, forgive me for talking thus. We
have had no tidings of Coleridge. I tremble for
the moment when he is to hear of my brother's
death; it will distress him to the heart, and his
poor body cannot bear sorrow.
He loved my
102
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
brother, and he knows how we at Grasmere loved
him.' And, in a letter written nine days later, he
says: 'I shall never forget him,-never lose sight
of him there is a bond between us yet, the same
as if he were living, nay, far more sacred, calling
upon me to do my utmost, as he to the last did
his utmost, to live in honour and worthiness.
It was the will of God that he should be taken
away.
I trust in God that I shall not want
fortitude; but my loss is great and irreparable.'
In another letter, he writes: 'I never heard an
oath, or even an indelicate expression or allusion,
from him in my life; his modesty was equal to
that of the purest woman. So good must be
better; so high must be destined to be higher.'
And, in a further letter, he says: 'He [his brother]
had, indeed, a great fear of pilots, and I have often
heard him say that no situation could be imagined
more distressing than that of being at the mercy
of these men. "Oh !" said he, "it is a joyful hour
for us when we get rid of them." His fears, alas!
were too well founded; his own ship was lost
while under the management of the pilot.
My poor brother was standing on the hen-coop
(which is placed upon the poop, and is the most
commanding situation in the vessel) when she
went down, and he was thence washed overboard
by a large sea, which sank the ship. He was seen
struggling with the waves some time afterwards,
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
103
having laid hold, it is said, of a rope.
He was an
excellent swimmer; but what could it avail in such
a sea, encumbered with his clothes, and exhausted
in body, as he must have been! And, lastly,
writing to Sir George Beaumont, on the 1st of May,
1805, he says: 'I shall, however, never be at peace
till, as far as in me lies, I have done justice to my
departed brother's memory.' What the loss of such
a brother must have been to one of Wordsworth's
sensitive nature may well be better imagined than
described, and only those who have experienced a
like sorrow can at all realize the overwhelming stu-
pendousness of the shock. As might be expected,
such a crushing affliction soon found utterance in
immortal verse, three poems being composed with
reference to it, entitled 'Elegiac Stanzas, suggested
by a picture of Peele Castle, in a storm, painted
by Sir George Beaumont' (an exquisite inspiration),
'To the Daisy,' and 'Elegiac Verses, in Memory of
my Brother,' etc.
'Six weeks beneath the moving sea
He lay in slumber quietly;
Unforced by wind or wave
To quit the ship for which he died,
(All claims of duty satisfied ;)
And there they found him at her side;
And bore him to the grave.'
The body was buried in the country churchyard of
Wythe, near Weymouth; and seldom has the
tomb closed over the remains of a nobler man and
brother.
104
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
A letter written by Wordsworth, dated Gras-
mere, February the 20th, 1805, addressed to Sir
George Beaumont, contains some highly important
remarks concerning his means during the preceding
years. After referring to the legacy bequeathed
to him by Raisley Calvert, he says: Upon the
interest of the £900, £400 being laid out in
annuity, with £200 deducted from the principal,
and £100 a legacy to my sister, and £100 more
which the "Lyrical Ballads" have brought me, my
sister and I contrived to live seven years, nearly
eight. Lord Lonsdale then died, and the present
Lord Lowther paid to my father's estate £8,500.
Of this sum I believe £1,800 apiece will come to
my sister and myself; at least, would have come :
but £3,000 was lent out to our poor brother, I
mean taken from the whole sum, which was about
£1,200 more than his share, which £1,200 be-
longed to my sister and me. This £1,200 we
freely lent him: whether it was insured or no, I
do not know; but I dare say it will prove to be
the case; we did not, however, stipulate for its
being insured. But you shall faithfully know all
particulars as soon as I have learned them.'
In this year, Wordsworth had the pleasure of
renewing his acquaintance with Scott, who, with
his wife, visited Grasmere ; and the two poets, ac-
companied by Sir Humphry Davy, the philosopher,
made the ascent of Helvellyn. Wordsworth, ever
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
105
fond of rambling, had frequently ascended the
mountain alone; but never did he stand upon the
summit with feelings of such deep and lasting
delight as in the company of these two illustrious
men. Never before nor since, doubtless, has such
a trio stood on its hoary head, ' monarchs,' in mind
at least,' of all they surveyed.'
It was a very productive time with Wordsworth.
'The Prelude,' commenced in 1799, was now
finished, and about this period he wrote "The
Waggoner,' the former of which was not published
until 1850, the year of his death, while the latter
was to slumber in manuscript till 1819, when it
was dedicated to Charles Lamb, and given to the
world. ""The Prelude,” states Lady Richardson,
'was chiefly composed in a green mountain terrace,
on the Easdale side of Helm Crag, known by the
name of Under Lancrigg, a place which he [Words-
worth] used to say he knew by heart. The ladies
sat at their work on the hillside, while he walked
to and fro on the smooth green mountain turf,
humming out his verses to himself, and then re-
peating them to his sympathising and ready scribes,
to be noted down on the spot, and transcribed at
home.'
CHAPTER VII.
'O, fear not in a world like this,
And thou shalt know ere long-
Know how sublime a thing it is
To suffer and be strong.
-Longfellow.
'Poems in Two Volumes' (1807) - The Lake School-
Wordsworth takes up his abode at Coleorton, Leicester-
shire-Visits London with his wife, and returns with
Scott (1807)-Removes into Allan Bank, Grasmere (1808)
-'Essay on the Convention of Cintra' (1809)-Con-
tributes Essay on Epitaphs' to the Friend (1810)—
Writes introduction to 'Select Views in Cumberland,
Westmoreland, and Lancashire'-Resides temporarily at
the Parsonage House, Grasmere (1811) -His little daughter
Catharine dies (June 4, 1812), and his second son,
Thomas (December 1, 1812).
IN 1807, Wordsworth came before the world with
'Poems in Two Volumes.' If the reviewers had
conceived that they had crushed him by the severity
of their criticisms on the Lyrical Ballads,' they
were grievously mistaken. He was not to be so
driven from the field. Though the sale of the
'Lyrical Ballads' had not been by any means
great, yet there had been a considerable demand
for them, as is evidenced by the various editions
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
107
through which they had already passed. The pub-
lisher, as we have seen, lost by the first edition,
and it is doubtful whether the returns from the
subsequent issues more than paid expenses. For-
tunately, Wordsworth's circumstances had so far
improved as to render this a matter of little
moment, and he had continued to write, feeling
assured that the clouds would eventually roll by,
and the sunshine of prosperity burst forth in all
its glory. As Longfellow says of Jean Paul Richter,
'He made literature his profession, as if he had
been divinely commissioned to write. He seems
to have cared for nothing else, to have thought of
nothing else, than living quietly and making books.'
That he had not buried his talent in a napkin is
self-evident from the fact that the whole of the
poems contained in the volumes now published
had been composed since 1800, when the second
series of the Lyrical Ballads' appeared. And
what a wealth of poetry he had accumulated in the
interval! In addition to a large body of minor
pieces, the volumes now printed included 'Mis-
cellaneous Sonnets,' 'Sonnets dedicated to Liberty,'
'Poems written during a tour in Scotland,' and
'Moods of my own Mind.' No two such volumes
have been issued from the press this century.
Surely they met with a hearty reception! Alas!
no; they were universally condemned almost on
every hand, being attacked with all the fierceness
C
108
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
(
and asperity of criticism. The critics were galled
to think that Wordsworth had not abandoned his
poetical theories and principles, but had kept,
regardless of opinion, on his own course. He had
not bowed to their decision, nor to their ruling,
and he had, accordingly, provoked the storm, and
brought it down upon his own devoted head. His
nephew has well said that the character of his
critics for critical acumen seemed to be at stake;
and they conspired to crush a reputation whose
existence was a practical protest against their own
literary principles and practice, and which, doubt-
less, appeared to them to be fraught with pernicious
consequences to the dignity of English literature,
and the progress of English intelligence.' The
most merciless review came from Jeffrey, Words-
worth's implacable and inveterate foe, in the
Edinburgh Review for October, 1807, in which it is
announced that this author is known to belong
to a certain brotherhood of poets, who have
haunted for some years about the Lakes of Cum-
berland; and is generally looked upon, we believe,
as the purest model of the excellences and pecu-
liarities of the school which they have been labour-
ing to establish.' After going on to state that
• the
Lyrical Ballads ” were unquestionably
popular . . . in spite of their occasional vulgarity,
affectation, and silliness,' and that 'there were
times and moods, indeed, in which we were led to
"
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
109
C
suspect ourselves of unjustifiable severity, and to
doubt whether a sense of public duty had not
carried us rather too far in reprobation of errors,
that seemed to be atoned for by excellences of no
vulgar description,' the reviewer adds: We have
been greatly disappointed certainly as to the quality
of the poetry; but we doubt whether the publica-
tion has afforded so much satisfaction to any other
of his readers :-it has freed us from all doubt or
hesitation as to the justice of our former censures,
and has brought the matter to a test, which we
cannot help hoping may be convincing to the
author himself.' The language and versification
of the poems are strongly reproved, and it is re-
marked With Mr. Wordsworth and his friends,
it is plain that their peculiarities of diction are
things of choice, and not of accident. They write
as they do upon principle and system; and it
evidently costs them much pains to keep down to
the standard which they have proposed to them-
selves. . . . All the world laughs at Elegiac stanzas
to a sucking-pig-a Hymn on Washing-day-Sɔn-
nets to one's grandmother-or Pindarics on goose-
berry-pye; and yet, we are afraid, it will not be
quite easy to convince Mr. Wordsworth that the
same ridicule must infallibly attach to most of the
pathetic pieces in these volumes.' After quoting
the first fourteen lines from 'The Redbreast and
the Butterfly,' we are told: 'This, it must be con-
110
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
C
(
fessed, is "silly sooth" in good earnest. The three
last lines seem to be downright raving.' The
stanzas 'To the Small Celandine' are characterized
as 'namby-pamby.' The Horn of Egremont
Castle,' without being very good, is very toler-
able, and free from most of the author's habitual
defects.' The 'Ode to Duty' is roughly handled,
and Alice Fell' is dismissed with this withering
remark: If the printing of such trash as this be
not felt as an insult on the public taste, we are
afraid it cannot be insulted.' The exquisite poem
entitled 'Resolution and Independence,' which,
with the exception of a few lines, is pure gold, is
thus tossed aside: 'We defy the bitterest enemy
of Mr. Wordsworth to produce anything at all
parallel to this from any collection of English
poetry, or even from the specimens of his friend
Mr. Southey,'-words which, though uttered in
jest, are yet, in a different sense, almost absolute
truth. One can scarcely imagine that the im-
mortal ode To the Cuckoo,' which every lover of
Wordsworth should have delightedly by heart,
could be pronounced nothing but absurdity.'
Certain unfortunate lines, which the poet after-
wards removed, in 'The Blind Highland Boy,' are
justly condemned, but no beauty or merit is dis-
cerned by the astute critic in the entire poem.
The magnificent ode on the 'Intimations of Im-
mortality,' which, if we, perhaps, except Milton's
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
111
great hymn 'On the Morning of Christ's Nativity,'
is, we do not hesitate to say, the finest in English,
and in all literature, is declared to be, ‘beyond all
doubt, the most illegible and unintelligible part of
the publication. We can pretend to give no
analysis or explanation of it.' It was certainly
beyond Jeffrey's comprehension. The reviewer-
small credit to him-did not, however, fail to find
some elegance in the sonnets, of which three are
quoted complete: 'Once did she hold the gorgeous
East in fee,' 'Milton! thou shouldst be living at
this hour,' and 'I grieved for Buonaparte.' In the
concluding paragraph of the review (?) the great
self-constituted judge of poesy' observes: 'We
venture to hope that there is now an end of this
folly, and that, like other follies, it will be found
to have cured itself by the extravagances resulting
from its unbridled indulgence.'
After having carefully read the foregoing inane
criticisms of Jeffrey, the reader will learn how little
importance to attach to his invariable attacks on
Wordsworth's later poems. The fact is, that he
did not possess the true critical faculty as regards
poetical composition, as many of his essays, notably
those on Wordsworth and Coleridge, contributed
to the Edinburgh Review, conclusively prove.
Southey writes of these volumes: 'There are
certainly some pieces there which are good for
nothing, (none, however, which a bad poet could
112
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
have written,) and very many which it was highly
injudicious to publish... The sonnets are in a
grand style.' And Sir J. Mackintosh says: 'The
Sonnets on Switzerland and on Milton are sublime.
Some of the others are in a style of severe sim-
plicity sometimes bordering on the hardness and
dryness of some of Milton's sonnets.'
So severe were many of the reviews at this time
that the sale of the volumes was gravely impeded,
no edition of them being required between 1807
and 1815.
'Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climb
The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar
Ah! who can tell how many a soul sublime
Has felt the influence of malignant star,
And waged with Fortune an eternal war ?'
;
The effect of the adverse criticism and ridicule
heaped upon Wordsworth, had they been bestowed
on many a less resolute poet, might have been
indeed disastrous. Hope deferred maketh the
heart sick,' and it is hard to find one's efforts
crowned with failure. But poets, of all men, must
be prepared for the worst. The Laureate of our
own day was for years the butt of the critics, and
he has lived it down; neither Wordsworth nor he
being the 'penetrable stuff' the reviewers in their
hostility imagined. No one knew better than
Wordsworth
'The long and weary flight
Of steps that must be gained and won-
The vast amount of labour done-
Before is reached Fame's giddy height.'
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
113
And so he could afford to wait. It is almost a
truism that men of genius are always ahead of
their age, and Wordsworth was no exception to
the general rule. Indeed, it is evident that his
writings are still, in many respects, in advance of
the times in which we live, and probably ever will
be. How true is it that genius
'Looks before and after,
And pines for what is not '!
It has been well said that after all, perhaps
the greatest lesson which the lives of literary men
teach us is told in a single word: Wait! Every
man must patiently bide his time. He must wait.'
And it is almost invariably the case that men of
pre-eminent genius can wait.
Writing to Lady Beaumont on May the 21st,
1807, Wordsworth says: 'At present let me con-
fine myself to my object, which is to make you,
my dear friend, as easy-hearted as myself with
respect to these poems. Trouble not yourself
upon their present reception; of what moment is
that compared with what I trust is their destiny ?
-to console the afflicted; to add sunshine to day-
light, by making the happy happier; to teach the
young and the gracious of every age to see, to think,
and feel, and, therefore, to become more actively
and securely virtuous; this is their office, which I
trust they will faithfully perform, long after we
8
114
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
(that is, all that is mortal of us) are mouldered in
our graves. I am well aware how far it would
seem to many I overrate my own exertions, when
I speak in this way, in direct connection with the
volume I have just made public. I am not, how-
ever, afraid of such censure.' And, to Sir George
Beaumont, he writes: 'Let the poet first consult
his own heart, as I have done, and leave the rest
to posterity,-to, I hope, an improving posterity.
I am condemned for the very thing for which
I ought to have been praised, viz., that I have not
written down to the level of superficial observers
and unthinking minds. Every great poet is a
teacher: I wish either to be considered as a
teacher, or as nothing.' And he elsewhere re-
marks: 'Never forget what I believe was observed
by Coleridge-that every great and original writer,
in proportion as he is great or original, must him-
self create the taste by which he is to be relished;
he must teach the art by which he is to be seen.'
The circle of Wordsworth's admirers, hitherto
small, was now considerably extending. The
critics were not the public; and, after all, it is the
latter by whom the poet must be judged. He
writes for the people, not for the reviewers, whose
ungenerous strictures in the case of Wordsworth
must for ever remain a standing satire on their
own incompetence. It should never be forgotten
that a poet, if anything at all, must himself be a
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
115
critic of no mean order. And Wordsworth was
himself, perhaps, his own severest critic.
It was about the beginning of the present cen-
tury that the title of Lake Poets, Lake School,
Lakers, or Lakists, was invented by the critics,
and given to Wordsworth, Southey, and Coleridge;
and Wilson, Lamb, and Lloyd, were also included
in the category. Though the designation was,
perhaps, about as foolish a one as could be devised,
to our mind it was pretty nearly as applicable as
any other. It originated, however, in a gross mis-
conception, the critics believing that at all events
the three first-named poets, who were regarded as
the leading representatives of the School, had
agreed to write in accordance with a particular
poetical creed, and on certain settled theories or
principles. Never was there a greater mistake.
Still, the appellation was probably as fitting as
those of the Cockney and Satanic Schools. The
Republican School would not have been an un-
happy definition. It is true that Wordsworth did,
to a conspicuous degree, write about lakes, and it
is not unlikely that references to them may be
found in the works of the other mentioned writers ;
but what poet has not, at one time or another,
written about them? It is supposed by some that
the nickname arose from the fact that Words-
worth's first volume, entitled 'An Evening Walk,'
is a descriptive account of the lakes in the north
8-2
116
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
of England. Others are of opinion that the origin
of the idea is to be found in the circumstance that
the so-called Lakists, for the most part, resided in
the district referred to. But we are not careful to
pursue the question further. As long as it is
borne in mind that there is in general no greater
similarity, either in thought or expression, in the
compositions of the Lake Poets than in those of
the authors comprising the various other schools,
the title can do no harm.
The family of the poet was now increasing, and
the little cottage at Grasmere was soon found to
be insufficient for the household. Accordingly,
Wordsworth made his residence during the winter
of 1806 at Coleorton, near Ashby-de-la-Zouch, in
Leicestershire, where he occupied a house of Sir
George Beaumont's. Here it was that Coleridge,
who had returned from Malta in the summer of
that year'a withered flower'-when visiting the
Wordsworths in the autumn, first listened to the
inspiring strains of 'The Prelude,' which Words-
worth read to him. The poem, it may be stated,
was inscribed, or addressed, to Coleridge, whose
feelings with regard to it are enshrined in noble
verse, in his 'Sibylline Leaves.'
'An orphic song indeed,
A song divine of high and passionate thoughts,
To their own music chaunted! O Great Bard!
Ere yet that last strain dying awed the air,
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
117
With stedfast eye I viewed thee in the choir
Of ever-enduring men.
Ah! as I listened with a heart forlorn
The pulses of my being beat anew.
•
In connection with Coleorton, Wordsworth
penned several of the beautiful Inscriptions'
which are found in his works, some of the verses
being set up in the picturesque grounds and
gardens of his friend Sir George Beaumont.
During the spring of 1807, Wordsworth and his
wife visited London for a month, and on their re-
turn to Coleorton they were accompanied by Scott.
Early in the following year, having spent part
of the winter at Stockton-on-Tees with his brother-
in-law John Hutchinson, Wordsworth, with his
wife, returned to Grasmere, and, quitting Dove
Cottage, removed to Allan Bank, a more com-
modious dwelling, a mile distant from the former
abode. Here he continued to reside for three
years, which period, says his nephew, 'does not
appear to have been very prolific in poetry '—a
circumstance which is attributed to the inconveni-
ences of his newly-erected home. But he was far
from idle, as is evident from the publication in
1809 of his 'Essay on the Convention of Cintra.'
This is a remarkable production, and is rarely to
be met with. It will be remembered that Words-
worth was greatly shocked by the declaration of
war by England against France in 1793, when his
views were republican; now, however, he urges a
118
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
more vigorous prosecution of hostilities by Eng-
land in the Peninsula against the French; and he
is pained and depressed in spirit, writes his nephew,
'because, when it was, as he believed, in the power
of England to have emancipated Spain and Por-
tugal from French bondage, she allowed the enemy
to escape by a retreat similar to a triumph.' Some
idea of the intense interest with which he regarded
the contest, may be gathered from his own words
at this stage: 'Many times have I gone from Allan
Bank in Grasmere Vale, where we were then re-
siding, to Raise-Gap, as it is called, so late as two
o'clock in the morning, to meet the carrier bringing
the newspaper from Keswick.' The pamphlet,
from a remunerative point of view, proved a
failure, and attracted but little attention. It is
earnestly and powerfully expressed, however, and,
in the opinion of the poet's nephew, 'if Mr. Words-
worth had never written a single verse, this essay
alone would be sufficient to place him in the
highest rank of English poets.' Wordsworth had
now abandoned his republican faith, and had be-
come a Conservative,' the constant advocate of a
strong government, which should rigidly administer
the institutions matured in a long course of ages,
and only suffer them to be altered slowly and
gradually, according to the dictates of experience.'
It is worthy of remark that Wordsworth, Coleridge,
and Southey outlived their early radical and revo-
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
119
lutionary opinions; and Wordsworth says: 'I
should think that I had lived to little purpose if
my notions on the subject of government had
undergone no modification. My youth must, in
that case, have been without enthusiasm, and my
manhood endued with small capability of profiting
by reflection.' Of course, the change in his political
ideas was made the occasion of prolonged and
bitter attacks upon him, inasmuch as, in those
degenerate days, an author's politics had much to
do with the manner in which his works were re-
viewed in the leading critical organs.
In February, 1810, Wordsworth contributed to
the Friend a literary, moral, and political weekly
paper conducted by Coleridge-an 'Essay on
Epitaphs,' which he republished in the notes to
his great poem, 'The Excursion.' The essay, which
is very suggestive, and ably written, will well
repay a careful perusal. In a further series of
articles on the same subject, which, owing to
the collapse of the Friend, was never published,
Wordsworth goes on to say that no epitaph
ought to be written on a bad man, except for a
warning'a sentiment which is too frequently
overlooked in our own day.
The introduction to a very important volume
which appeared in the same year, entitled 'Select
Views in Cumberland, Westmoreland, and Lanca-
shire,' by the Rev. Joseph Wilkinson, was also
120
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
from the pen of Wordsworth, and consists of
thirty-four pages, as were also two sections of the
work, in which he, the greatest authority on the
subject that has ever lived, gives full directions to
the tourist with regard to the best routes by which
to get to the Lakes, and, having arrived there, to
visit, with most advantage, the various places of
interest. Wordsworth was pre-eminently fitted to
write a descriptive account of this kind. He had
been born and reared in the neighbourhood of the
Lakes; he had resided for many years at Gras-
mere, and was wedded to the region, having
explored, perhaps, every nook and corner of it;
and he knew every inch of the ground. He could
truly plead, with Comus,
'I know each lane, and every alley green,
Dingle, or bushy dell of this wild wood,!
And every bosky bourne from side to side,
My daily walks and ancient neighbourhood.'
His work, therefore, as far as it goes, has never
been surpassed, and it should be in the hands of
overy reader. 'I do not know,' says he, any tract
of country in which within so narrow a compass
may be found an equal variety in the influence of
light and shadow upon the sublime or beautiful
features of the landscape.' Nothing is left un-
touched by his unrivalled pencil, dales and moun-
tains, and lakes and rivers, being accorded the
fullest and most loving justice. Wordsworth's
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
121
opposition to the extension of railway facilities in
the Lake District, is well known. In 1844, six
years before his death, he addressed to the Morning
Post two vigorous letters on the projected Kendal
and Windermere Railway, and he protested against
the scheme in two characteristic sonnets of that
period. Speaking of the proposal to carry a rail-
way through Furness Abbey, he urges: 'Sacred
as that relic of the devotion of our ancestors de-
serves to be kept, there are temples of Nature,
temples built by the Almighty, which have a still
higher claim to be left unviolated.' Lord Macaulay
observes that in the "
in the "Lyrical Ballads" and
"The Excursion" Mr. Wordsworth appeared as
the high-priest of a worship, of which Nature was
the idol.' Such was indeed his office. How his
spirit would have rejoiced at the defeat of the
recent Bill for the construction of a railway from
Windermere to Ambleside ! Surely one cannot
but feel thankful, if only for his sake, for the
collapse of a measure which would have led to the
desecration of one of the fairest spots on the face
of the habitable globe. May all such designs meet
with a similar fate! Are all the most sacred nooks
in the country to be sacrificed at the shrine of
mammon? God forbid! While yet there is time,
let the nation fix a line of demarcation, and, like
Canute, say to each invader: 'Thus far shalt thou
come, and no farther.'
122
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
In October, 1810, Coleridge quitted Keswick for
ever, leaving his wife and children with Southey.
Early in 1811, Wordsworth took up his abode
temporarily at the Parsonage, Grasmere, in con-
sequence of the owner of Allan Bank desiring to
occupy the house. His residence at the Parsonage
would, no doubt, have been pleasant enough, but,
as the poet beautifully sings: 'Bliss with mortal
man may not abide.' The black camel which kneels
at every man's gate was approaching, and in the
summer of 1812, on the 4th of June, to the intense
grief of his heart, his second daughter, Catharine,
was suddenly called away. The child had not
been at all strong for some time, but she had been
put to bed bright and cheerful, and about midnight
she was found to be seriously ill. The poor little
thing was speechless, and her heavenly face' and
frame were convulsed with agony. After a few
hours' suffering, the poet's 'heart's best treasure'
was no more. She was buried in the lovely church-
yard hard by, and on her tombstone are inscribed
the comforting words: 'Suffer the little children to
come unto Me, for of such is the kingdom of God.'
She was only three years and nine months old.
Yet her death so greatly affected De Quincey, with
whom she was an especial favourite, that, strange
as it may seem, he spent many nights upon her
grave; and 'never from the foundation of those
mighty hills,' says this powerful writer, was there
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
123
so fierce a convulsion of grief as mastered my
faculties on receiving that heart-shattering news.'
Such was the untimely end of little Katie, who,
like morning dew, 'sparkled, was exhaled, and went
to heaven.'
The workings of Providence are hard to under-
stand, and Wordsworth's cup of affliction was
soon to be filled to the brim. Shakespeare tells
us that
'When sorrows come, they come not single spies,
But in battalions.'
It was so in Wordsworth's case. Six months after
the removal of Catharine, the black camel was
again at his gate, and, on the 1st of December, his
second son, Thomas, an affectionate boy of more
than ordinary promise, was unexpectedly cut down,
after an attack of measles, from which he was
thought to be recovering. The bereaved father, in
the opening book of 'The Excursion,' says :
'The good die first,
And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust
Burn to the socket.'
Neither of these children had enjoyed the best
of health for some considerable time. In the
summer of the preceding year, they had been taken
for change of air to the sea-side, where they derived
great benefit. But it may only have been tem-
porary. One can picture the little fellow going,
124
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
as was his wont, to his sister's grave in the church
yard, and sweeping the leaves away, never thinking,
it may be, that he was so soon to follow her. He
was buried by her side, and over his remains may
be read this touching epitaph. Who but the
afflicted poet could have written it!
Six months to six years added he remained
Upon this sinful earth, by sin unstained.
O blessed Lord! whose mercy then removed
A child whom every eye that looked on loved,
Support us! teach us calmly to resign
What we possessed, and now is wholly Thine.'
Only those who have lost the tender buds of
affection can have the faintest conception of the
anguish into which the loving Wordsworth was
plunged by these overwhelming sorrows. The iron
must have entered into his very soul. But as the
tree strikes deeper when its boughs are riven by
the tempest, so his confidence and trust in Pro-
vidence seem to have been strengthened by the
stern discipline of adversity. Who can doubt the
truth of what his brother-poet Rogers sings:
'The good are better made by ill,
As odours crushed are sweeter still '?
Wordsworth, as may be imagined, could no
longer live in a dwelling within and without which
everything reminded him of his grief, and, in a
letter to Lord Lonsdale, dated January the 8th,
1813, he observes: The house which I have for
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
125
some time occupied, is the Parsonage of Grasmere.
It stands close by the churchyard, and I have found
it absolutely necessary that we should quit a place
which, by recalling to our minds at every moment
the losses we have sustained in the course of the
last year, would grievously retard our progress
towards that tranquillity which it is our duty to
aim at.'
CHAPTER VIII.
"This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air
Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself
Unto our gentle senses.
The heaven's breath
Smells wooingly here.'
-Shakespeare.
Wordsworth removes to Rydal Mount (1813)-Description
of the same—Is appointed Distributor of Stamps for West-
moreland-Declines the Collectorship of Whitehaven —
'The Excursion' (1814) - 'Poems: including Lyrical
Ballads,' etc., in two volumes (1815)—The White Doe of
Rylstone' (1815)-Extracts from the poem.
ACCORDINGLY, in the spring of 1813, Wordsworth,
with his family, quitted Grasmere, and removed to
Rydal Mount, which had but recently become
vacant, and which was to be his abode for nearly
forty years.
This beautiful residence-next to
Shakespeare's, the most celebrated from a poetical
standpoint in the world-which has since become
inmortalized, was all that could be desired, being,
with its exquisitely picturesque surroundings, such
a sight indeed
'As youthful poets dream
On summer eves by haunted stream.'
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
127
In the year of Wordsworth's death, his nephew
thus portrayed the dwelling: 'It is a modest man-
sion, of a sober hue, tinged with weather stains,
with two tiers of five windows; on the right of
these is a porch, and above, and to the right, are
two other windows; the highest looks out of what
was the poet's bedroom. The gable end at the east,
that first seen on entering the grounds from the
road, presents on the ground-floor the window of
the old hall or dining-room. The house is mantled
over here and there with roses and ivy, and jessa-
mine and Virginia creeper.' Such as it then was,
it is in a great measure now, notwithstanding cer-
tain alterations which have been effected. Harriet
Martineau describes the garden as 'indeed a true
poet's garden,' and Miss Jewsbury, in the Literary
Magnet for 1826, has charmingly sketched 'The
Poet's Home.' This is the word-painting:
'Low and white, yet scarcely seen
Are its walls for mantling green;
Not a window lets in light
But through flowers clustering bright;
Not a glance may wander there
But it falls on something fair;
Garden choice, and fairy mound,
Only that no elves are found;
Winding walk, and sheltered nook,
For student grave and graver book:
Or a birdlike bower, perchance,
Fit for maiden and romance.
Then, far off, a glorious sheen
Of wide and sunlit waters seen;
Hills that in the distance lie,
Blue and yielding as the sky;
128
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
And nearer, closing round the nest,
The home, of all the "living crest,"
Other rocks and mountains stand,
Rugged, yet a guardian band,
Like those that did, in fable old,
Elysium from the world enfold.'
Mrs. Hemans, in one of her delightful letters,
depicts the house as a lovely cottage-like build-
ing, almost hidden by a profusion of roses and
ivy.'
Rydal Mount, which is about a mile and a half
from Grasmere, and a like distance from Ambleside,
stands at an imposing elevation on the sloping side
of Nab Scar, with a southern aspect, immediately
above the hamlet of Rydal, and close to Rydal
Water, with its enchanting fairy islets and be-
witching shores, and commands unrivalled views of
the beautiful and romantic valley of the Rothay,
and of the gleaming lake of Windermere, spread
far away like a sheet of silver; while in front, and
on the right, rise the densely-wooded fells of
Loughrigg, with Wansfell, which catches the last
resplendent rays of the setting sun, on the left-
the whole composing a picture such as it would
never have entered into the heart of man to con-
ceive, and which once beheld in all the glory of
a summer day, or sleeping in the radiance of the
moon, can never be forgotten.
The poet's family now consisted of himself, his
wife, and three children, in addition to his devoted
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
129
sister Dorothy, and his sister-in-law, Sarah Hutch-
inson, whom he loved almost as his own sister.
Surely, if ever a man were blessed with the in-
spiring society, help, and sympathy of exalted and
ennobling women, Wordsworth was; and it cannot
be denied that they contributed, in a large degree,
to make him what he was. All honour to their
memory!
The year of Wordsworth's removal to Rydal
Mount was signalized by a remarkable stroke of
good fortune, the appointment of Distributor of
Stamps in the county of Westmoreland being con-
ferred upon him on the 27th of March. This
office was procured for him through the influence
of his noble friend the Earl of Lonsdale, and added
to his income, according to De Quincey, 'some-
where about £500 a year'-a most acceptable
addition, more especially when it is remembered
that its duties could be satisfactorily discharged by
deputy. His coadjutor, John Carter, proved in-
valuable, rendering 'yeoman's service' not only in
his official capacity, but also, says the poet's
nephew, as 'a vigilant corrector of the press, a
sound scholar, and a judicious critic.' He served
the poet faithfully and most efficiently until the
death of the latter in 1850, when it was found
that he was nominated one of the executors under
the will-an act which speaks volumes as to the
high esteem in which he was held by Wordsworth.
9
130
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
Some time after the appointment referred to
had been bestowed upon Wordsworth, he was
offered a much more important and lucrative posi-
tion-that of Collector of Whitehaven; but he
was so endeared to the beautiful district in which
he resided that he was induced to decline it; and, in
so doing, it cannot be doubted that he acted wisely.
The fame of the poet at this period was largely
increasing, notwithstanding the fact that his pub-
lications had but a very limited sale. The verse
cast upon the literary waters was destined to float,
having in it not only the elements of life, but of
immortality also. Southey, in 1804, to his honour,
had not hesitated to write: Wordsworth will do
better [than Coleridge], and leave behind him a
name, unique in his way; he will rank among the
very first poets, and probably possesses a mass of
merits superior to all, except only Shakespeare.'
In 1814, after having made a tour in Scotland
accompanied by his wife and her sister, Words-
worth published his magnum opus, 'The Excursion,'
which he dedicated in a graceful sonnet to his
illustrious friend and benefactor, the Earl of Lons-
dale. The edition, which is in quarto, and contains
447 pages, consisted of 500 copies. It need scarcely
be stated that the volume shared no better fate
than its predecessors, the leading reviews being
most hostile; and had the reviewers been the
public, which fortunately was not the case, it
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
131
would speedily have glided down the stream of
that oblivion to which they unmercifully doomed
it. Jeffrey, in the Edinburgh Review, poured forth
all the vials of his wrath, hatred, and indignation
upon it, in what may well be termed the most
memorable critique of the century, with which
most readers of this biography are probably ac-
quainted. Determined to extinguish the author,
the critic, in his fury, begins: This will never
dó!' and he then proceeds to hurl forth all the
thunderbolts of literary criticism at his command.
He even went so far afterwards as to boast that he
had crushed the poem. But the writer, in his
blindness and self-assurance, grievously over-esti-
mated even his mighty strength, and he failed to
effect his malicious purpose. The work, however,
was not without supporters in more discerning
quarters. Southey, one of the greatest critics of
his day, writing in December, 1814, to his friend
Scott, says: 'Jeffrey, I hear, has written what his
admirers call a crushing review of "The Excursion."
He might as well seat himself upon Skiddaw and
fancy that he crushed the mountain. I heartily
wish Wordsworth may one day meet with him,
and lay him alongside, yard-arm and yard-arm in
argument.' Bravo, Southey! The opinion of
Southey with regard to Jeffrey finds a fitting place
here. To Jeffrey, as an individual,' he writes, 'I
shall ever be ready to show individual courtesy,
9-2
132
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
A
1
but of Judge Jeffrey of the Edinburgh Review, I
must ever think and speak as of a bad politician,
a worse moralist, and a critic, in matters of taste,
equally incompetent and unjust.' 'I have often
wished,' says Coleridge, 'that the first two books
of "The Excursion" had been published separately,
under the name of "The Deserted Cottage." They
would have formed, what indeed they are, one of
the most beautiful poems in the language.' 'In
power of intellect,' observes Hazlitt, 'in lofty con-
ception, in the depth of feeling, at once simple
and sublime, which pervades every part of it, and
which gives to every object an almost preter-
natural and preterhuman interest, this work has
seldom been surpassed.' Professor Wilson, in
'The Recreations of Christopher North,' writes:
"The Excursion" is a series of poems, all swim-
ming in the light of poetry; some of them sweet
and simple; some elegant and graceful; some
beautiful and most lovely; some of strength and
state; some majestic; some magnificent; some
sublime.' Byron, who had severely satirized
Wordsworth in his 'English Bards and Scotch
Reviewers,' written in 1808, describes it as
'A drowsy, frowzy poem, called The Excursion,
Writ in a manner which is my aversion.'
This truly great philosophical poem, which was
commenced at Racedown in 1795, was completed
at Grasmere, the greater proportion of it being
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
133
written at Allan Bank. The poet's nephew would
seem to have overlooked this, in remarking that
the three years' residence there did not appear to
be 'very prolific in poetry.' 'The Excursion' was
published as 'being a portion of "The Recluse,'
the author's intention, when he retired to his
native mountains, being 'to construct a literary
work that might live.' This great undertaking
was to be entitled 'The Recluse,' and was to consist
of three divisions, that charming autobiographical
poem finished in 1805, which remained in manu-
script until 1850-the year of the poet's death—
when it was given to the world under the title of
'The Prelude,' being the first part; 'The Excur-
sion,' the second; and the conclusion, which was
never accomplished, the third. The principal sub-
ject of 'The Recluse,' says Wordsworth, was to be
'the sensations and opinions of a poet living in
retirement,' and the poem was to contain views
'of Man, Nature, and Society.' In 'The Excur-
sion' Wordsworth stands out in what was unques-
tionably his greatest character-that of a lofty
metaphysical poet-and it is now universally ad-
mitted that, slight as is the framework of this
noble poem, the plot being little or nothing, it
abounds with beauties of the highest poetical
order; flights of fancy and inspired reflection that
leave nothing to be desired; and descriptions of
mountain scenery, and of human life, that have
134
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
never been eclipsed. Yet the volume, it must be
confessed, fell almost still-born from the press.
The work is not without grave defects, the weak-
ness of the poet in so long and sustained an effort
being frequently apparent, many portions being
nothing but the most prosaic of disquisitions. But
its faults, it is needless to say, are infinitely more
than overbalanced by its innumerable beauties and
excellencies, which come upon the reader like
revelations. It would be a waste of time to
enumerate the most admired passages in a poem
almost every page of which is a florilegium; the
reader will best consult his own interest by perus-
ing the work and seeking for them. He will never
begrudge the time thus spent; on the contrary, he
will rise from the perusal a richer and a better
man. He will find his views with regard to his
fellow-creatures extended and exalted; his de-
spondency, into which all are too prone to lapse,
will be corrected; he will be led into closer and
more active communion with Nature; and he will
learn, as his faith is strengthened, that it is true
philosophy to educe good from evil. Wordsworth
is essentially a didactic poet, but his didacticism is
of the most agreeable kind. And in 'The Excur-
sion' he comes before us as a high and lofty meta-
physical and philosophical teacher, and we cannot
forbid the thought that, in this stupendous monu-
ment of his genius, he speaks most, as it were, in
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
135
his original character-we converse with him in
his wanderings, and, as we drink in the ennobling
utterances which fall from his sacred lips, we are
at one with him; we feel that we know him 'in
his habit as he lived'; we are drawn irresistibly
towards him; and we love him as, perhaps, we
never loved him before. In a letter to Southey,
in which he refers to some of the reviews of the
poem, he says: 'Let the age continue to love its
own darkness; I shall continue to write with, I
trust, the light of Heaven upon me.' It is dis-
couraging to learn how Wordsworth was, for the
most part, regarded by his contemporaries; but
there are parallel cases, and their name is legion,
to be found, from the Christian era, to go no
further back, downwards. We read of a greater
than Wordsworth that 'He came unto His own,
and His own received Him not.' The effect of
the critiques on The Excursion' proved so in-
jurious that no further edition was required for six
years; but the poet had the deep gratification of
seeing it run through several before his death.
It is a remarkable fact that Wordsworth was
singularly unfortunate in the time of publication of
his greatest poem. A glance at the poets most in
esteem at that period will at once show this. At
least half-a-dozen were then in the very zenith of
their popularity: Southey, who was poet-laureate,
Byron, Scott, Rogers, Moore, and Campbell; all of
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WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
whom were poets of a very different order from
Wordsworth. Amongst the celebrated poems that
had been published between 1810 and 1814, inclu-
sive, were 'The Curse of Kehama' (1810), the first
and second cantos of 'Childe Harold' (1812), 'The
Giaour' and 'The Bride of Abydos' (1813), 'The
Lady of the Lake' (1810), 'The Vision of Don
Roderick' (1811), and 'Rokeby' and 'The Bridal
of Triermain' (1813). With the exception of the
first-named work, which is the corner-stone of
Southey's poetical fabric, all these compositions
were well adapted to catch the public ear, being
readily understood and enjoyed without reflection.
The spirit of the age was romantic, and it was,
perhaps, too much to expect that readers who
craved for exciting food of the kind referred to
either would or could relish the wholesome con-
templative and spiritual repast to which they were
treated by Wordsworth. They would not have
that man to reign over them. But, as Tennyson
truly observes, 'the old order changeth, yielding
place to new'; and the avidity with which the
romances of the day were devoured, produced an
excess of imitative work of vastly inferior quality,
which speedily created a surfeit, to which it would
appear the poetry of Wordsworth formed a power
ful corrective. There are two classes of food-that
which pleases, but does not satisfy, and that which
satisfies no less than it pleases. Wordsworth's

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137
literary fare distinctly belongs to the latter. He
is peculiarly a poet sui generis. Delightful as are
all the great poets, there are times and moods in
which the thoughtful reader turns from them all,}
and in communion with Wordsworth invariably)
finds solace and rest. Wordsworth is naturally
the poet of meditation; and it is good and profitable
occasionally to withdraw ourselves far from the
madding crowd,' and to hold sweet converse with
our own hearts. And the man who cannot see
himself in Wordsworth's poetry, must indeed be
utterly destitute of the vision and the faculty
divine.' Alas! there are too many in this miser-
able condition.
:
In 1815 Wordsworth issued, in two volumes,
'Poems including Lyrical Ballads, and the Mis-
cellaneous Pieces of the Author; with Additional
Poems, a New Preface, and a Supplementary Essay.'
The work was gracefully inscribed to his devoted
friend Sir George Beaumont, and contained a re-
markably fine and masterly preface, in which,
amongst other things, he explains the principles on
which he then, for the first time, divided his poet-
ical compositions into classes, such as 'Poems
founded on the Affections,' 'Poems of Sentiment
and Reflection,' 'Poems of the Fancy,' etc. Writing
to C. H. Townshend in 1816, Southey says: 'Have
you read "The Excursion"? and have you read the
collection of Wordsworth's other poems, in two
138
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
•
octavo volumes? If you have not, there is a great
pleasure in store for you. It is by the side
of Milton that Wordsworth will have his station
awarded him by posterity.' We shall reserve for
a later chapter what few remarks we have to offer
on the classification of the poems, to which we
have thus briefly alluded. Many writers on Words-
worth, strange to relate, have overlooked the pub-
lication of these highly important volumes.
In the same year (1815), Wordsworth published
his poem entitled 'The White Doe of Rylstone;
or, the Fate of the Nortons,' the work, which was
tenderly dedicated to his wife in some beautiful
prefatory verses, being issued from the press in
quarto. This elegant creation is founded on a tra-
dition connected with Bolton Priory, in Yorkshire,
and was the outcome of a visit which the poet paid
to the district, which abounds with enchanting
scenery, in the summer of 1807. 'The earlier half
of this poem,' says Wordsworth, 'was composed at
Stockton-upon-Tees, when Mary and I were on a
visit to her eldest brother, Mr. Hutchinson, at the
close of the year 1807.' On their return to Gras-
mere, it was continued, and in all probability
completed there. The poem, which is narrative
throughout, and written in irregular metre, in seven
cantos, is a charming composition, and contains
some exquisite descriptive passages, two of which
the reader will thank us for quoting. A service is
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
139
being held in the 'rural chapel,' which forms part
of the Priory; a hymn is sung; after which, all
being hushed, the priest recites the holy liturgy':
'When soft!-the dusky trees between,
And down the path through the open green,
Where is no living thing to be seen;
And through yon gateway, where is found,
Beneath the arch with ivy bound,
Free entrance to the church-yard ground-
Comes gliding in with lovely gleam,
Comes gliding in serene and slow,
Soft and silent as a dream,
A solitary doe!
White she is as lily of June,
And beauteous as the silver moon
When out of sight the clouds are driven
And she is left alone in heaven;
Or like a ship some gentle day
In sunshine sailing far away,
A glittering ship, that hath the plain
Of ocean for her own domain.'
If this is not the truest of true poetry, what is?
The second passage is no less delightful. None
but a poet of the very highest order could have
penned it. But we must not anticipate the reader's
judgment. Let the lines be read aloud :
'Tis night in silence looking down,
The moon, from cloudless ether, sees
A camp, and a beleaguered town,
And castle, like a stately crown
On the steep rocks of winding Tees ;-
And southward far, with moor between,
Hill-top, and flood, and forest green,
The bright moon sees that valley small
Where Rylstone's old sequestered hall
A venerable image yields
Of quiet to the neighbouring fields;
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WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
While from one pillared chimney breathes
The smoke, and mounts in silver wreaths.
The courts are hushed ;-for timely sleep
The greyhounds to their kennel creep ;
The peacock in the broad ash tree
Aloft is roosted for the night,
He who in proud prosperity
Of colours manifold and bright
Walked round, affronting the daylight;
And higher still, above the bower
Where he is perched, from yon lone tower
The hall-clock in the clear moonshine
With glittering finger points at nine.'
There are many superb descriptions of moon-lit
scenes in English poetry, but we doubt whether a
more delicately lovely picture than this has ever
been painted. The poem, from beginning to end,
is instinct with the genius of the poet, and bears
his sign-manual almost on its every line. Strangely
enough, it contains few, if any, lines or passages
which have passed into quotations. Neither was it
likely to become rapidly popular. "Of the "White
Doe,” observes Wordsworth, 'I have little to say,
but that I hope it will be acceptable to the intelli-
gent, for whom alone it is written.' And Dorothy
Wordsworth writes: 'Some of our friends, who
are equal admirers of the "White Doe" and of my
brother's published poems, think that this poem
will sell on account of the story; that is, that the
story will bear up those points which are above
the level of the public taste; whereas the two last
volumes—except by a few solitary individuals, who
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
141
are passionately devoted to my brother's works-
are abused by wholesale.
'Now, as his sole object in publishing this poem
at present would be for the sake of the money, he
would not publish it if he did not think, from the
several judgments of his friends, that it would be
likely to have a sale. He has no pleasure in pub-
lishing-he even detests it; and if it were not that
he is not over-wealthy, he would leave all his works
to be published after his death. William himself
is sure that the "White Doe" will not sell or be
admired, except by a very few, at first; and only
yields to Mary's entreaties and mine. We are
determined, however, if we are deceived this time,
to let him have his own way in future.'
"
Now, how was the work received? Jeffrey, in
the Edinburgh Review, with his usual asperity to
Wordsworth, declares: This, we think, has the
merit of being the very worst poem we ever saw
imprinted in a quarto volume. In the "Lyrical
Ballads" he [Wordsworth] was exhibited, on the
whole, in a vein of very pretty deliration; but in
the poem before us he appears in a state of low
and maudlin imbecility, which would not have mis-
become Master Silence himself, in the close of a
social day.' Verbum sap. Jeffrey was clearly not
one of the intelligent, for whom alone it was
written.'
Wordsworth's notion of the poem was as high as
en
142
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
Jeffrey's was low; and it is narrated that on one
occasion he inquired of his friend Davy :
'Do you know the reason why I published
"The White Doe " in quarto ?'
'No,' replied Davy; 'what was it?'
!
'To show the world my own opinion of it,' re-
joined the poet.
It may be stated that, in conception, this poem
was in Wordsworth's estimation the greatest pro-
duction of his muse. The work, notwithstanding
its merits, which are unquestionable, never reached
a second edition during the poet's lifetime.
CHAPTER IX.
'Domestic Happiness, thou only bliss
Of Paradise that has survived the fall!'
-Cowper.
Wordsworth's domestic happiness-Leigh Hunt's account of
his appearance-His literary friendships-His brother
Richard dies (1816)—' Peter Bell' (1819)-The Waggoner
(1819)- The River Duddon,' etc. (1820)-Visits Switzer-
land and Italy, and, returning, narrowly escapes shipwreck
(1820)-Is thrown from his horse and seriously injured
(1822)-' Memorials of a Tour on the Continent, 1820'
(1822)-Ecclesiastical Sketches' (1822)-Visits Belgium
and Holland (1823)-Makes a Tour in North Wales (1824)
-His library-His habit of reading and correcting his own
poems-Sir George Beaumont dies, and bequeaths him
an annuity of £100 (1827)-Makes an excursion with his
daughter and Coleridge into Flanders (1828)-Visits
Ireland (1829)-His eldest son marries (1830)-Visits Sir
Walter Scott at Abbotsford (1831)-Death of Scott (1832).
APART from the disfavour with which, almost uni-
formly, his publications were received, the existence
of Wordsworth at Rydal Mount must have been
exceptionally pleasant. He was blest in the pos-
session of a true, loving, and consoling wife, to
whom he could at all times turn-and not in vain
--for wholesome advice and guidance, and for the
comfort and solace which every human heart re-
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WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
quires. She was one on whom, in his misgivings,
he could lean for support-the one was truly the
complement of the other. How he loved this
gentle, amiable lady we may never fully know;
but he tells us, in delicate verse, that she was
'dearer far than light and life are dear.' Then, he
had spared to him three children-two sons and
one daughter-who were growing up like olive-
branches round about his table, and who were the
joy of his being. His sister, too, resided under his
roof; and no words can speak what a rich blessing
—what a ministering angel-she, through life, was
to him. Surely no brother and sister were ever
more ardently attached the one to the other:
'Like Juno's swans '-while health permitted-
'still they went coupled and inseparable.'
His sister-in-law, Sarah Hutchinson, continued
to make her abode at Rydal Mount; and all were
strongly united in the bonds of sincere and lasting
affection. They were indeed a happy family.
One can readily imagine the feelings of pleasure
with which the poet would pace backwards and
forwards on the green-sward composing his verses,
or wander listlessly about the grounds and gardens,
bright with the beauty and sweet with the fra-
grance of a thousand flowers. But, alas! the
scented atmosphere had, in one respect, less
charms for him than for others. He had no sense
of smell.
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
145
With reference to this peculiarity, Southey
writes: 'Once, and once only, in his life, the
dormant power awakened; it was by a bed of
stocks in full bloom, at a house which he inhabited
in Dorsetshire, some five-and-twenty years ago;
and he says it was like a vision of Paradise to him:
but it lasted only a few minutes, and the faculty
has continued torpid from that time.'
2
The poet's nephew, in his 'Memoirs,' states that
the perception thus alluded to by Southey was
imaginary. The incident,' he says, occurred at
' '
Racedown, when he was walking with Miss H
who, coming suddenly upon a parterre of sweet
flowers, expressed her pleasure at their fragrance,
-a pleasure which he caught from her lips, and
then fancied to be his own.' Let us not, however,
begrudge the poet the benefit of the doubt.
Leigh Hunt, in his charming 'Autobiography,'
has given us a partial portrait of Wordsworth, who
visited him in London in 1815. The two poets
did not meet after this for thirty years, when
Wordsworth would be about seventy-five. Writing
of Wordsworth's appearance in later life, he ob-
serves: 'But certainly I never beheld eyes that
looked so inspired or supernatural. They were
like fires half burning, half smouldering, with a
sort of acrid fixture of regard, and seated at the
further end of two caverns. One might imagine
Ezekiel or Isaiah to have had such eyes.'
10
146
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
During the prolonged period of Wordsworth's
residence at Rydal Mount-thirty-seven years-he
enjoyed the esteem of a choice and magic circle
of friends. Southey, his brother-poet, lived and
died at Keswick; De Quincey, for twenty years,
resided at Dove Cottage; Coleridge continued his
attached friend until removed by death in 1834;
Professor Wilson, who did so much to establish his
fame, abode at Elleray, a delightful spot on the
banks of Windermere; Dr. Arnold, of Rugby, was
beautifully located at Fox Howe; while Hartley
Coleridge dwelt at Nab Cottage, close to the margin
of Grasmere. Dr. Watson, the Bishop of Llandaff,
was settled at Windermere, and Charles Lloyd at
Brathay. These, which are some of the names
with which the district is imperishably associated,
are verily names to 'conjure with '; and there are
many others with whom the poet for years main-
tained terms of great intimacy; amongst whom
must be mentioned Sir Walter Scott, Charles and
Mary Lamb, who were wedded to London, Henry
Crabb Robinson, Haydon the painter, Hazlitt, Mrs.
Hemans, and others. It was surely something to
live for, to number amongst his friends such worthies
as these. Blair's apostrophe is well known:
'Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul !
Sweet'ner of life! and solder of society!'
The year 1816 was notable for the publication
of Wordsworth's 'Ode,' January 18th, 1816, the
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
147
day appointed for a general thanksgiving on the
termination of the great European war. In this
year also, his eldest brother, Richard, who was an
attorney-at-law in London, died, the mournful event
taking place on the 19th of May.
In 1819 appeared 'Peter Bell; a Tale in Verse,'
dedicated to Robert Southey. This poem, which
had been written as far back as 1798, is a remark-
able lucubration, and it was a bold undertaking on
the part of the poet to publish it. Not but that it
was as perfect as he could render it. He had taken
infinite pains to make the production less un-
worthy of a favourable reception; or, rather, to fit
it for filling permanently a station, however humble,
in the literature of our country.' It is, perhaps,
the most unique of all his poems-the most Words-
worthian. But the story is simple in the extreme.
Peter Bell, the hero of the tale, is a potter by
trade, as coarse and vicious a man almost as it
would be possible to conceive. Although he had
trudged about for some thirty years from place to
place, and had seen much of the beauties of nature,
yet he was as insensible to their influence as a
stone. He had sunk below the level of the brute
creation. But a change is in store for him; he is
to be converted. He is made to witness, on a
moon-lit night, the fidelity of an ass to its drowned
master, whose body lies in a river, on the banks of
which the poor animal had stood for four days and
10-2
148
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
nights without breaking its fast, gazing fixedly into
the water. The potter is impressed, and eventually
becomes a good and honest man.'
We belong to those who see in this work the
conception and skill of a great artist. We would
not willingly let 'Peter Bell' die. The poem, to
our mind, is beautifully and powerfully worked
out, and contains many fine passages, which have
become 'familiar in our mouths as household
words.' Still, it was clamorously assailed by the
critics, notably in the London Monthly Review and
the London Literary Gazette. Blackwood, however,
reviewed it favourably. But in spite of the ridicule
that was showered upon it, it was more in demand
than any of Wordsworth's previous publications,
the five hundred copies struck off in April being
followed in May by a second edition. It led to
several parodies-Peter Bell; a Lyrical Ballad,'
and 'The Dead Asses; a Lyrical Ballad,' both
published in 1819. Shelley also parodied the poem
in his 'Peter Bell the Third.' After all, it was no
small honour, perhaps, to be satirized by so lofty
and ethereal a genius as Shelley. It did Words-
worth no harm. The parody, however, did not
appear during Shelley's lifetime, nor indeed for
many years after his death, it being printed in
1839.
It was not a little singular that, shortly before
the publication of Wordsworth's poem referred to,
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149
a burlesque bearing the same name was issued,
from the pen of John Hamilton Reynolds. As it
has never been our good fortune to come across
this composition, we can offer no opinion with
regard to its merits.
'The Waggoner,' by Wordsworth, was also pub-
lished in the same year as 'Peter Bell,' with a
gratifying dedication to Charles Lamb, in which
the poet says: 'When I sent you, a few weeks ago,
the "Tale of Peter Bell," you asked why "The
Waggoner" was not added?' The poem had been
read to Lamb in manuscript in or about the year
1806, and, judging from the fact that he had re-
membered it so clearly, he must have been con-
siderably impressed with it. The success of the
volume, which comprised, in addition to the story,
a number of sonnets, was small indeed, and the
reason is not far to seek, the incidents and de-
scriptions being altogether local. Neither is there
much, if any, true conception in the poem. Its
publication did not add one leaf to the poet's bays.
'Nobody, we are sure,' said Blackwood, who might
have seen it published anonymously, would have
suspected it to be a production of the Great Poet
of the Lakes.' And the London Monthly Review
stated: 'Mr. Wordsworth appears determined to
try how far he can trample on the degraded poetry
of his country. "Keep it down," seems to be his
prevailing principle; and well may he add, "Now
150
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
it is down." Macaulay, writing of Byron, in the
Edinburgh Review, says that 'Peter Bell excited
his [Byron's] spleen to such a degree, that he
apostrophized the shades of Pope and Dryden, and
demanded of them whether it were possible that
such trash could evade contempt':
""Pedlars," and "boats," and " waggons"! Oh! ye shades
Of Pope and Dryden, are we come to this?'
This work also was parodied-'Benjamin the
Waggoner, a Ryghte Merrie and Conceitede Tale
in Verse; a Fragment,' appearing in the same year.
Of this travesty, the London Monthly Review re-
marked : 'We must observe that the parody,
although it is entitled "Benjamin the Waggoner,"
is all about Peter Bell.'
Of all Wordsworth's poems published after 1800,
'The Waggoner' could, perhaps, be best spared;
and, although we treasure every one of his per-
formances, it must frankly be admitted that it is
far from being a lofty flight of genius. Sir Walter
Scott wonders 'why Wordsworth will sometimes
choose to crawl upon all-fours, when God has given
him so noble a countenance to lift to heaven.' Sir
Walter, it need scarcely be added, had, in general,
an exalted opinion of the amiable bard of Rydal,'
as he was pleased to style Wordsworth. 'The
Waggoner' was written at Dove Cottage, Gras-
mere, which, as previously intimated, had formerly
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
151
seen service as an inn; and the poem contains a
notable reference to Wordsworth, which we sub-
join:
"There, where the DOVE and OLIVE-BOUGH
Once hung, a poet harbours now,—
A simple water-drinking bard.'
"
Such was Wordsworth. He was decidedly a
man of humble tastes, but of high and ennobling
aspirations. Even in the matter of dress, not-
withstanding that on his going to Cambridge,
according to De Quincey, he had actually assumed
the beau, or, in modern slang, the "dandy,"
dressing in silk stockings, with his hair powdered,
he was in more advanced life far from fastidious ;
and some have not hesitated to describe him as
slovenly in this respect. But the fact of his living
in retirement should not be overlooked. Besides,
it was his custom to take out-of-door exercise in all
states of the weather, and many a severe wetting
did he encounter in his walks and rambles far and
wide. William Howitt, at all times a welcome
visitor to the Wordsworths, has given us the
following interesting account of the poet: He
was,' he says, 'with all his solemnity and his poetry,
a plain man. He did not walk his mountains in
stilts, but in good hob-nailed shoes, often with a
grey shepherd's plaid on his shoulders, and a broad
straw hat, or a simple cloth cap, on his head. You
might have taken him for a good, honest old
152
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
countryman, and it would only be by entering
into conversation with him that you would discover
the man of great mind.'
That poetry was to Wordsworth the business of
his life, is abundantly evidenced not only by the
large and varied amount he produced, but also, we
think, by the appearance in the following year
(1820) of 'The River Duddon, a Series of Sonnets;
Vaudracour and Julia; and other Poems: to which
is annexed a Topographical Description of the
Country of the Lakes in the North of England,'
the book consisting of upwards of 300 pages. The
sonnets and other pieces in this volume were dedi-
cated to the poet's brother, the Rev. Dr. Words-
worth, then rector of the parish of Lambeth, in
a beautifully-written introductory poem, which
cannot be read too often. Of the sonnets, per-
haps the best known of the series is the concluding
one, entitled 'After-Thought,' commencing-
'I thought of thee, my partner and my guide,'
which is a dignified and powerful composition—
one of the finest in the whole range of sonnet
literature. In 'Vaudracour and Julia,' a thrilling
episode, Wordsworth has painted an inimitable
picture of the master-passion-love, in which he
has risen almost, if not fully, to the style and
strength of the greatest Elizabethan dramatists.
No apology need be made for its insertion.
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
153
•
'His present mind
Was under fascination ;-he beheld
A vision, and adored the thing he saw.
Arabian fiction never filled the world
With half the wonders that were wrought for him.
Earth breathed in one great presence of the spring ;
Life turned the meanest of her implements,
Before his eyes, to price above all gold;
The house she dwelt in was a sainted shrine ;
Her chamber-window did surpass in glory
The portals of the dawn; all paradise
Could, by the simple opening of a door,
Let itself in upon him :-pathways, walks,
Swarmed with enchantment, till his spirit sank,
Surcharged, within him,-overblest to move
Beneath a sun that wakes a weary world
To its dull round of ordinary cares ;
A man too happy for mortality!'
The 'Description of the Country of the Lakes,
included in the volume, had originally been pub-
lished in 1810, and has already been noticed. This
work ran through numerous editions during the
author's lifetime.
In the summer of 1820, Wordsworth, accom-
panied by his wife and sister and some friends,
proceeded to Switzerland and Italy, the tour occu-
pying about four months. At Lucerne, Henry
Crabb Robinson became one of the party. Amongst
mani places of interest visited by the poet on this
occasion, were Bruges, Cologne, Heidelberg, Cha-
mouni, and the Field of Waterloo. On the return
of the tourists from Boulogne, they had a narrow
escape from shipwreck, the vessel striking upon a
sand-bank, and being afterwards stranded. This
154
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
incident, of course, gave rise to a sonnet.
When
in London, Wordsworth had the pleasure of meet-
ing several attached friends-Rogers the poet,
Charles and Mary Lamb, Talfourd, and others.
He paid a visit to his beloved friend Coleridge, on
the 18th of November. After visiting—with his
wife and sister-his brother, Dr. Wordsworth, at
Cambridge, whither he had been promoted, and
Sir George and Lady Beaumont at Coleorton, the
poet returned with his company to Rydal Mount,
which he reached on Christmas Eve.
An accident, which barely escaped proving fatal,
befell Wordsworth in May, 1822. He was pro-
gressing with some friends towards Haweswater,
when he had the misfortune to be thrown violently
from his horse, sustaining considerable injury to
his head. On examination, it was thought that
the skull was fractured, but, fortunately, such was
not the case, the wound which at first appeared so
alarming turning out to be merely superficial, with
some abrasion of the bone, caused by the sharp-
pointed stone against which he fell. Thanks to
the strength of constitution and temperate habits
of the poet, he recovered with a rapidity that sur-
prised everybody.
As might be expected, his travels in Switzerland
and Italy furnished some noble inspirations, which
were given to the world in 1822, under the title of
'Memorials of a Tour on the Continent, 1820.'
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
155
In 1822 Wordsworth also published the 'Eccle-
siastical Sketches,' since called Sonnets. These
had been suggested during his visit to Sir George
Beaumont, who contemplated the erection of a
new church on his charming estate. The volume,
which contains some truly elegant sonnets, of
which those on 'Walton's Book of Lives,' and
'Inside of King's College Chapel, Cambridge,' are,
perhaps, the most widely known and admired, was
highly reviewed in Blackwood's Magazine; but,
like Wordsworth's previous publications, it was
severely condemned by Jeffrey, in the Edinburgh
Review.
A confirmed traveller, the poet, together with
his wife, in the spring of 1823, made a tour in
Belgium and Holland. He was then greatly
troubled with an affection of the eyes, which,
happily, passed away. In the following year, he
found himself on a ramble in North Wales, where
he spent some days with his college friend, the
Rev. Robert Jones, then a curate in the Church of
England, the poet's wife and daughter, Dora, being
of the party.
On Wordsworth's return to Rydal Mount after
his excursions, his neighbours more than once re-
marked: Well, there he is; we are glad to hear
him booing about again.' This was in allusion to
his habit of composing and murmuring his verses.
in the open air.
He himself has told us that
156
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
'One day a stranger, having walked round the
garden and grounds of Rydal Mount, asked of one
of the female servants, who happened to be at the
door, permission to see her master's study. "This,"
said she, leading him forward, "is my master's
library, where he keeps his books; but his study is
out of doors." His library, properly so called,
was about as scanty and wretched an affair as any
literary man could well be imagined to possess,
consisting of but some three to five hundred books
--a heterogeneous collection in tattered condition,
which occupied only a few shelves. Southey, on
the other hand, had one of the finest and most
valuable private libraries in the kingdom, leaving
behind him at his death some fourteen thousand
volumes. But Southey was a marvellous reader,
while Wordsworth was less a reader of books than
of the great volume of nature, which lay before
him like an open scroll. In the words of a modern
poetical writer: 'Nature to him presented one
broad beautiful view, a page of poetry written by
the hand of God Himself.' 'As to buying books,'
says Wordsworth, writing in 1819, 'I can affirm
that in new books I have not spent five shillings
for the last five years,' and he adds-and this is
significant in his case-small and paltry as my
collection is, I have not read a fifth part of it.'
Probably he would have been a 'fuller' man, and
one of broader sympathies, had he read more. As
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
157
Matthew Arnold, the foremost critic of the nine-
teenth century, asserts: The one thing wanting
to make Wordsworth an even greater poet than he
is, his thought richer, and his influence of wider
application, was that he should have read more.
books, among them, no doubt, those of that Goethe
whom he disparaged without reading him.' Words-
worth was a maker, rather than a reader, of books.
And a good deal of his delightful philosophy is
contained in the following lines from 'The Tables
Turned':
Come forth into the light of things,
Let Nature be your teacher.
*
*
One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can."
It is narrated that Wordsworth once observed
to Rogers, that Southey, in advancing age, had left
off reading to a large extent, and that he prin-
cipally read his own books.
'Why, it is very natural that he should do so,'
remarked Rogers; 'I read my works oftener than
any others, and I dare say that you do the same.'
'Yes, that he does,' said Mrs. Wordsworth; 'you
know you do, William.'
Like Rogers, he was continually altering his
poems-not unfrequently to their disadvantage.
It is noteworthy that, while he frequently omitted,
158
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
he seldom added anything to his compositions.
To the philological student, Professor Knight's
recent edition of Wordsworth is simply invaluable,
inasmuch as it contains the numerous variorum
readings of the poems, from their first appearance
down to 1849, the year immediately preceding the
poet's death.
On the 7th of February, 1827, Wordsworth, to
his lasting sorrow, lost his attached friend Sir
George Beaumont, who died in his seventy-third
year, and was buried at Coleorton. If any further
proof were needed to show the great esteem in
which the deceased baronet held the poet, it is
to be found in the fact that, ever mindful of his
interests, he bequeathed him an annuity of £100, in
order that he might the better enjoy a yearly tour.
The summer of 1828 found Wordsworth and
his daughter, accompanied by Coleridge, on an
excursion into Flanders. After spending a fort-
night on the banks of the Rhine, they returned by
way of Holland.
In the autumn of the following year, Words-
worth paid a visit to Ireland, in the company of
Mr. J. Marshall, M.P. for Leeds.
On the 11th of October, 1830, the Rev. John
Wordsworth, the poet's eldest son, then Rector of
Moresby, entered the holy state of matrimony,
marrying the daughter of Henry Curwen, of Work-
ington Hall, Cumberland.
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
159
In 1831 the poet and his daughter set off in the
autumn for Scotland, to see Sir Walter Scott, who
was then in ruined circumstances, and in feeble
health both of body and mind, and was about to
proceed to Italy. Wordsworth was at this time
suffering from inflammation in his eyes, over which
he wore a deep green shade, and was otherwise far
from well.
'How sadly changed,' he says, 'did I find him
from the man I had seen so healthy, gay, and
hopeful a few years before, when he said at the
inn at Patterdale, in my presence, his daughter
Anne also being there, with Mr. Lockhart, my own
wife and daughter, and Mr. Quillinan, "I mean to
live till I am eighty! and shall write as long as I
live.” . . . The inmates and guests we found there
were Sir Walter, Major Scott, Anne Scott, and
Mr. and Mrs. Lockhart; Mr. Liddell, his lady and
brother, and Mr. Allan the painter, and Mr. Laid-
law, a very old friend of Sir Walter's. . . . In the
evening, Mr. and Mrs. Liddell sang, and Mrs.
Lockhart chanted old ballads to her harp; and
Mr. Allan, hanging over the back of a chair, told
and acted odd stories in a humorous way. With
this exhibition, and his daughter's singing, Sir
Walter was much amused, and, indeed, were we
all, as far as circumstances would allow. On Tues-
day morning, Sir Walter Scott accompanied us,
and most of the party, to Newark Castle, on the
160
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
Yarrow. When we alighted from the carriages,
he walked pretty stoutly, and had great pleasure
in revisiting these his favourite haunts. Of that
excursion, the verses, "Yarrow Revisited " are a
memorial. . . . On our return in the afternoon,
we had to cross the Tweed, directly opposite
Abbotsford. A rich, but sad light, of rather
a purple than a golden hue, was spread over the
Eildon Hills at that moment; and, thinking it
probable that it might be the last time Sir Walter
would cross the stream, I was not a little moved,
and expressed some of my feelings in the sonnet
beginning-
"A trouble, not of clouds," etc.
At noon on Thursday we left Abbotsford, and, on
the morning of that day, Sir Walter and I had a
serious conversation, tête-à-tête, when he spoke with
gratitude of the happy life which, upon the whole,
he had led. He had written in my daughter's
album, before he came into the breakfast-room that
morning, a few stanzas addressed to her; and,
while putting the book into her hand, in his own
study, standing by his desk, he said to her in my
presence, "I should not have done anything of
this kind, but for your father's sake; they are
probably the last verses I shall ever write." They
show how much his mind was impaired; not by
the strain of thought, but by the execution-some
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
161
of the lines being imperfect, and one stanza want-
ing corresponding rhymes. One letter, the initial
S., had been omitted in the spelling of his own
name.'
The poets parted that day; and what occurred
afterwards is well known. After visiting Naples,
Pompeii, Rome, and other places, the Great
Unknown,' on going down the Rhine, was stricken
by a further attack of apoplectic paralysis. He
was brought to London, and ultimately reached
Abbotsford.
'About half-past one p.m.,' says his biographer,
on the 21st of September, 1832, Sir Walter
breathed his last, in the presence of all his chil-
dren. It was a beautiful day-so warm that
every window was wide open-and so perfectly
still that the sound of all others most delicious to
his ear, the gentle ripple of the Tweed over its
pebbles, was distinctly audible as we knelt around
the bed, and his eldest son kissed and closed his
eyes.'
11
CHAPTER X.
'How wonderful is Death !
Death and his brother Sleep.'
-Shelley.
Wordsworth visits the Isle of Man en route for Scotland
(1833)-Poems and incidents relating to the Island-
Coleridge dies (July 25, 1834)—Charles Lamb dies (Dec. 27,
1834)-Loses several friends by death (1835)—' Yarrow
Revisited, and other Poems' (1835)—'Evening Voluntaries'
-His alleged Pantheism-Sarah Hutchinson dies (1836)—
Visits Italy (1837)—'The Sonnets of William Wordsworth'
(1838)—Universities of Durham and Oxford confer D. C.L.
degrees upon him (1838-1839)—Is acknowledged to be the
greatest living poet-Is visited by Mrs. Sigourney (1840)—
Meets with an alarming accident-His darling daughter,
Dora, marries Edward Quillinan (1841)—Makes a farewell
excursion in Devonshire and Somersetshire-'Sonnets upon
the Punishment of Death' (1841)-Classified collection of
his poems in six volumes (1842)—'Poems: chiefly of Early
and Late Years, including "The Borderers, a Tragedy
(1842) — Resigns the Distributorship of Stamps
awarded by the Crown a pension of £300 per annum.
Is
IN the summer of 1833, Wordsworth and his son,
the Rev. John Wordsworth, accompanied by Henry
Crabb Robinson, made a tour in Scotland, proceed-
ing by way of Whitehaven and the Isle of Man,
where a few days were enjoyably passed. That
the poet was greatly pleased with the Island (where
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
163
this biography is penned) is amply demonstrated
by the various sonnets referring to Manxland which
were suggested or composed during the excursion.
Wordsworth was not slow to observe what is
one of the most attractive features in connection
with this delightful watering-place, a foot-note to
the charming sonnet, By the Sea-shore,' reading:
'The sea-water on the coast of the Isle of Man is
singularly pure and beautiful.' It would have been
indeed inconceivable had he not been struck with
the serene beauty of the picturesque
'Gem of the ocean! lovely Mona's Isle !
Fairest of emeralds rising from the sea!'
The sonnet on 'Tynwald Hill,' where, in ancient
times, the kings of Man were enthroned, and where
to this day the local Acts of Tynwald are promul-
gated annually with great ceremony on the 5th of
July, elicited the following remarks from Words-
worth: 'Mr. Robinson and I,' he says, 'walked
the greater part of the way from Castletown to
Peel, and stopped some time at Tynwald Hill.
One of our companions was an elderly man, who,
in a muddy way, for he was tipsy, explained and
answered, as far as he could, my inquiries about
this place, and the ceremonies held here. I found
more agreeable company in some little children,
one of whom, upon my request, recited the Lord's
Prayer to me, and I helped her to a clearer under-
standing of it as well as I could; but I was not at
11-2
164
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
all satisfied with my own part-hers was much
better done; and I am persuaded that, like other
children, she knew more about it than she was
able to express, especially to a stranger.' One can
fancy the aged author of 'We are Seven' (God
love him!)—he was then sixty-three-not disdain-
ing, in his characteristic humility, to hold converse
with the little girl, whom he had never before seen,
and to unfold to her eager ears the beauties of the
universal prayer. Verily, as he himself claims :
'Every great poet is a teacher.' It were indeed a
pity did this individual die without learning who
the amiable stranger was. She may yet be living.
What would not we, who love the poet as with an
intense personal affection, have given to have
changed places with her!
From the Isle of Man, Wordsworth and his party
went on to Scotland, where further poetical fruit
was produced.
On the 25th of July, 1834, Samuel Taylor Cole-
ridge, 'Logician, Metaphysician, Bard,' as Charles
Lamb delighted to call him, 'shuffled off this mortal
coil,' passing away at his friend Mr. Gillman's, at
Highgate, where he had found an asylum for the
last nineteen years of his life. He had, with the
shadow of certain death over him, written his
epitaph the year before :
'Stop, Christian passer-by :--Stop, child of God,
nd read, with gentle breast. Beneath this sod
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
165
A poet lies, or that which once seemed he-
O, lift one thought in prayer for S. T. C.-
That he who many a year with toil of breath
Found death in life may here find life in death!
Mercy for praise, to be forgiven for fame,—
He asked, and hoped, through Christ. Do thou the same.'
He was buried in Highgate churchyard; and a
marble tablet in the new church bears an inscription
which speaks in eulogistic strains of this pious
and exalted Christian.'
C
Six months afterwards, Lamb, whose grief on
the death of his friend was so great that he seems
never to have fully rallied from it, continually
giving vent to the exclamation, 'Coleridge is dead!
Coleridge is dead!' died on the 27th of December,
from the result of an unfortunate accident; and
who can doubt that he speedily rejoined the gifted
dreamer-who, if ever poet did, 'drank the milk
of Paradise'in that better land
'Where spirits blend,
And friend holds fellowship with friend '?
In the following year also, death was busy, the
Rev. Robert Jones, one of Wordsworth's earliest
and dearest friends; Mrs. Hemans, who had spent.
the summer of 1830 at the Dove's Nest, on the
banks of Windermere; and James Hogg, 'the
Ettrick Shepherd,' departing this life; and the
sorrow of the meditative poet about this period
may indeed be better imagined than put into
166
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
words. Alas! Wordsworth could truly exclaim,
with Blair,
'On this side, and on that, men see their friends
Drop off, like leaves in autumn';
and he gave expression to his feelings in an ex-
quisite Extempore Effusion upon the Death of
James Hogg.'
'Like clouds that rake the mountain-summits,
Or waves that own no curbing hand,
How fast has brother followed brother,
From sunshine to the sunless land!
Yet I, whose lids from infant slumber
Were earlier raised, remain to hear
A timid voice, that asks in whispers,
"Who next will drop and disappear?"
In the beginning of the same year (1835),
Wordsworth published a volume entitled 'Yarrow
Revisited, and other Poems,' the tours made in
Scotland in 1831 and 1833 having suggested the
material. The collection, which was dedicated to
the poet Rogers, was commended by the London
Athenæum, the London Literary Gazette, and also by
Blackwood. Writing to Wordsworth on the 9th of
May, Southey says: 'Thank you for your new
volume, which it is needless for me to praise. It
will do good now and hereafter; more and more as
it shall be more and more widely read; and there
is no danger of its ever being laid on the shelf.'
The beautiful poems to which Wordsworth gave
the name of 'Evening Voluntaries,' were, for the
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
167
most part, composed between 1832 and 1835. In
these charming compositions, the poet appears in
all the humility and serenity of his character ;
touches of melancholy are here and there discern-
ible, but confidence and faith predominate, and the
dominant note is hope. With Wordsworth at this
time, the evening shadows of life were descending
-the day was far spent. How doubly sweet,
therefore, is it to find him penning such noble lines
as these! He is addressing the Supreme Power:
'Whatever discipline Thy will ordain
For the brief course that must for me remain;
Teach me with quick-eared spirit to rejoice
In admonitions of Thy softest voice!
Whate'er the path these mortal feet may trace,
Breathe through my soul the blessing of Thy grace,
Glad, through a perfect love, a faith sincere
Drawn from the wisdom that begins with fear,
Glad to expand; and, for a season, free
From finite cares, to rest absorbed in Thee !'
The poem from which these lines are taken was
composed on Easter Sunday, April 7, 1833, the
poet's sixty-third birthday.
In another of the 'Voluntaries,' beginning—
he says:
'Not in the lucid intervals of life,'
'Meekness is the cherished bent
Of all the truly great and all the innocent.
But who is innocent? By grace divine,
Not otherwise, O Nature! we are thine,
Through good and evil thine, in just degree
Of rational and manly sympathy.'
1
|
168
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
And, lastly, in a melodious inspiration, 'By the
Side of Rydal Mere,' he asserts:
'The wisest, happiest, of our kind are they
That ever walk content with Nature's way,
God's goodness-measuring bounty as it may ;
For whom the gravest thought of what they miss,
Chastening the fulness of a present bliss,
Is with that wholesome office satisfied,
While unrepining sadness is allied
In thankful bosoms to a modest pride.'
Those who maintain, without the slightest war-
rant, that Wordsworth's god was Nature, and that
he was Pantheistic in his belief, would do well to
note these and numberless kindred passages in his
writings, and 'read, mark, learn, and inwardly
digest them.' Not but that he did frequently, for
poetical purposes, present only the Pantheistic side
or aspect of a subject, which hosts of other poets
have done, and, no doubt, will continue to do, till
time shall be no more. But we must relegate to
the concluding chapter our further remarks on this
head.
On the 23rd of June, 1836, a heavy affliction
befell the happy household at Rydal Mount. This
was the decease of Sarah Hutchinson, Wordsworth's
sister-in-law, a person,' says his nephew, of cul-
tivated mind, sound judgment, refined taste, tender
affections, firm religious principle, and fervent
piety.' This estimable lady, whose remains were
buried in Grasmere churchyard, had long resided
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
169
beneath the poet's hospitable roof, and was
almost as dear to
been his own sister.
of persons.
•
him
as though she had
But Death is no respecter
Wordsworth was strangely sur-
viving the most of his friends, and sorrow had
long since set its sanctifying seal upon his
brow.
In March, 1837, he set out from London, to-
gether with Henry Crabb Robinson, en route for
Italy. During my whole life,' he tells us, I had
felt a strong desire to visit Rome, and the other
celebrated cities and regions of Italy.' The tra-
vellers returned in August, after a delightful excur-
sion of five months. With reference to this tour,
Henry Crabb Robinson states: 'I have been often
asked whether Mr. W. wrote anything on the
journey, and my answer has always been, "Little
or nothing." Seeds were cast into the earth, and
they took root slowly. This reminds me that I
once was privy to the conception of a sonnet, with
a distinctness which did not once occur on the
longer Italian journey. This was when I accom-
panied him into the Isle of Man. We had been
drinking tea with Mr. and Mrs. Cookson, and left
them when the weather was dull. Very soon after
leaving them we passed the church-tower of Bala
Sala [Ballasalla]. The upper part of the tower
had a sort of frieze of yellow lichens. Mr. W.
pointed it out to me, and said, "It's a perpetual
170
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
sunshine." I thought no more of it, till I read the
beautiful sonnet:
""Broken in fortune, but in mind entire."
The seeds were indeed cast into the earth; and,
although the harvest was not soon given to the
world, Wordsworth was busy in imparting poetic
life to the materials he had accumulated on his
travels.
A very important publication, which it would be
a great oversight to omit, appeared in 1838. This
was 'The Sonnets of William Wordsworth; Col-
lected in One Volume; with a Few Additional
Ones now First Published.' The work consisted
of 477 pages, octavo. 'No one, since Milton,' said
the London Literary Gazette, 'has so adorned our
language in this species of composition.' The book
was favourably reviewed in many quarters-how
could it be otherwise? Of all authors,' says Sir
Egerton Brydges, 'Wordsworth has most succeeded
in this department.' Mr. Wordsworth's sonnet,'
observes an eloquent writer, 'never goes off, as it
were, with a clap or re-percussion at the close
but is thrown up like a rocket, breaks into light,
and falls in a soft shower of brightness. To none,
indeed, of the minor forms of poetry are his powers
better adapted; there is none to which discrimina-
tion in thought, and aptitude in language, are more
essential; and there never was a poet who reached
;
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
171
so near perfection in those particulars as Mr.
Wordsworth.'
To the University of Durham, founded in 1832,
belongs the credit of having granted to the poet
the first honorary academic distinction, a D.C.L.
degree having been bestowed upon him in the
autumn of 1838; and in the summer of the follow-
ing year, the University of Oxford conferred a
similar title upon him, the Latin oration being
delivered by the Rev. John Keble, then Professor of
Poetry, who justly claimed 'that he [Wordsworth]
had shed a celestial light upon the affections, the
occupations, the piety of the poor.' The tide was
now turning rapidly in favour of Wordsworth.
Longfellow has well said that 'all things come
round to him who will but wait.' And Words-
worth had waited long and patiently for the tardy
wreaths of fame that were now and henceforth to
be freely showered upon him. As we have thought,
in penning this brief biography, of the unfavour-
able receptions accorded, in general, to the
numerous publications of Wordsworth, we have
been forcibly reminded of the pungent exclamation
of Charles Lamb, on the rejection of one of his
sonnets: 'Hang the age! I will write for Anti-
quity!' The fact is, Wordsworth was outliving
his critics, and a younger generation of admirers
was springing up about him, and in their hands.
his reputation was safe-his immortality was
172
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
assured. Jeffrey, however, was not yet dead, and
it must have been intensely disappointing to him
to find his strictures, which had checked-how
largely none can tell, the power of the Edin-
burgh Review being so tremendous-the popularity
of the poet, regarded as conclusive evidence of his
utter incapacity, and want of insight and discern-
ment, as a poetical critic. It was the good fortune
of that young but remarkable Christian minister
and philanthropist Frederick William Robertson,
during a short university career, to witness the
ceremony referred to. 'Scarcely had his name
been pronounced,' he says, 'than from three thou-
sand voices at once there broke forth a burst of
applause, echoed and taken up again and again
when it seemed about to die away, and that thrice
repeated—a cry in which
""Old England's heart and voice unite,
Whether she hail the wine cup or the fight,
Or bid each hand be strong, or bid each heart be light."
'There were young eyes there, filled with an
emotion of which they had no need to be
ashamed; there were hearts beating with the
proud feeling of triumph, that, at last, the world
had recognised the merit of the man they had
loved so long, and acknowledged as their teacher;
and yet, when that noise was protracted, there
came a reaction in their feelings, and they began
to perceive that that was not, after all, the true
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
173
reward and recompense for all that Wordsworth
had done for England: it seemed as if all that
noise was vulgarizing the poet; it seemed more
natural and desirable to think of him afar off in
his simple dales and mountains, the high-priest of
Nature, weaving in honoured poverty his songs to
liberty and truth, than to see him there clad in a
scarlet robe and bespattered with applause.'
Wordsworth was now looked upon far and wide
as the greatest living poet. For years past, the
clouds which had for so long obscured his fame
had been dispersing; and it is gratifying to re-
cord that the honours bestowed upon him by the
Universities of Durham and Oxford were but fore-
tastes of better things to come. Thus the whir-
ligig of time brings in his revenges.'
In the summer of 1840, Mrs. Sigourney, the
most charming of American poetesses, paid a visit
to Wordsworth at Rydal Mount, of which she has
given us a graphic account in her 'Pleasant Memories
of Pleasant Lands.' 'Though I had more earnestly
desired to see him,' observes this sweet singer of
the New World, 'than almost any distinguished
writer whom from early life had been admired, it
was with a degree of diffidence, amounting almost
to trepidation, that I accepted the invitation to
his house which had been left at the inn. As I
approached his lovely and unpretending habitation,
embowered with ivy and roses, I felt that to go
174
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
into the presence of Europe's loftiest crowned head
would not cost so much effort as to approach and
endeavour to converse with a king in the realm of
mind. But the kindness of his reception and that
of his family, and the unceremonious manner in
which they make a guest feel as one of them,
removed the reserve and uneasiness of a stranger's
heart.
'Wordsworth is past seventy years of age, and
has the same full, expanded brow which we see in
his busts and engravings. His conversation has
that simplicity and richness for which you are pre-
pared by his writings. He led me around his
grounds, pointing out the improvements which he
had made during the last thirty years, and the
trees, hedges, and shrubbery, which had been
planted under his direction. Snatches of the gor-
geous scenery of lake and mountain were visible
from different points; and one of the walks ter-
minated with the near view of a chapel built by his
neighbour, the Lady Elizabeth Fleming, on whose
domain are both the upper and lower falls of Rydal
Water. In this beautiful combination of woods,
cliffs, and waters, and solemn temple pointing to
the skies, we see the germ of many of his thrilling
descriptions; for his habit is to compose in the
open air. He loves the glorious scenery of his
native region, and is evidently pleased when others
admire it.
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
175
'His household consists of a wife, sister, two
sons, and a daughter. The eldest of the sons is
married, and, with a group of five children, resides
under the same roof, giving to the family a plea-
sant, patriarchal aspect. . . . It was delightful to
see so eminent a poet, thus pursuing the calm
tenor of a happy life, surrounded by all those
domestic affections and charities which his pure
lays have done so much to cherish in the hearts of
others.'
The same year came painfully nigh bringing the
prolonged existence of Wordsworth to a close. On
the 11th of November he was driving, we infer
with his servant, in a gig, and he had the ill-luck,
when about three miles beyond Keswick, on the
Ambleside road, to come into collision with a four-
in-hand coach, the driver of which was alarmingly
reckless, new to the route, and wofully inexperi-
enced. 'In consequence of this recklessness and
his want of skill,' recounts Wordsworth, 'the wheel
of his coach struck our wheel most violently, drove
back our horse and gig some yards, and then
sent us all together through a small gap in the
wall, with the stones of the wall tumbling about
us, into a plantation that lay a yard perpendicular
below the level of the road, from which the horse
and gig, with us in it, had been driven. The
shafts were broken off close to the carriage, and
we were partly thrown and partly leaped out.' It
176
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
is appalling to think what the result of this un-
fortunate accident might have been. Wordsworth
was now in his seventy-first year, and his preserva-
tion was little short of miraculous; but through
God's mercy,' he says, 'we escaped without bodily
injury, as far as I know, worth naming.'
In May, 1841, Dora, the only surviving and dar-
ling daughter of the poet, was wedded to Edward
Quillinan, son of a merchant of Oporto. Though
born at Oporto, he was educated in England, and
had long been an intense admirer of Wordsworth's
poetry. On quitting the army in 1821, he had
fixed his abode in the vale of Rydal, in order that
he might more fully enjoy his society. Mr. Quilli-
nan had been previously married to a daughter of
Sir Egerton Brydges, by whom he had two chil
dren, both girls. Some idea of the affectionate
nature and disposition of Dora Wordsworth may
be gathered from the fact that she became, on the
death of their parent, almost as a mother to the
little ones, whom she had intimately known, and
dearly loved, from infancy. After their marriage,
which was celebrated at Bath, where Wordsworth
and his family were on a visit to a friend, Mr.
Quillinan and his new bride resided in Canterbury,
and subsequently in London; but, doubtless to be
near their loved ones, they settled near Rydal in
the winter of 1843-44.
Immediately after his daughter's wedding, Words-
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
177
worth, on leaving Bath, together with his wife and
Miss Fenwick, made a notable excursion in Devon-
shire and Somersetshire, 'going,' he writes, 'by
Exeter to Plymouth, and returning along the coast
by Salisbury and Winchester to London. In
London and its neighbourhood we stayed not
quite a month. During this tour we visited my
old haunts at and about Alfoxden and Nether
Stowey, and at Coleorton, where we stayed several
days. These were farewell visits for life, and, of
course, not a little interesting.' Writing on the
20th of May, Miss Fenwick remarks: We had
two perfect days for our visit to Wells, Alfoxden,
etc. They were worthy of a page or two in the
poet's life. Forty-two years, perhaps, never passed
over any human head with more gain and less loss
than over his. There he was again, after that
long period, in the full vigour of his intellect, and
with all the fervent feelings which have accom-
panied him through life, his bodily strength little
impaired, but grey-headed, with an old wife and
not a young daughter. The thought of what his
sister, who had been his companion here, was then
and now is, seemed the only painful feeling that
moved in his mind. He was delighted to see again
those scenes (and they were beautiful in their kind)
where he had been so happy, where he had felt and
thought much. He pointed out the spots where he
had written many of his early poems, and told us
12
178
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
how they had been suggested. . . . The people in
Somersetshire know nothing of the poet. They
call him Wentworth and Wedgewood and all sorts
of names. But they are kind and hospitable, and
he likes to be met on the ground of his common
humanity.' Nothing but the enfeebled state of
Dorothy Wordsworth's health, who had now been
an invalid for five years, would have prevented her
from accompanying the party on this delightful
excursion. 'We were three months and as many
weeks absent,' says Wordsworth, 'before we
reached our own home again.'
(
It was in 1841 that Wordsworth issued his
'Sonnets upon the Punishment of Death,' in series,
composed in 1839, and first published in the Quar-
terly Review. In these animated poems the poet
urges lawgivers to beware lest, by the remission of
capital pains, they debase the general mind'; and
'an outcry, as I expected,' he writes, 'has been
raised against me by weak-minded humanitarians.'
As do so many politicians and others of our own
day, so Wordsworth, in this grave question, took
his stand on the Divine dictum : Whoso sheddeth
man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed: for
in the image of God made He man'; and though
he well knew that his opinions would be dis-
seminated throughout the length and breadth
of the country, yet, like the fearless individual
he was, he scrupled not to express them in
<
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
179
language that was as unmistakable as it was
eloquent.
>
The year 1842 was a highly important one in
the life of Wordsworth. He now sent forth a
classified collection of his works, which extended
to six octavo volumes, his poetical pieces being
arranged, according to the nature of the subjects,
under the heads of 'Poems referring to the Period
of Childhood,' 'Poems founded on the Affections,'
'Poems of the Fancy,' Poems of the Imagination,'
etc. The classification is of necessity more or less
arbitrary and unsatisfactory, and it does not seem
to commend itself to the ordinary reader, who
cannot be credited with the poetic insight which
guided the poet in thus arranging the poems. For
ourselves, we would prefer reprints, so far as the
sequence is concerned, of the several publications
of Wordsworth, giving together the contents of
each volume as it appeared, subject, of course, to
the corrections and alterations made by the author.
But failing this, the scholarly, and in every respect
most admirable edition by Professor Knight, in
which the poems are printed in the order in which
they were written, leaves nothing to be desired.
Indeed, it is doubtful whether this arrangement be
not after all the best that could be devised, enab-
ling the student, as it does, to follow more closely
the development of the poet's mind and poetical
theories; though it places him at no inconsider-
180
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
able disadvantage with regard to the reviews
accorded to the various volumes, to which we
attach, in the case of Wordsworth, more than usual
Importance. Be this as it may, Professor Knight
has well earned the gratitude of every lover of
Wordsworth, and he will assuredly go down to
posterity holding in his hand his edition of the
works of the great poet-teacher.
In this year Wordsworth also published his last
volume, entitled 'Poems: chiefly of Early and
Late Years, including the Borderers, a Tragedy.'
This publication, amongst much other matter,
included 'Guilt and Sorrow; or, Incidents on
Salisbury Plain,' and numerous compositions sug-
gested by his tour in Italy in 1837.
During the course of the year, he resigned the
appointment he had held so long-that of Distri-
butor of Stamps-in favour of his son William,
who had acted for some time as his deputy at
Carlisle. His resignation of this office implied the
sacrifice of above £500 per annum, and it is, there-
fore, all the more pleasing to learn that, towards
the close of the same year, he was awarded by the
Crown an annual grant of £300, to be paid during
his life. Sir Robert Peel, who was then Prime
Minister, in the letter in which the proposal was
announced, stated: 'I need scarcely add that the
acceptance, by you, of this mark of favour from
the Crown, considering the grounds on which it is
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
181
proposed, will impose no restraint upon your per-
fect independence, and involve no obligation of a
personal nature.' As there has been some mis-
conception with regard to the allowance thus
bestowed upon Wordsworth, some asserting that
he relinquished his appointment on a retiring pen-
sion, it remains to be positively added that the
grant in question was conferred upon him purely
in consideration of his eminent literary merit, and
had not the remotest reference to his retirement
from official life.
CHAPTER XI.
'For blessings ever wait on virtuous deeds,
And though a late, a sure reward succeeds.'
-Congreve.
Southey dies (March 21, 1843)—Wordsworth is appointed
Poet Laureate Jeffrey's Essays' republished-Is pre-
sented to the Queen (1845)-Reference to Dorothy, his
invalid sister-His brother Christopher dies (1846)-Is
nominated for the Lord Rectorship of Glasgow University
-His younger son marries (1847)-Dora Quillinan dies
(July 9, 1847) — Hartley Coleridge dies (1849) -- Daily
life at Rydal Mount Mr. Ellis Yarnall's account of the
poet's appearance-Anecdotes of Wordsworth.
On the 21st of March, 1843, Wordsworth's attached
friend Robert Southey, Poet Laureate, breathed
his last, in the sixty-ninth year of his age. He
had never fully recovered the loss he sustained in
the death of his beloved wife, Edith, which occurred
in 1837, after some years of mental and bodily
affliction. His subsequent marriage with Caroline
Bowles, which was, in a measure, rendered neces-
sary, proved a trying and melancholy one for her,
the mind of the indefatigable poet, biographer,
historian, and miscellaneous writer, which had
throughout his prolonged literary career been
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
183
'Then,'
seriously overtaxed, soon afterwards becoming a
complete wreck. The three closing years of his
life were passed in a most deplorable condition.
'His dearly-prized books,' says his son, were a
pleasure to him almost to the end, and he would
walk slowly round his library looking at them, and
taking them down mechanically.' Three years
before his death, he had failed to recognise Words-
worth till he was told who his visitor was.
relates Wordsworth, 'his eyes flashed for a moment
with their former brightness, but he sank into the
state in which I had found him, patting with both
hands his books affectionately, like a child. Having
attempted in vain to interest him by a few obser-
vations, I took my leave, after five minutes or so.
It was, for me, a mournful visit, and for his poor
wife also. His health is good, and he may live
many years; though the body is much enfeebled.'
Alas, poor Southey! Well might those who saw
him, exclaim,
'O, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown !'
But, as the same immortal bard says,
'Men must endure their going hence,
Even as their coming hither.'
C
Death, however, at length arrived with friendly
care,' and closed the painful scene; and the remains
of this great and remarkable man-who had been
'doing his duty for fifty noble years of labour;
184
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
day by day storing up learning; day by day work-
ing for scant wages; most charitable out of his
small means; bravely faithful to the calling which
he had chosen; refusing to turn from his path for
popular praise or prince's favour' were, on a
stormy, wet morning, consigned to their last resting-
place in the beautiful old churchyard of Crosth-
waite. The aged Wordsworth and his son-in-law,
Edward Quillinan, who had come all the way from
Rydal, were, it is stated, the only strangers pre-
sent. The tombstone bears the following record:
HERE LIES THE BODY OF
ROBERT SOUTHEY, LL.D.,
POET LAUREATE ;
BORN AUGUST 12, 1774;
DIED MARCH 21, 1843;
FOR FORTY YEARS A RESIDENT IN THIS PARISH.
ALSO, OF
EDITH, HIS WIFE;
BORN MAY 20, 1774;
DIED Nov. 16, 1837.'
An imposing full-length recumbent effigy of the
poet, in white marble, by the sculptor Lough, is
to be found within the church. This handsome
memorial, which was erected by public subscrip-
tion, is graced on the base by a fitting poetical in-
scription from the pen of Wordsworth. The epi-
taph is included in his poems.
On the death of Southey, the laurel was rightly
bestowed upon Wordsworth. The stricken poet—
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
185
he was now verging on seventy-four-at first
entertained great scruples with regard to the pro-
priety of accepting the honour, and he begged
permission to decline it. The offer, however, which
had been conveyed in graceful terms by the Lord
Chamberlain, with the hearty concurrence of Sir
Robert Peel, and, above all, with the gracious ap-
proval of the Queen, was pressed upon him; and
on his being assured that nothing would be required
from him, and that it was made in order to pay
him that tribute of respect which was justly due
to the first of living poets,' he cheerfully accepted
the distinction—
"That wreath which in Eliza's golden days
divinest Spenser wore.
>
As might be expected, he composed but little
after this period. Indeed, with but one exception,
when he wrote his 'Ode on the Installation of
Prince Albert at Cambridge,' published in quarto
in 1847, he does not appear to have sounded the
lyre in the capacity of Laureate. But he had, in
all justice, already written enough, and that of a
quality such as the world will not willingly let die ;
and it may without exaggeration be stated that if
ever a man was worthy of the laurel, that man was
William Wordsworth.
In the following year, Jeffrey republished a selec-
tion of his Essays' contributed to the Edinburgh
186
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
Review; and, in doing so, he included but two
critiques on Wordsworth-those on 'The Excur-
sion' and 'The White Doe of Rylstone'-to the
first of which he subjoined a note, in which he
acknowledged his love for many of the attributes
of the poet's genius, and the respect he bore to his
character.
In the Diary, etc., of Henry Crabb Robinson, we
are told that 'Empson says he believed Jeffrey's
distaste for Wordsworth to be honest-mere un-
congeniality of mind.' It was clearly not in the
natural order of things that such a critic should sit
in judgment on Wordsworth, and weigh him in the
balances. His strictures, therefore, must be taken,
as they long have been, for what they are worth.
The words of dear old Izaak Walton, in the pre-
face to his immortal 'Angler,' may not inaptly be
applied to Jeffrey: 'If thou be a severe, sour-com-
plexioned man, then I here disallow thee to be a
competent judge.' Charles Lamb had, admittedly,
no ear for music; however valuable, therefore, his
opinions on literature might be, he never could
have posed as a capable musical critic.
In 1845 the venerable Laureate was presented
to the Queen, by whom it need scarcely be said he
was most graciously received. It was an affecting
sight to see the grey-haired poet kneeling in a large
assembly to kiss the hand of the Sovereign, and one
lady was so moved that she shed tears on the occasion.
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
187
(
Wordsworth now found himself on the full tide
of popularity; and he had long since ensured a
niche in the Temple of Fame. Though the applause
came slowly, yet it was not too late, and the veteran
poet-almost the last of the great bards of the
earlier half of the century-'bore his blushing
honours thick upon him,' and he was regarded on
every side, not only as an inspired medium, but
also as a prophet, commissioned to reveal Divine
truths to Man. Writing at about this time, De
Quincey states: Forty-and-seven years it is since
William Wordsworth first appeared as an author.
Twenty of those years he was the scoff of the world,
and his poetry a byword of scorn. Since then, and
more than once, senates have rung with acclama-
tions to the echo of his name. Now, at this
moment, whilst we are talking about him, he has
entered upon his seventy-sixth year. For himself,
according to the course of nature, he cannot be far
from his setting; but his poetry is but now clearing
the clouds that gathered about its rising. Medi-
tative poetry is, perhaps, that which will finally
maintain most power upon generations more
thoughtful; and in this department, at least, there
is little competition to be apprehended by Words-
worth from anything that has appeared since the
death of Shakespeare.'
It was in advanced age that Wordsworth penned
the following noble and touching words to Aubrey
188
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
de Vere: 'It is indeed a deep satisfaction to hope
and believe that my poetry will be, while it lasts,
a help to the cause of virtue and truth, especially
among the young. As for myself, it seems now of
little moment how long I may be remembered.
When a man pushes off in his little boat into the
great seas of infinity and eternity, it surely signifies
little how long he is kept in sight by watchers
from the shore.'
In January, 1846, the aged Laureate forwarded
to the Royal Library at Windsor Castle a copy of
his poems, inscribing the same in appropriate verse
to the Sovereign.
The last few years of Wordsworth's prolonged
life were deeply embittered by sorrow. Writing
on the 23rd of January, 1846, to his esteemed
friend Professor Reed, he says: My only sur-
viving brother, also the late Master of Trinity
College, Cambridge, and an inestimable person, is
in an alarming state of health; and the only child
of my eldest brother, long since deceased, is now
languishing under mortal illness at Ambleside.'
His sister Dorothy had been a confirmed invalid
since 1836. Never very strong, this sprightly
creature had grievously overtaxed her strength in
early life, when she was the constant companion of
the poet in his rambles over hill and dale, heedless
of distance, in all kinds of weather. Body and
mind not unfrequently suffer together, and it was
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
189
so in her case.
With regard to this distinguished
lady, William Howitt observes: 'The mind of that
beloved sister has for many years gone, as it were,
before her, and she lives on in a second infancy,
gratefully cherished in the poet's home.' And
Principal Shairp feelingly remarks: It is sad to
think that when the world at last knew him
(Wordsworth) for what he was, the great original
poet of the century, she who had helped to make
him so was almost past rejoicing in it.' Sad in-
deed was it. It was the will of Providence, how-
ever, that she should survive the one to whom
she had been all that the most loving and sym-
pathetic of sisters could be, and probably more than
any sister had ever been to a brother. It was not
until January, 1855, nearly five years after the
poet's death, that
'God released her of her pain;
And then she went away,
to regain, as who can question? the brother of her
love, and the many friends who had been removed
before her.
On the 2nd of February, 1846, the poet's only
surviving brother, Christopher Wordsworth, D.D.,
the author of Ecclesiastical Biography,' several
volumes of sermons, and other works, died, in his
seventy-second year, and was buried at Buxted,
Sussex, of which parish he had been rector since
his retirement from Cambridge.
190
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
Towards the close of the year, the poet, un-
known to himself, was put in nomination for the
Lord Rectorship of the University of Glasgow, and
it is specially interesting to learn that there was a
majority of twenty-one votes in his favour. The
forms of the election, however,' writes Wordsworth,
allowed Lord John Russell to be returned, through
the single vote of the sub-rector voting for his
superior. To say the truth, I am glad of this re-
sult; being too advanced in life to undertake with
comfort any considerable public duty, and it might
have seemed ungracious to decline the office.'
Early in 1847, on the 20th of January, the poet's
younger son, William, was married to the youngest
daughter of Reginald Graham, the ceremony taking
place at Brighton, where the bride and her family
resided.
On the 9th of July, in the same year, to the un-
utterable grief of Wordsworth, his dearly-beloved
daughter, Dora Quillinan, was no more. Her
health had been far from satisfactory for some
years, and in the spring of 1845 her husband took
her to Portugal and Spain for change of scene and
air. The benefit derived from the visit, which, at
first, was considerable, proved not to be lasting;
and in the summer of 1847 the crisis occurred.
The poet's nephew beautifully says: 'She knew
that her end was near, and she looked steadily and
calmly at it. None of her natural courage and
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
191
buoyancy failed her, and it was invigorated and
elevated by faith. She gradually declined, and at
length her spirit departed, and she fell asleep in
peace.' She was laid to rest in Grasmere church-
yard. Some conception of the magnitude of the
trial experienced by her aged parents on her death,
may be inferred from the poet's utterances at this
period. We bear up,' he writes, under our
affliction as well as God enables us to do. But,
oh! my dear friend, our loss is immeasurable.
God bless you and yours.' And, again, nearly six
months after the event, he says: 'Our sorrow, I
feel, is for life; but God's will be done! It was
to be for life; but it was not to be for long.
That the marriage of his darling daughter must
have been a fearful wrench to Wordsworth's feel-
ings, notwithstanding his deep attachment to her
accomplished husband, is readily apparent from the
remarks of Sir Henry Taylor. 'His love for his
only daughter,' observes Sir Henry, ' was passion-
ately jealous, and the marriage which was indis-
pensable to her peace and happiness was intolerable
to his feelings. The emotions-I may say the
throes and agonies of emotion-he underwent were
such as an old man could not have endured with-
out suffering in health, had he not been a very
strong old man. But he was like nobody else—
old or young. He would pass the night, or most
part of it, in struggles and storms, to the moment
192
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
of coming down to breakfast; and then, if strangers
were present, be as easy and delightful in conver-
sation as if nothing was the matter. But if his
own health did not suffer, his daughter's did, and
this consequence of his resistance, mainly aided, I
believe, by the temperate but persistent pressure
exercised by Miss Fenwick, brought him at length,
though far too tardily, to consent to the mar-
riage.'
Henceforth, though the year before his daughter's
decease he composed some few pieces, the harp of
Wordsworth remained almost incessantly silent.
'At his daughter's death,' says Sir Henry, further,
'a silence, as of death, fell upon him; and though
during the interval between her death and his
own his genius was not at all times incapable of
its old animation, I believe it never broke again
into song."
The death of Hartley Coleridge, the eldest son
of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, took place on the 6th
of January, 1849, and his remains were interred at
Grasmere, but a few yards behind the graves of the
Wordsworths, to whom he was sincerely attached.
Wordsworth himself chose the spot; and it is said
that he remarked: 'Let him lie by us; he would
have wished it.' And he added to the sexton :
'Keep the ground for us-we are old people, and
it cannot be for long.' The lover of Wordsworth
will be reminded of the memorable lines addressed
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
193
'To H. C., Six Years Old,' in which the poet pro-
phetically exclaims :
'O blessed vision! happy child !
Thou art so exquisitely wild,
I think of thee with many fears
For what may be thy lot in future years.
Endowed with a large measure of the genius of his
more illustrious father, Hartley Coleridge greatly
distinguished himself as a Fellow of Oriel College,
Oxford; but it is sad to relate that, starting aside
like a broken bow, he forfeited the distinction
chiefly owing to his intemperate habits, which
clung to him through life. His literary career in
London proved unsuccessful for the same reason,
as did also his essay as a schoolmaster at Amble-
side. Unstable as water, he could not hope to
excel; and his premature death in his fifty-third
year should prove an unmistakable warning to
others. Still, with all his faults, he possessed a
delightful, amiable disposition, which endeared
him to many. His love for children was extra-
ordinary, and he could scarcely pass a child on the
road without passionately taking it in his arms.
'With hair white as snow,' he had, as has been
well observed, 'a heart as green as May.'
In addition to his poems, he wrote several im
portant works, besides contributing to magazine
literature; but it is as a sonnet-writer that he will
be longest remembered. His sonnets rank amongst
13
194
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
the very finest in the language, many of them being
gems of purest ray serene,' which are to be met
with in every judicious anthology of this charming
form of composition. Bearing in mind the sin to
which he was, alas ! so prone, we attach a peculiar
value to the exquisite sonnet on 'Prayer,' which
closes with these noble words:
'Pray to be perfect, though material leaven
Forbid the spirit so on earth to be;
But if for any wish thou darest not pray,
Then pray to God to cast that wish away.'
After all his failures and disappointments, how-
ever, he sleeps calmly enough now; and many an
admirer of his genius and amiability of character
has been deeply affected by reading the inscription
on the tombstone of 'the poor inhabitant below':
'BY THY CROSS AND PASSION GOOD LORD DELIVER US.
HARTLEY COLERIDGE,
BORN SEPT. 19TH, A.D. 1796;
DECEASED JAN. 6TH, A.D. 1849.'
The sun of Wordsworth's day was now rapidly
setting. Although his early literary life had been
far from prosperous, yet the tide, as we have seen,
had long since turned,
' And that which should accompany old age,
As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends,'
he had looked for, and received in abundance.
With the exception of the profound sorrow he ex-
perienced on the removal of so many of his friends,
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
195
his later years were indeed happy and serene—
infinitely more so than in the case of most writers.
As virtue is its own reward, so the lot of the poet
was, in a manner, bound to be exceptional. There
is something touching and inspiring in the sight of
a vessel that has long been the sport of the waves
and the tempests, at length arriving safely and
peacefully at the end of her voyage, and entering
the haven where she would be; and the public
career of Wordsworth furnishes a striking analogy
in these respects. Henceforth there is but little
to chronicle, his daily life having been, to a large
extent, uneventful. In 1847, the period of my
last visit,' writes his nephew, 'the course was as
follows: The hour at which the family assembled
in the morning was eight. The day began with
prayers, as it ended. The form of prayer used was
that compiled from the English and American
Liturgies, by Dr. Hook. An intercessory prayer
was used for Miss Wordsworth, who was disabled
by sickness from being present. After breakfast
the lessons of the day (morning and evening) were
read, and also the Psalms. Dinner was at two.
The final meal was at seven or eight. The in-
tervals between these meals were filled by walking,
writing, reading, and conversation.'
In the summer of 1849, Mr. Ellis Yarnall, of
Philadelphia, visited the patriarchal poet with a
letter of introduction from Professor Henry Reed,
13-2
196
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
of America, who, it must be recorded, was one of
the poet's most esteemed friends and correspond-
ents, and he has given us a highly interesting and
important account of his interview, from which we
extract an accurate portrait of Wordsworth, who
was then in his eightieth year. We possess no
later description of equal value. Mr. Yarnall says:
'In a few minutes, however, I heard steps in the
entry, the door was opened, and Wordsworth came
in, it could be no other—a tall figure, a little bent
with age, his hair thin and grey, and his face
deeply wrinkled. . . . The expression of his coun-
tenance was sad, mournful I might say; he seemed
one on whom sorrow pressed heavily. . . . His
mind, happily, retained its clearness, though his
body was decaying. . . His eyes, though not
glistening, had yet in them the fire which be-
tokened the greatness of his genius. This no
painter could represent, and this it was which gave
to his countenance its high intellectual expression.
I felt that his honoured life was drawing
rapidly to a close, and with him there was evi-
dently the same consciousness. . . . No word of
unkindness had fallen from him. He seemed to
be living as if in the presence of God, by habitual
recollection. A strange feeling, almost of awe,
had impressed me while I was thus with him.'
And now, before the curtain rises on the last act
of the drama of the poet's life, let us pause for a
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
197
}
few brief moments, and listen to one or two anec-
dotes, which give us glimpses of Wordsworth as he
was in company. The space at our disposal greatly
limits our selection.
'At a friend's house, after dinner, the conversa-
tion turned upon wit and humour. The author of
"Lalla Rookh," who was present, gave some illus-
trations from Sheridan's "sayings, doings, and
writings." Starting from his reverie, Wordsworth
said that he did not consider himself to be a witty
poet; "indeed," continued he, "I do not think I
was ever witty but once in my life."
'A great desire was naturally expressed by all to
know what this special drollery was.
'After some hesitation, the old poet said:
6.66
Well, well, I will tell you. I was standing some
time ago at the entrance of my cottage at Rydal
Mount. A man accosted me with the question :
6 66 6
CCC
'Pray, sir, have you seen my wife pass by?'
Whereupon I said :
Why, my good friend, I didn't know till this
moment that you had a wife!' "
The company stared, and, finding that the old
bard had discharged his entire stock, burst into a
roar of laughter, which the facetious Wordsworth,
in his simplicity, accepted as a genuine compliment
to the brilliancy of his wit.'
We are indebted to Cottle for an amusing story,
which is to be found in his life of Coleridge.
198
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
'I led my horse to the stable,' he writes, 'where
a sad perplexity arose. I removed the harness
without difficulty; but after many strenuous at-
tempts I could not remove the collar. In despair,
I called for assistance, when Mr. Wordsworth
brought his ingenuity into exercise; but after
several unsuccessful efforts, he relinquished the
achievement as a thing altogether impracticable.
Mr. Coleridge now tried his hand, but showed no
more skill than his predecessors; for, after twisting
the poor horse's neck almost to strangulation and
the great danger of his eyes, he gave up the useless
task, pronouncing that the horse's head must have
grown since the collar was put on; for he said,
"it was a downright impossibility for such a huge
os frontis to pass through so narrow an aperture."
Just at this instant a servant-girl came near, and
understanding the cause of our consternation,
"Ha! master!" said she, "you don't go about the
work in the right way. You should do like this,"
when, turning the collar upside down, she slipped
it off in a moment, to our great humiliation and
wonderment, each satisfied afresh that there were
heights of knowledge in the world to which we
had not yet attained.'
Barry Cornwall, in his delightful 'Memoir' of
Charles Lamb, observes:
'Once, at a morning visit, I heard him [Words-
worth] give an account of his having breakfasted
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199
in company with Coleridge, and allowed him to
expatiate to the extent of his lungs.
(6
""How could you permit him to go on and
weary himself ?" said Rogers. Why, you are to
meet him at dinner this evening !"
"Yes," replied Wordsworth; "I know that
very well; but we like to take the sting out of
him beforehand."
Wordsworth was dearly attached to Lamb,
whose demeanour to the great poet, says Barry
Cornwall, was 'almost respectful.' But Lamb,
'the frolic and the gentle,' was a whimsical fellow,
and there were occasions when, in the mirthfulness
of his disposition, he forgot himself. Leigh Hunt
states that, meeting Wordsworth one evening at a
friend's house, Lamb, instead of taking the poet's
hand in the good, old-fashioned, orthodox way,
shook him by the nose, with the greeting, 'How
d'ye do, old Lake Poet? The contrast between
the conduct of the grave and solemn Wordsworth
and that of the humorous Lamb, was about as
wide as it is possible to imagine, and there is,
perhaps, a sly hint at the gravity of the former
conveyed in the following lines, addressed by
Lamb to the poet: 'Some d-d people have
come in,' he writes, and I must finish abruptly.
By d――d, I only mean deuced.'
'Wordsworth and myself,' said Rogers, 'had
walked to Highgate to call on Coleridge, when he
200
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
was living at Dr. Gillman's. We sat with him
two hours; he talking the whole time without
intermission. When we left the house, we walked
for some time without speaking.
""What a wonderful man he is!" exclaimed
Wordsworth.
""Wonderful indeed,” said I.
"What depth of thought! what richness of
expression!" continued Wordsworth.
“There's nothing like him that ever I heard,”
rejoined I.
(Another pause.)
"Pray," inquired Wordsworth, "did you pre-
cisely understand what he said about the Kantian
philosophy?"
"Rogers: "Not precisely."
'Wordsworth: "Or about the plurality of
worlds?"
"Rogers: "I can't say I did. In fact, if the
truth must out, I didn't understand a syllable
from one end of his monologue to the other."
'Wordsworth: "No more did I."'
6
Poor Coleridge! They fooled thee to the top
of thy bent.'
CHAPTER XII.
"'Tis less than to be born; a lasting sleep;
A quiet resting from all jealousy ;
A thing we all pursue. I know besides,
It is but giving over of a game
That must be lost.'
-Beaumont and Fletcher.
Wordsworth attends Divine Service at Rydal Chapel for the
last time (March 10, 1850)-Is taken ill two days later,
and dies in his eighty-first year (April 23, 1850)—Is
interred in Grasmere Churchyard-Inscription on his
tombstone-Text of tablet in the church.
WE are now approaching the close of our self-
appointed task; and but little remains to be
added.
Wordsworth was now an old man, with long
locks of silvery hair; and, like the aged Simeon,
he was about to 'depart in peace.' He had been
through life blessed with unusually good health,
and he had scarcely ever known a day's illness.
His chest, however, does not appear to have been
very robust, and his writing-desk, he says, was to
him 'a place of punishment.'
The words of Shakespeare, put into the mouth
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WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
of the faithful Adam, in 'As You Like It,' were
peculiarly applicable to him:
'Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty;
For in my youth I never did apply
Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood;
Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo
The means of weakness and debility;
Therefore my age is as a lusty winter,
Frosty, but kindly.'
'It is appointed unto men once to die,' however,
and Wordsworth's final hour had well-nigh come.
He had passed his seventy-ninth, and had nearly
completed his eightieth year, when, on Sunday,
the 10th of March, 1850, he attended Divine Ser-
vice at Rydal Chapel, as was his wont, for the last
time. Two days afterwards he walked towards
Grasmere, to meet his two nieces,' says his
nephew, 'who were coming from Town End. He
called at the cottage near the White Moss quarry,
and, the occupant not being within, he sat down
on the stone seat of the porch to watch the setting
sun. It was a cold, bright evening. His friend
and neighbour, Mr. Roughsedge, came to drink
tea at Rydal; but Mr. Wordsworth, not being
well, went early to bed.' It was the beginning of
the end.
This was on the 12th of March; and on the
14th the patient complained of pain. Medical
advice was obtained from Ambleside. He gra-
dually grew worse, however, and a few days after-
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203
wards the symptoms became more serious. The
throat, chest, and pleura, were affected. On Sun-
day, the 7th of April, he attained his eightieth
year, and prayer was twice offered on his behalf in
Rydal Chapel.
For weeks the Angel of Death, with his ebon
wings, kept hovering over the picturesque abode
of the poet, dressed in the beauty of the early
spring, soon, alas! to be the house of mourning.
In the 'Notes' on his transcendent 'Ode on the
Intimations of Immortality,' supplied by the poet,
he says: 'I used to brood over the stories of
Enoch and Elijah, and almost to persuade myself
that, whatever might become of others, I should
be translated in something of the same way to
heaven.' This was uttered without any tinge of
vanity. And now, as the end drew nearer day by
day, who can doubt that the chariot and the
horses of fire,' albeit invisible to mortal eye, were
in waiting?
On the 20th of the month, the dying poet
received the Holy Communion, and on or about
this day,' observes his nephew, 'Mrs. Wordsworth,
with a view of letting him know what the opinion
of his medical advisers was concerning his case,
said gently to him, "William, you are going to
Dora." He made no reply at the time, and the
words seemed to have passed unheeded; indeed,
it was not certain that they had been even heard.
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WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
More than twenty-four hours afterwards one of
his nieces came into the room, and was drawing
aside the curtain of his chamber, and then, as if
awakening from a quiet sleep, he said, “Is that
Dora ?"
At length, on the 23rd of the month-the anni-
versary of St. George, the patron saint of England,
and of Shakespeare's birth and death-the spirit
of the distinguished bard passed away to its
eternal rest. 'God's finger touched him, and he
slept.' Verily, a great man and a prince had that
day fallen---Wordsworth was dead!
The highest authority tells us that, when the
Divine Exemplar died, the veil of the temple
was rent in twain from the top to the bottom;
and the earth did quake, and the rocks rent; and
the graves were opened; and many bodies of the
saints which slept arose, and came out of the
graves after His resurrection, and went into the
holy city, and appeared unto many.'
And, in his noble play of 'Hamlet,' Shakespeare
makes one of his characters say:
'In the most high and palmy state of Rome,
A little ere the mightiest Julius fell,
The graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted dead
Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets.'
We are not, in general, inclined to believe in
the supernatural, but we are still less disposed to
deny the occurrence of events which are sufficiently
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205
attested, merely because they come not within the
scope of our philosophy. With regard to the death
of Wordsworth, we are not told that even the
ominous raven croaked. But surely it requires
little stretch of the imagination to apply the fol-
lowing verses to the eminent prince of song when
summoned from the scenes he loved so passing
well:
'And when at length the poet died,
All Nature mourned and hushed her lute;
Even the very birds were mute,
And every gentle zephyr sighed.
Each floweret filled its brilliant eye
With dewy tears, and bowed its head;
The sun, dejected, scarcely shed
A gleam of sunshine in the sky.
And in the mountain glens, the wind
Chanted a requiem soft and slow,
And, moaning sadly to and fro,
Among the rugged passes, pined.
Like human mourners stood the trees,
In silence shrouded and in gloom;
Like weepers round an open tomb,
O'ercome with flooding memories.
For one (( was not " whose death had cast
A cloud of sadness o'er the land
And all could see and understand
A mighty power away had passed.
;
And those who loved his verse in life
Found still a greater sweetness there;
Saw it in its perfection rare,
And fed upon its beauties rife.
And tho' to Mother Earth resigned,
He did not die, though low he lies;
The bard immortal never dies,
But lives in hearts he leaves behind.
1
206
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
And thus he won a deathless name
That Time himself can ne'er efface
From off the bead-roll of his race,
And honour in the Hall of Fame.'
The entry in the journal kept by Mr. Quillinan,
which chronicles the poet's decease, is as follows:
'Mr. Wordsworth breathed his last calmly, passing
away almost insensibly, exactly at twelve o'clock,
while the cuckoo-clock was striking the hour.'
Death is the crown of life :
Were death denied, poor men would live in vain ;
Were death denied, to live would not be life;
Were death denied, e'en fools would wish to die.'
Popular as Wordsworth had been during his
declining years, he was destined to become yet
more noted; and the circle of his renown is still
more and more increasing. Where, during his
lifetime, he was read by tens, it is no exaggeration
to assert that he is now read by hundreds. Death
did for him what it has done for countless others;
it widely 'opened the gate of fame, and shut the
gate of envy after it.' He had spent a long, useful,
and most honourable career, 'wearing the white
flower of a blameless life'; and may we not say, in
the fullest sense of the words: 'He being dead,
yet speaketh'?
His remains were lovingly committed to the
earth, near those of his children, on Saturday, the
27th of April, in the secluded green churchyard of
Grasmere, in presence of a large and deeply-
impressed assemblage of persons. No poet, per-
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
207
haps, ever slept his long last sleep in a lovelier
spot, and it is, in his case, peculiarly interesting to
know that he himself selected it, and planted the
sombre yew-tree that overshadows his grave. As
one imbibes the beauty of this Silent City of the
Dead and of its magnificent natural surroundings,
it is easy to understand in some measure the
fanciful expression of Shelley: 'It might make one
in love with death, to think one would be buried
in so sweet a place.' The tombstone, which is of
the simplest and most unpretentious character,
now bears the following inscriptions :
'William Wordsworth.
1850.
Mary Wordsworth.
1859.'
The majestic verse of Milton on Shakespeare,
with the name of Wordsworth substituted for that
of the great poet of all time, will at once suggest
itself to every poetical reader:
'What needs my "Wordsworth," for his honoured bones,
The labour of an age in pilèd stones?
Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid
Under a star-ypointing pyramid?'
His own prophecy,' says his nephew, 'in the
lines,
""Sweet flower! belike one day to have
A place upon thy Poet's grave,
I welcome thee once more,
""
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WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
is now fulfilled. He desired no splendid tomb in
a public mausoleum. He reposes, according to his
own wish, beneath the green turf, among the dales-
men of Grasmere, under the sycamores and yews of
a country churchyard, by the side of a beautiful
stream, amid the mountains which he loved; and
a solemn voice seems to breathe from his grave,
which blends its tones in sweet and holy harmony
with the accents of his poetry, speaking the lan-
guage of humility and love, of adoration and faith,
and preparing the soul, by a religious exercise of
the kindly affections, and by a devout contempla-
tion of natural beauty, for translation to a purer,
and nobler, and more glorious state of existence,
and for a fruition of heavenly felicity.' No utter-
ance could be more appropriate than this.
In the interior of the church, where for so many
years the poet had been a worshipper, an elegant
marble tablet is to be seen, which bears, above a
striking medallion, the accompanying eloquent
tribute from the graceful pen of Keble, author of
the well-known 'Christian Year':
To the Memory of
William Wordsworth,
a true philosopher and poet,
who, by the special gift and calling of Almighty
God, whether he discoursed on Man or Nature,
failed not to lift up the heart to holy things, tired
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
209
not of maintaining the cause of the poor and
simple; and so, in perilous times was raised up to
be a chief minister, not only of noblest poesy, but
of high and sacred truth.
This Memorial
is placed here by his friends and neighbours
in testimony of respect, affection,
and gratitude.
Anno MDCCCLI.'
The stranger who visits for the first time the
churchyard among the mountains, needs no guide
to conduct him to the poet's lowly grave, a well-
trodden footpath leading to the sacred spot, which
has since become a shrine where thousands upon
thousands resort to muse in silence over the re-
mains of all that was mortal of the great and
illustrious departed, and to pay their adoration to
the undying memory of him-their teacher and
friend-who is so near and dear to many of their
hearts, and who, to his everlasting honour, ' uttered
nothing base,' but rather, in his own exalted
language,
'Made us heirs
Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays.'
Such, in brief, was the life of Wordsworth. It
forms no part of our study to deduce any lessons or
moral from it-this we leave the reader to do for
himself. The history of such a man, if perused in
14
210
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
a proper spirit, cannot fail to impress itself, and
make itself felt, upon every thinking mind.
'Biography,' says Carlyle, 'is the most universally
pleasant, universally profitable of all reading.'
And Longfellow, with a masterly hand, strikes a
true note, in his 'Psalm of Life,' when he sings:
'Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.'
CHAPTER XIII.
'The conclusion of the whole matter.'
-Ecclesiastes.
On Wordsworth's Poetry.
WE are now to make a few critical observations on
Wordsworth's poetry. And what can we say that
has not already been said, and that, too, over and
over again? Shakespeare tells us that
'To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,
To throw a perfume on the violet,
To smooth the ice, or add another hue
Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light
To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish,
Is wasteful and ridiculous excess."
As we are confessedly amongst the rapidly-in-
creasing number of those that regard the poetry of
Wordsworth as 'refined gold,' our object in this
chapter is not so much to 'gild,' as to refer, how-
ever briefly and imperfectly, to some of the most
notable qualities and characteristics of the ines-
timable mass of poetic treasure he has for ever
bequeathed to posterity.
14-2
212
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
The
The poems of Wordsworth may be roughly
divided into three comprehensive classes :-Lyrical
Poems, Sonnets, and Blank Verse Compositions.
And it may be premised, at the outset, that his
poetry, great as is its excellence, is, on first acquaint-
ance, by no means as attractive as that of many
other poets; yet the more intimate our knowledge
of it becomes, the more it grows upon us.
same may be alleged of some of our grand cathe-
drals, the external appearance of which gives little
promise of the magnificence and delight to be
found within the sacred edifices. Wordsworth, as
we have stated, is not at first sight prepossessing.
There are some lines in 'A Poet's Epitaph' which,
by a general consensus of opinion, have been ap-
plied to him by his admirers and critics, as aptly
describing his character and disposition:
'He is retired as noontide dew,
Or fountain in a noon-day grove ;
And you must love him, ere to you
He will seem worthy of your love.
The outward shows of sky and earth,
Of hill and valley, he has viewed ;
And impulses of deeper birth
Have come to him in solitude.'
His poetic work is not of the sentimental, con-
fectionary style of Tom Moore, but, on the con-
trary, it is good, pure, and wholesome. There is
body and there is life in it; and we feel as we turn
over the pages that we are not so much gathering

THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
213
honey, as laying up a store of more solid, palatable,
and lasting food-a food that will not cloy. To
ourselves it is, and long has been,
'A perpetual feast of nectared sweets,
Where no crude surfeit reigns.'
There are no tinsel accessories in Wordsworth.
All meretricious ornaments, and hackneyed epi-
thets and phraseology, he discarded, as beneath
the dignity of his art. He broke away from the
house of bondage in which so many of the poets
that preceded him had, for so prolonged a period,
been confined as willing prisoners, and he struck
out for a terra nova in poetry—a land of truth and
liberty. He had, in a pre-eminent degree, what
every man that is worth his salt must possess-
the courage of his opinions, and he did not fail to
exercise it, though his persistence in introducing a
reform in literature drew upon him-as it always
will-during an extended course of years, the
'envy, hatred, and malice, and all uncharitable-
ness' of poetical criticism. But he turned neither
to the left hand nor to the right. In the beautiful
language of the poet Gray,
Along the cool sequestered vale of life,
He kept the noiseless tenor of his way';
regardless alike of the perverted judgments of his
critics, and of the chilling receptions accorded to
volume after volume of his poems by the misguided
14
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
republic of letters. He did not conform to the
tenets of his reviewers, and by slow degrees he
had the heart-felt pleasure and satisfaction of
finding the literary world coming round to his way
of thinking. He was a sufferer, if ever there was
one, for the truth; and he might fittingly have
appropriated as his motto, magna est veritas, et
prevalebit.' He was too near the contemporaries
of his third, fourth, and fifth decades to be appre-
ciated at his proper value; but, as time rolled on,
a new generation of unprejudiced readers sprang
up, and then-but not till then-it was that he
was accepted as a poetical king by the motley
multitude of his readers. It is with a great man
as with a lofty and imposing mountain; to see
either in all the fulness of its glory, the spectator
should not be too close, remembering that no writer
ever uttered a more striking thought than Camp-
bell when he sang that 'distance lends enchant-
ment to the view.' However paradoxical it may
appear, the poet who would live, alas! must die.
At all events, death to the bard is the surest path
to immortality. There is a certain modicum of
truth in the proverb, 'Familiarity breeds contempt';
and there is, unfortunately and ungenerously, a
tendency to undervalue the illustrious during their
natural lives. It is possible to be too near the
light; and we often travel far to seek that which
is to be found at our very feet. The growth of
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
215
Wordsworth in public estimation has been not
unlike that of the oak-slow but sure; and it now
certainly needs no prophet, nor the son of a pro-
phet, to predict that many of his poems will perish
only with the wreck of the language in which they
are so nobly enshrined. As in the case of Shake-
speare, 'he was not of an age, but for all time,' to
quote 'rare Ben Jonson'; and his poetry, in
general at least, is destined to live. Of much of
his work we can truly say that
C
Age cannot wither it, nor custom stale
Its infinite variety.'
It is now some forty years since Wordsworth
passed beyond the reach of earthly praise or cen-
sure, and all narrow jealousy and prejudice being
removed, and all false criticism shrouded in ob-
livion, we can see the poet as he lived-the full
measure of the man is revealed to us.
We have said that Wordsworth's poetry may be
divided into three classes. We will take his
Lyrical Poems first. The intelligent reader who
desires to see the difference between the lyrical
verse of Wordsworth and that of his predecessors,
has only to compare the two. The result will be
a manifest contrast. We do not think, however,
that the healthy reform in English poetry was
accomplished solely by Wordsworth. Thomson,
Cowper, Burns, and Crabbe, before him, had done
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WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
much to break away from the trammels of the
artificial style of poetry, with its common-place,
second-hand imagery and description, and turgidity
of expression; but although pioneers-and worthy
ones too of Wordsworth, they had not worked
precisely in the same way. They were poets of a
very dissimilar order. Wordsworth, as a poet,
stands peculiarly alone. "None but himself can
be his parallel.' It was reserved for him to cleanse
the Augean stable of English poetry, and this he
effected, with signal success, by the aid of the
mighty rivers of simplicity, purity, and truth. In
his hands, poetry became a different art altogether;
and long before his death he might justly have
said: The former things are passed away.' It is
not too much, but rather a great deal too little, to
say that no man, whether painter or poet, either
before or since his time, saw so much in Nature,
or invested it with such intense life and spirituality,
as Wordsworth. While his youthful contemporary
Keats that divine poet of poets-was ransacking
the literature of mythology for subjects for his
exquisite and undying poems; and Byron creating
the most imaginative characters by the mere force
of his stupendous but, for the most part, mis-
directed genius; and Shelley borrowing the
materials for his dramas from the classical writers
of antiquity; Wordsworth found enough and to
spare in the beauties and common objects of every-
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
217
day life, which his Muse has sanctified, and over
which he has thrown, with the skill of a consum-
mate artist,
"The gleam,
The light that never was, on sea or land,
The consecration, and the poet's dream.'
Wordsworth's early poetry was that of descrip-
tion, but his inherent love of Nature soon led him
to that of Man; and it may be questioned whether
any poet, ancient or modern, had a finer ear for
'the still, sad music of humanity.' Many of his
predecessors may be said to have belonged to those
that have ears yet hear not, that have eyes and
yet see not; and it was his peculiar privilege to
hold a closer and more intimate communion with
Nature than any had held before him. He was
conspicuously adapted for this by his remarkable
poetic insight and mental composition. He him-
self tells us that
'Minds that have nothing to confer
Find little to perceive.'
It was 'the vision and the faculty divine,' so
largely developed in him, that enabled him to see
so much in Nature, which to multitudes is as a
sealed book. Coleridge, in his charming Ode,
'Dejection,' brings out this idea forcibly when he
sings, 'O Lady! we receive but what we give.'
Nature was to Wordsworth an open volume, which
he read as never man read before him. And his
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WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
sympathies were with what is little, and, to the
ordinary mind, unimportant, equally with what is
great and impressive.
'To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.'
To him Nature was the link that connected earth
with heaven. According to his philosophy, it was
endued with an active principle; and he says,—
'I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man ;
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things.'
Of many of the lyrical poems of Wordsworth, it
is impossible to speak too highly; they are of the
finest order, both in subject and treatment. It is
Wordsworth's praise that he is, perhaps, the most
correct of all the great poets, fewer solecisms being
found in his compositions than in those of almost
any other writer. He knew the beauty, power,
and pathos of our noble Saxon tongue; and his
writings pre-eminently constitute a 'well of Eng-
lish,' pure and undefiled. He has enriched the
language, moreover, with a large number of new
and effective metres, and it is noticeable that

1
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
219
selecting them he was singularly happy and suc-
cessful, suiting them to the matter he had to
convey with extraordinary ability. What, for
example, could be more appropriate to the beauti-
ful narratives in 'We are Seven,' 'The Solitude of
Binnorie,' 'Ruth,' 'Lucy Gray,' 'The Horn of
Egremont Castle,' 'The Complaint of a Forsaken
Indian Woman,' 'Resolution and Independence,'
'Laodamia,' and many of his other exquisite cre-
ations, than the respective metres in which they
are written? The charge of puerility and sim-
plicity so frequently advanced against Wordsworth,
we need scarcely say, has been grossly exagger-
ated; though it is undeniable that, in his praise-
worthy endeavours to be simple and natural, he
occasionally exceeded the narrow line of demarca-
tion which admittedly divides the sublime from
the ridiculous. But such lapses are by no means
of common occurrence, and we are not sure that
we would like these blemishes expurgated. We
love Wordsworth so much as he is, with all his
faults and imperfections on his head, that he could
not be dearer to us without them. There are
spots, as all the world knows, in the glorious sun
itself; and he that seeks for uniform perfection in
science, literature, or art, will have to search for
ages, and, at length, give up his quest in despair.
If Wordsworth now and then sinks, he does so in
distinguished company, for every poet, from the
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WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
immortal Homer downwards, must at times inevit-
ably nod. But when he soars, he rises calmly,
majestically, and gracefully, though he was incap-
able of prolonged sustained efforts. This inability,
however, does not affect his lyrical poems, the
brevity of which, in nine cases out of ten, enables
him to rise and sustain his flight, descending as
skilfully as he ascends. No writer has left behind
him a finer body of healthy lyrical work-sufficient
to ensure the immortality of a score of princely
poets. And the range of his fancy is certainly
wide and varied, everything being made subservient
to the Muse. In choosing his material, though,
doubtless, he did so too exclusively from middle
and lower life, we think that he acted wisely; for
has he not enlarged the sympathies, and extended
the affections of his readers, to an extent before
unknown? He would have saved himself a large
amount of dispraise and obloquy, had he chosen
more of his characters from the higher walks in
life, and thus have ensured the favour of numbers
which was largely and long denied to him. Virtue,
like vice, is not confined to any particular class,
but is to be found in all. Still, we must take
the good the gods provide us,' and be thankful.
And what a treasury of poetry Wordsworth, has
given us! His poems-many of them at least—
may fitly be described as 'apples of gold in
baskets of silver.' We would have the young in
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
221
our land well grounded in such of his compositions
as are especially suited to them, and thus bestow
upon them a legacy worth infinitely more than
money. The latter is soon lost, not so the former.
We would like to be able to say of many a youth
and maiden, in the poet's own language,
'Thy mind
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies';
and this could be rendered possible, and largely
attained, by their committing to heart, and thus
making their own, many of the beautiful and im-
perishable verses of the great poet-teacher. The
space at our disposal necessarily precludes our
particularizing the numerous poems, and comment-
ing, ever so briefly, on each; neither is this a task
we would willingly impose upon ourselves, our
love and veneration for the poet of our choice
rendering such a proceeding little short of sacri-
lege. But we cannot dismiss this part of our sub-
ject without insisting on the fact that Wordsworth
has given us eyes and ears to see and hear the
beauties and sounds in the natural world-both of
men and things-around us, which probably we
should never have seen and heard, at all events so
fully, without him; he has done more to enlist
the sensibilities and sympathies of his readers with
the joys and sorrows, hopes and fears, pursuits
222
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
and occupations of the poor, than any poet since
the days of Shakespeare, and this, we think, to a
larger measure than the Bard of Avon, though the
range
of the former was limited as compared with
that of the latter; he has demonstrated, with the
finger of truth, that there are virtues, affection,
and true nobility of character in humble life, such
as no preceding writer ventured to ascribe to it;
he has drawn tightly and enduringly the band
which, like a girdle, encircles humanity; and he
has conclusively and beautifully shown that 'one
touch of nature makes the whole world kin.'
all this he has effected, more especially in his
lyrical poems, though necessarily the same applies
in degree to his sonnets, and still more, perhaps,
to his noble blank verse compositions.
And
If Wordsworth is eminent as a lyrical poet, what
shall we say of him as a sonnet-writer? In this
charming form of composition, of which he has
given us nearly five hundred examples, he is, we
think, perhaps, at his best. He never treads
more firmly than in the sonnet, in which his great
strength lies, and in which 'he doth bestride the
narrow world, like a Colossus.' His finest sonnets
may, without exaggeration, be pronounced entire
and perfect chrysolites,' many of them truly con-
taining ‘infinite riches in a little room.' Words-
worth has attained, to our mind, the high distinc-
tion of being the greatest sonneteer in the lan-
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
223
guage, not excepting Shakespeare-whose poems
of fourteen lines are not sonnets at all, properly so
called-Milton, Keats, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, and
Mrs. Browning. And when it is for a moment
considered that one faultless sonnet is in itself
sufficient to ensure an undying reputation-the
case of Blanco White, who will ever be honoured
as the author of 'Night,' may be cited in proof of
this-what a glorious and overwhelming immor-
tality has not Wordsworth achieved! We do not
hesitate to maintain that more sonnets of superlative
excellence, both as regards thought and execution,
which could less be spared than any in the whole
compass of sonnet literature, can be culled from
Wordsworth, than from any other writer. The
prison unto which he doomed himself' in the
sonnet, was to him abundantly large; in it he
found ample room and verge enough.' His two
.well-known sonnets on the sonnet are delightful
conceptions; and numbers of his poems of this
class may justly be characterized as
'Jewels
That on the stretched forefinger of all time
Sparkle for ever.'
His sonnets dedicated to National Independence
and Liberty are unquestionably amongst the finest,
if not, in many instances, the very finest outbursts
of ennobling enthusiasm and patriotism ever uttered
by man, many of them stirring the soul of the
Uor M
224
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
reader 'like the sound of a trumpet.' Such, for
example, is the memorable one in which occur the
inspiring words:
'We must be free or die, who speak the tongue
That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold
Which Milton held.'
And such another is the glowing address 'To the
Men of Kent. October, 1803,' commencing—
'Vanguard of Liberty, ye men of Kent.'
England, be it remembered, was then dreading an
invasion by the French, and men's hearts were
failing them for fear. Let this martial sonnet be
read aloud. The sestet, or last six lines, is mag-
nificent:
'Left single, in bold parley, ye, of yore,
Did from the Norman win a gallant wreath;
Confirmed the charters that were yours before
No parleying now! In Britain is one breath;
We all are with you now from shore to shore :-
Ye men of Kent, 'tis victory or death!'
;
We are not slow to award to Wordsworth the fore-
most place as a sonnet-writer. In our estimation,
he has written the noblest sonnets in the English
-or in any other-language. Few impartial
judges can, we think, deny this. At all events,
Wordsworth, when he is at his best in the sonnet,
has but few, if any, equals, and no superiors.
Where are they? He was peculiarly at home in
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
225
this form of poem, which he made the vehicle of
his opinions on a wide multiplicity of subjects,
giving timely utterance' to his thoughts not un-
frequently in splendid verse, which the world
assuredly will not willingly let die. In his sonnets,
which are the very antipodes to the 'language
really used by men,' the poet enriching them with
all the wealth of a copious and brilliant vocabulary,
and polishing them to the fullest extent of his
power, we can see him as in a mirror; not only
the matter, but the manner also, of many of them
leaving nothing to be desired. He knew what he
had to say, and he said it. There is no prolixity
or tediousness-whatever may be urged against
some of his longer poems in these respects-in the
sonnets; indeed, no writer has ever expressed him-
self with more compactness, directness, and lucidity
than Wordsworth in these charming compositions,
the best of which may aptly be compared to a
pellucid stream meandering sweetly on its course,
in which the very pebbles are discernible to every
eye; or to a well of transparent water, through
which we can see clearly to the bottom. The
secret of Wordsworth's success in the sonnet is
possibly not far to seek, inasmuch as, with an in-
tensely poetical mind, inclined at times to be too
diffuse and exhaustive, he was confined in the ex-
pression of his 'soul-animating strains' to a pre-
scribed limit. He himself says,-
15
226
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
'In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound
Within the sonnet's scanty plot of ground;
Pleased if some souls (for such there needs must be)
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,
Should find brief solace there, as I have found.'
6
We come now to Wordsworth's Blank Verse
Compositions. He had a marvellous ear for this
--the most difficult of all kinds of poetry. If we
except Shakespeare, Milton, and Akenside when
most inspired, Wordsworth is, par excellence, the
greatest master of blank verse in the language.
He has given us passages, almost without number,
which even Milton might well envy; and what
higher praise can be accorded? To say that he is
unequal, is, in other words, to assert that he was
but human. Man is not perfect. But it is alleged
that, not only in 'The Prelude,' a work of his
comparatively earlier life, but also in The Excur
sion,' his greatest achievement, there are numerous
'weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable' passages, un-
redeemed by any of the graces or flowers of poetry.
Strange as it may appear, this is but the case.
The truth is that Wordsworth, more especially in
blank verse, is unduly prone to be too didactic and
diffuse; he draweth out the thread of his ver-
bosity finer than the staple of his argument'-a
very fatal error in poetry, which, to be good, must
necessarily be more suggestive than expressive.
Something must be left to the
tion, else the charm is gone.
reader's imagina-
Prolixity is out of
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
227
place in all poetical forms of composition, Words-
worth knew this as well as anybody; yet, never-
theless, the fact remains that there is extreme
diffuseness occasionally in both of the poems re-
ferred to. But when we have stated this, we have
said the worst. What remains is mostly verse of
remarkable quality, such as only a great master-a
very prince of song-could have produced. It
would be impossible in these pages to refer to
many of the most admired passages; we must,
therefore, content ourselves by briefly referring
the reader to the first two books of 'The Excur-
sion,' which contain the beautifully pathetic episode
of Margaret and the Ruined Cottage, and the
magnificent description of a glorious spectacle upon
the mountains; to the charming account of the
Chaldean, Grecian, and other modes of belief, in
the fourth book; to the exquisite narrative of the
Churchyard among the Mountains, in the sixth
and seventh books; and to the inimitable word-
painting of the ram by the side of a rivulet, in the
ninth book:
'By happy chance we saw
A two-fold image; on a grassy bank
A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood
Another and the same! Most beautiful,
On the green turf, with his imperial front
Shaggy and bold, and wreathed horns superb,
The breathing creature stood ';
and so on.
No finer strains of the kind are to be
found in the whole range of poetry. They are
15-2
228
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
roses without thorns, that will never lose their
sweetness. Of The Excursion,' may not all true
lovers of Wordsworth exclaim, with Valentine, in
'The Two Gentlemen of Verona,' that they are
6
'As rich in having such a jewel,
As twenty seas, if all their sands were pearl,
The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold '?
· The Excursion' is doubtless one of the noblest
poems in English literature. We envy the enjoy-
ment of the poetical individual who is about to
make a maiden perusal of it, though we are fully
persuaded that, like sterling friendship, it improves
upon better acquaintance. To us it certainly does.
We can at all times turn to its pages with unalloyed
pleasure, and we invariably rise refreshed and
strengthened by these rests by the way.
The Prelude,' which is an autobiographical
poem, in which Wordsworth traces the growth of
his own mind, should be read and re-read by every
poetical reader. It is not, of course, without con-
siderable defects, but it abounds with innumerable
beauties of the highest degree of excellence. The
work, which was addressed to Coleridge, was com-
menced in the beginning of the year 1799, when
the poet and his sister quitted Goslar on their
return to England, and completed in the summer
of 1805. It consists of fourteen books, and must
ever be regarded as a permanent memorial of the
poet's transcendent genius. Space forbids our
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
229
attempting to give an epitome of this unrivalled
history; we cannot, therefore, do better than
advise our readers, one and all, to peruse it for
themselves. Those who now read it for the first
time on this recommendation, will be everlastingly
thankful for being directed to such a mine of pure
and imperishable poetry.
Of Wordsworth's shorter blank verse composi-
tions, it is easier to speak, as they are more widely
known. 'The Brothers' is undoubtedly one of the
most beautiful and pathetic idyllic poems in the
language. 'Vaudracour and Julia' is a charming
narrative, yielding, alas! for it is founded on fact,
another striking proof that 'the course of true love
never did run smooth.' 'Michael' is a sad pastoral,
feelingly and powerfully written; indeed, few
more touching stories have ever been conceived.
'Nutting,' 'There was a Boy,' 'Tintern Abbey,'
'The Old Cumberland Beggar,' and many other
pieces, are sparkling gems in the poet's diadem ;
and poor would we be without them. We are
assured that new readers, after a perusal of the
poems referred to, will thank us for thus bringing
them under their notice, and that those best ac-
quainted with them will cheerfully endorse every
word we have uttered with regard to them.
With reference to Wordsworth's general poetical
writings, if any evidence of his pre-eminence as a
poet were needed, it is to be abundantly found in
·
230
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
the widespread influence he has had on many of
his contemporaries, and on almost every one of his
numerous successors-Byron, Keats, Shelley, Ten-
nyson, Browning, Buchanan, Matthew Arnold,
Henry Taylor, Bryant, Longfellow, and others.
A double portion of his spirit seems to have been
bestowed on Ruskin, the great apostle of the
Wordsworthian philosophy.
Wordsworth's love for flowers, stars, and all the
many varied beauties of Nature, was strongly
characteristic of him, and also of a greater poet-
teacher than he, who spake as never man spake,
and who bade us 'consider the lilies . . how they
grow!'
No poet scarcely has given us more
Thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof,
That they were born for immortality,'
than Wordsworth. Coleridge remarked to him,
'Since Milton I know of no poet with so many
felicities and unforgettable lines and stanzas as
you.' His early theory of poetic diction was right
in part, but wrong, we think, in the main, as a
reference to the great majority of his own poems
sufficiently proves. It must be admitted that,
notably in his sonnets, 'The Excursion,' and most
of his later works, including the odes, his diction
is, in general, in direct conflict with that of the
'Lyrical Ballads,' the most gorgeous and scholarly
language being employed with conspicuous success
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
231
and effect. It cannot, therefore, be doubted that,
to a large extent, his early poetical theory was a
conceit of his youth, which in maturer years he
had the wisdom to cast aside. We cannot, how-
ever, if we would, acquit him of the charge of in-
congruity, so commonly brought against him, of
which several instances are to be found in his
writings. The exalted language of the Pedlar,
in 'The Excursion,' and that of the aged Leech
Gatherer, in 'Resolution and Independence,' may
be mentioned as examples of this. Nevertheless,
we would not have him other than he is.
A word as to his Pantheism. Once it is under-
stood that he was a teacher, not a preacher, the case
falls to the ground. He believed that it was not
the province of the bard to intrude unduly into
sacred things-whether he was right or wrong, we
care not to inquire-hence the reason that he has
been assailed by some short-sighted critics as a
non-Christian poet. But if there is not excessive
Christianity, there is abundant Catholicity, in his
writings. Truth is many-sided; and, in treating a
subject poetically, he not unfrequently brought out
but one aspect of it, leaving the rest to the preacher.
Who but a Christian author could have penned
such noble lines as these ?—
'Oh! there is never sorrow of heart
That shall lack a timely end,
If but to God we turn, and ask
Of Him to be our Friend !'
-The Force of Prayer.
232
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
And, further:
But when the great and good depart
What is it more than this-
That man, who is from God sent forth,
Doth yet again to God return ?—
Such ebb and flow must ever be,
Then wherefore should we mourn?'
-Loud is the Vale.
Let the reader peruse, amongst other poems too
numerous to mention, 'Not seldom Clad in Radiant
Vest' and 'The Labourer's Noon-day Hymn,' to
say nothing of 'The Excursion,' and he will at
once see for himself that no truer Christian, per-
haps, ever lived. His life was an epistle 'known
and read of all men.'
In his various Pastoral Poems, and indeed in all
his descriptive pieces, Wordsworth treads on terra
firma. The beautiful district in which he resided
for so long, he knew intimately, as a devoted lover
knows his mistress; and in his poetry
'He murmurs near the running brooks
A music sweeter than their own '-
a music that will echo and re-echo, not only down
the rolling ages of time, but of eternity also.
It need scarcely be added, after what we have
said, that Wordsworth is the poet of purity. He
' uttered nothing base.' There is not an indelicate
thought or expression in the whole of his writings,
which-and this is high praise-can be implicitly
placed in the hands of the youngest reader, and of
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
233
He was
the most modest and sensitive maiden.
truly able to say that 'none of his works, written
since the days of his early youth, contained a line
that he should wish to blot out, because it pan-
dered to the baser passions of our nature.' He is,
however, too profound, meditative, and introspec-
tive for many, if not most, of his readers, and not
sufficiently sensuous for the masses, with whom,
accordingly, he will never, we think, be extensively
popular as a poet.
'Poetry,' says Wordsworth, 'is as immortal as
the heart of man.' Unquestionably his own is;
and it may safely be predicted that much of it
will endure as long as the language it so nobly
adorns. The poetical fabric which he constructed
is erected upon the rock of truth, the only sure
foundation.
And now, to 'gather up the fragments that re-
main, that nothing be lost,' let us consider what
Wordsworth has done for us. Amongst many
other lessons, he has taught us :
'Never to blend our pleasure or our pride,
With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels ';
that
that
There is
One great society alone on earth :
The noble living and the noble dead';
'Soft is the music that would charm for ever;
The flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly';
234
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH :
that the poet-teacher is addressing a child-
'Small service is true service while it lasts:
that
Of humblest friends, bright creature! scorn not one:
The daisy, by the shadow that it casts,
Protects the lingering dew-drop from the sun';
'Wisdom is ofttimes nearer when we stoop
Than when we soar';
and, finally, for of making many "quotations"
there is no end,' he has shown us, like an inspired
apostle, that
"The primal duties shine aloft, like stars;
The charities that soothe, and heal, and bless,
Are scattered at the feet of Man, like flowers.'
This, and infinitely more, he has impressed upon
us. He has been his own prophet; and his noble
words with reference to his poems, the destiny of
which he trusted was 'to console the afflicted; to
add sunshine to daylight, by making the happy
happier; to teach the young and the gracious of
every age to see, to think, and feel, and, therefore,
to become more actively and securely virtuous,'
are daily being fulfilled throughout the civilized
world.
It will readily be seen that our estimate of
Wordsworth is a high one. He was not only the
greatest poet of his generation, but also since the
days of
'That mighty orb of song,
The divine Milton,'
THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
235
by whose side it needs slight exercise of the
imagination to fancy him sitting, together with
Spenser, Shakespeare, and other immortal bards,
in the bright Elysian fields. That his station in
English literature may now be regarded as fixed
and permanent, there would appear to be but little
room to doubt, since it seems inconceivable for
him to be surpassed. Still, we cannot foresee
what poetry may have before it in the future; it
may be that, like science, it is yet comparatively
in its infancy. We are not agreed with Lord
Macaulay, that as civilization advances, poetry
almost necessarily declines,' the poetical achieve-
ments of the Victorian era affording a conclusive
proof to the contrary. True poetry may well be
regarded as a mirror which gives a faithful reflec-
tion of the different ages in which we live; and
the best poetry, in a measure, is, perhaps, that
which comes nearest to the realization of this ideal.
If a Golden Age in society were about to dawn
upon mankind, what a glorious blaze of poetry
would there be in store for us! Meanwhile,
Wordsworth, having accomplished his exalted
mission, and attained one of the highest Alpine
peaks in the abiding land of song, remains there,
and it is unlikely, so far as we can judge, that his
place will ever be justly challenged.
In taking a lingering leave of our subject, we
236
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
are conscious that we have but ill discharged our
self-imposed undertaking, still,
"'Tis done; 'tis numbered with the things o'erpast;
Would! would it were to come!'
In conclusion, we can find no more appropriate
words than these of Beaumont and Fletcher, which
might well be inscribed on any effigy of William
Wordsworth, the poet of Man, of Nature, and of
Human Life:
'Nothing can cover his high fame, but Heaven ;
No pyramids set off his memories,
But the eternal substance of his greatness;
To which we leave him.'
THE END.
Elliot Stock, Paternoster Row, London.
OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.
The author
'A MODEST and valuable biography.
restricts himself to simple narration; but his quotations and
extracts supply a valuable picture, not only of the poet's
varying fortunes, but of the growth and fluctuation of con-
temporary opinion-the ship and the sea over which it sails.'
-St. James's Gazette.
•
'Mr. Sutherland writes in a spirit of reverential admira-
tion for a great poet and a good man. Of the joys and
sorrows of Wordsworth's private life, blessed as he was in
the love of singularly gifted women, and the staunch friend-
ship of great men, yet afflicted by keen sorrows, Mr. Suther-
land writes with full knowledge and deep sympathy.
This book about Wordsworth is well written and well ar-
ranged.'-Guardian.
•
•
•
•
·
'Mr. J. M. Sutherland has written a book of very great
interest, for which all lovers of the mighty Lake Poet will
be duly grateful. A sketch of the outward facts of his
life, such as we owe to the loving labours of Mr. Sutherland,
is a welcome aid to our appreciation of the marvellous man
who has been so well called "the poet of humanity."
We therefore commend to our readers this skilfully-com-
piled little book, in which they will find not only many
interesting incidents, sketches, and anecdotes that will be
fresh to them, but also, what they will no less value, a
general criticism of his writings, admirably illustrated by
copious quotations from his poems.' Wit and Wisdom.
'Mr. Sutherland has in his volume done a great deal for
Wordsworth's reputation, for he has published a most inter-
esting life, and written it in an easy narrative style, which
is certain to popularize his subject. Besides giving details
238
OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.
of the poet's life, he has striven to harmonize it with his
poetry, in which we may say that Mr. Sutherland has in no
small degree succeeded.'-Sunday Times.
'Mr. Sutherland tells his story in a popular form, and
with a just appreciation of the genius and many noble quali-
ties of the man and the poet. The final chapter is devoted
to some remarks on Wordsworth's poetry, which show that
Mr. Sutherland has arrived at a true estimate of its purity
and delicacy.'-Morning Post.
'Not the least interesting and useful part of it is the con-
cluding chapter, which contains critical observations on the
poet's work generally. Mr. Sutherland is a truly appre-
ciative critic, and the book bears the impress of its having
been a labour of love. Admirers of Wordsworth will be
glad to have a sketch of his life in so small a form.'
Church Times.
'The story is very pleasantly written, and Mr. Sutherland's
critical remarks are generally sound and judicious.'—Man-
chester Examiner.
Although there are many valuable and some elaborate
hand-books dealing with Wordsworth as a poet, there is none
that is precisely what the present volume professes to be—a
popular story of his life. It may be said at once that this
story is well written. The author is a great admirer of the
Lake Poet, but he does not in his admiration lose his judg-
ment. In recording the unexciting events of Wordsworth's
life, he presents them to us in a manner which cannot fail to
excite our interest.'-Manchester Courier.
'Mr. Sutherland is a fervent admirer of Wordsworth,
whom he considers to be the greatest poet of the age.
His
account of the poet's struggles to obtain public recognition,
his long-delayed success, and his patient endurance of dis-
appointments, are sympathetically treated. The incidental
sketches of Coleridge, Southey, Sir W. Scott, and other
famous characters, give additional interest to the volume.'
-Times Weekly and Mail.
'For anyone who wishes to know, in a short and concise
form, the main incidents in Wordsworth's life, this book is
well fitted.'-Notes and Queries.
OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.
239
'Mr. Sutherland has given us what, so far as the ordinary
reader can judge, is a plain story of Wordsworth's career.
He starts from the cradle, as it were, and the thread of his
story is never once broken throughout the 225 pages he
occupies with his writing.
We could not now pretend
to follow Mr. Sutherland's tale from chapter to chapter, but
we feel obliged to do him the scant justice of saying that he
has produced a work which all admirers of Wordsworth will
buy, and which will be read with pleasure even by persons
who have little or no taste for the works of any poet.'--
Yorkshire Gazette.
'Within its own limits, the little book is a success.
Mr. Sutherland, deep as is his admiration for Wordsworth,
does not go to the extremes of hero-worship; he admits
frankly, for example, that Wordsworth often carried too far
his theory of poetic simplicity. It may well serve to
bring to a study of Wordsworth many who are at present
too ignorant of him.'—Graphic.
·
•
'This is a very readable condensation from biographical
and critical works on Wordsworth which have now become
somewhat scarce. The author has fulfilled his task lovingly,
and in brief compass has managed to give his readers a good
insight into that remarkable galaxy of genius which made
the English lake district its home or its shrine in the
beginning of this century. With the chronicle of events
in the simple and beautiful life of the poet is interwoven the
record of his work. From first to last we are impressed
with the sympathy and sincerity of the writer of this story
of William Wordsworth.'-Antiquary.
•
'A thoughtful study of the poet Wordsworth's life and
work, from the pen of Mr. J. M. Sutherland. Mr. Suther-
land is evidently a warm admirer of the poet; and we
heartily commend his work to those who are entering on this
fruitful field of literary study.'—Quiver.
'Mr. J. M. Sutherland provides a biography of the poet
which, whilst popular in style and in its size, is still a very
comprehensive and satisfactory piece of work. It is exactly
the book to put into the hands of a reader who knows enough
of Wordsworth's poetry to have an intelligent interest in
his life and the circumstances under which he wrote.'-
Yorkshire Post.
240
OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.
'We must candidly admit that Mr. Sutherland has pro-
duced a pleasant and very readable monograph on the poet.
The story of Wordsworth's life is retold in an agreeable style,
and ample justice is rendered to the Wordsworthian sonnet.
-Public Opinion.
'The facts of the poet's life are carefully and pleasantly
set forth.'-Pall Mall Gazette.
'Mr. Sutherland, in summing up Wordsworth, is heartily
sympathetic, and that, in an expounder of poetry, is always
a great merit. Moreover, only one chapter out of the thirteen
is devoted to set criticism; the remainder are dedicated to
the life of the poet, the story of which is told with care and
an agreeable absence of pretension. From this part of the
book, indeed, much useful information may be obtained.'-
Globe.
'The facts of his life are carefully and correctly set down
in due order, and the book will probably be valuable to
students of Wordsworth's career.
As a relater of facts
Mr. Sutherland deserves praise his love for Words-
worth's poetry argues a refined nature and a cultivated taste.'
-Dundee Advertiser.
•
'A simple, unadorned account of the poet's life, told in a
straightforward manner.'-Court and Society Review.
"This brief and popular story of his life, if containing
nothing new, is told with unpretending simplicity, and shows
a sound estimate of the qualities that distinguished the poet
of nature, of the home affections and pieties, and of the
highest aspirations and the deepest emotions of the human
soul from his compeers, who lost something of these ideals in
pursuing paths less secluded from the vulgarities of the
market-place and the tumult of the crowd.'-Daily News.
•
'It would be difficult to find any distinct fault with the
book. Its external appearance is unexceptionable; within
it is simple, clear, and, we believe, accurate. One of the
facts of his life which Mr. Sutherland brings out, most
forcibly and most intelligently, is his abiding consciousness
of his poetic, or, as some might now say, his prophetic function,
and his singular fidelity to it through the whole of a long
life.'-Liverpool Daily Post.
OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.
241
C
'We have no doubt but that the little book will be read
with great pleasure by many persons. Mr. Sutherland has
made himself thoroughly familiar with the circumstances
and scenes and incidents of Wordsworth's life, and has the
literature of the matter at his fingers' ends. He is a most
devoted Wordsworthian, and places the poet upon as high a
pedestal as can be conceived suitable to his genius. .
We have no sort of reason for indicating, ever so briefly, the
leading facts in the poet's career. They are either well
known, or can be completely learnt from this interesting
volume, which is replete with anecdote, incident, and per-
sonal sketches. The thirteen chapters are very skilfully
divided, and very aptly entitled and prefaced with poetical
quotations. We should add that the author has introduced
into the book as much of Wordsworth's poetry as is neces-
sary for the illustration of his observations, and to point
out its proper connection with the poet's life.'—Literary
World.
•
'A bright and entertaining book... Mr. Sutherland
has told his story with full knowledge of his facts. Into
some 225 pages he has compressed a general statement of all
that it concerns the public to know of the life of one of the
first of English poets. And not only is the story of Words-
worth's own life told in these pages, but the entire domestic
circle in which the poet moved is here depicted, and the men
and women who impinged upon it (Coleridge, Southey, De
Quincey, and Scott) are shown in occasional glimpses. In
fact, Mr. Sutherland has been thoroughly equipped as far as
knowledge of his subject could go. And, in truth, a
writer more steeped in the literature of his subject it would
be difficult to imagine. The poetry of Wordsworth seems
almost to be emitted from every pore of the writer.
No more ardent Wordsworthian has yet written. With
no little tenderness and much warmth of feeling, Mr. Suther-
land tells the story of those later years of Wordsworth's life
when the triumph of a people's homage had come to him at
last, and the grey old poet was going down to the grave
surrounded by troops of friends. The account from Words-
worth and Lockhart of the poet's last meeting with Scott is
also very touching. In fact, whenever fulness of fact will
make the narrative interesting, then Mr. Sutherland is at
his best. Altogether we welcome this popular little book,
•
242
OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.
which will, we trust, do much for the honour of the great
writer whom the biographer holds in reverence.'-Liverpool
Mercury.
The Right Rev. John Wordsworth, D.D., Lord Bishop of
Salisbury, to whom the first edition was dedicated, writes:
'I am much obliged to you for your kind letter. I have re-
ceived your book, and have read a good many passages of it
with much pleasure, and thank you for the honour you do to
me by dedicating it to me. It will, I trust, bring home a
knowledge of my great uncle's quiet but noble life, and
inspire a taste for his poetry in the hearts of many to whom
he is becoming (possibly) a name of the past. I thank you
or the justice you have done to him.'
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