SOCIETY OF THE LAKES: PROFESSOR WILSON: DEATH OF LITTLE KATE
WORDSWORTH[176]
[176] From _Tait's Magazine_ for August 1840.--M.
It was at Mr. Wordsworth's house that I first became acquainted with
Professor (then Mr.) Wilson, of Elleray. I have elsewhere described
the impression which he made upon me at my first acquaintance; and
it is sufficiently known, from other accounts of Mr. Wilson (as, for
example, that written by Mr. Lockhart in "Peter's Letters"), that
he divided his time and the utmost sincerity of his love between
literature and the stormiest pleasures of real life. Cock-fighting,
wrestling, pugilistic contests, boat-racing, horse-racing, all enjoyed
Mr. Wilson's patronage; all were occasionally honoured by his personal
participation. I mention this in no unfriendly spirit toward Professor
Wilson; on the contrary, these propensities grew out of his ardent
temperament and his constitutional endowments--his strength, speed,
and agility: and, being confined to the period of youth--for I am
speaking of a period removed by five-and-twenty years--can do him no
dishonour amongst the candid and the judicious. "_Non lusisse pudet,
sed non incidere ludum._" The truth was that Professor Wilson had in
him, at that period of life, something of the old English chivalric
feeling which our old ballad poetry agrees in ascribing to Robin Hood.
Several men of genius have expressed to me, at different times, the
delight they had in the traditional character of Robin Hood. He has no
resemblance to the old heroes of Continental romance in one important
feature: they are uniformly victorious: and this gives even a tone of
monotony to the Continental poems: for, let them involve their hero in
what dangers they may, the reader still feels them to be as illusory
as those which menace an enchanter--an Astolpho, for instance, who,
by one blast of his horn, can dissipate an army of opponents. But
Robin is frequently beaten: he never declines a challenge; sometimes
he courts one; and occasionally he learns a lesson from some proud
tinker or masterful beggar, the moral of which teaches him that there
are better men in the world than himself. What follows? Is the brave
man angry with his stout-hearted antagonist because he is no less
brave and a little stronger than himself? Not at all; he insists on
making him a present, on giving him a _dejeuner à la fourchette_, and
(in case he is disposed to take service in the forest) finally adopts
him into his band of archers. Much the same spirit governed, in his
earlier years, Professor Wilson. And, though a man of prudence cannot
altogether approve of his throwing himself into the convivial society
of gipsies, tinkers, potters,[177] strolling players, &c., nevertheless
it tells altogether in favour of Professor Wilson's generosity of
mind, that he was ever ready to forgo his advantages of station and
birth, and to throw himself fearlessly upon his own native powers, as
man opposed to man. Even at Oxford he fought an aspiring shoemaker
repeatedly--which is creditable to both sides; for the very _prestige_
of the gown is already overpowering to the artisan from the beginning,
and he is half beaten by terror at his own presumption. Elsewhere he
sought out, or, at least, did not avoid the most dreaded of the local
heroes; and fought his way through his "most verdant years," taking or
giving defiances to the right and the left in perfect carelessness, as
chance or occasion offered. No man could well show more generosity in
these struggles, nor more magnanimity in reporting their issue, which
naturally went many times against him. But Mr. Wilson neither sought to
disguise the issue nor showed himself at all displeased with it: even
brutal ill-usage did not seem to have left any vindictive remembrance
of itself. These features of his character, however, and these
propensities, which naturally belonged merely to the transitional state
from boyhood to manhood, would have drawn little attention on their own
account, had they not been relieved and emphatically contrasted by his
passion for literature, and the fluent command which he soon showed
over a rich and voluptuous poetic diction. In everything Mr. Wilson
showed himself an Athenian. Athenians were all lovers of the cockpit;
and, howsoever shocking to the sensibilities of modern refinement, we
have no doubt that Plato was a frequent better at cock-fights; and
Socrates is known to have bred cocks himself. If he were any Athenian,
however, in particular, it was Alcibiades; for he had his marvellous
versatility; and to the Windermere neighbourhood, in which he had
settled, this versatility came recommended by something of the very
same position in society--the same wealth, the same social temper,
the same jovial hospitality. No person was better fitted to win or to
maintain a high place in social esteem; for he could adapt himself
to all companies; and the wish to conciliate and to win his way by
flattering the self-love of others was so predominant over all personal
self-love and vanity
"That _he_ did in the general bosom reign
Of young and old."
Mr. Wilson and most of his family I had already known for six years.
We had projected journeys together through Spain and Greece, all of
which had been nipped in the bud by Napoleon's furious and barbarous
mode of making war. It was no joke, as it had been in past times,
for an Englishman to be found wandering in continental regions;
the pretence that he was, or might be, a spy--a charge so easy to
make, so impossible to throw off--at once sufficed for the hanging
of the unhappy traveller. In one of his Spanish bulletins, Napoleon
even boasted[178] of having hanged sixteen Englishmen, "merchants
or others of that nation," whom he taxed with no suspicion even of
being suspected, beyond the simple fact of being detected in the
act of breathing Spanish air. These atrocities had interrupted our
continental schemes; and we were thus led the more to roam amongst
home scenes. How it happened I know not--for we had wandered together
often in England--but, by some accident, it was not until 1814 that we
visited Edinburgh together. Then it was that I first saw Scotland.
[177] _Potter_ is the local term in northern England for a hawker
of earthen ware; many of which class lead a vagrant life, and
encamp during the summer months like gipsies.
[178] This brutal boast might, after all, be a falsehood, and,
with respect to mere numbers, probably was so.
I remember a singular incident which befell us on the road.
Breakfasting together, before starting, at Mr. Wilson's place of
Elleray, we had roamed, through a long and delightful day, by way
of Ulleswater, &c. Reaching Penrith at night, we slept there; and
in the morning, as we were sunning ourselves in the street, we saw,
seated in an arm-chair, and dedicating himself to the self-same task
of _apricating_ his jolly personage, a rosy, jovial, portly man,
having something of the air of a Quaker. Good nature was clearly his
predominating quality; and, as that happened to be our foible also,
we soon fell into talk; and from that into reciprocations of good
will; and from those into a direct proposal, on our new friend's part,
that we should set out upon our travels together. How--whither--to
what end or object--seemed as little to enter into his speculations
as the cost of realizing them. Rare it is, in this business world
of ours, to find any man in so absolute a state of indifference and
neutrality that for him all quarters of the globe, and all points of
the compass, are self-balanced by philosophic equilibrium of choice.
There seemed to us something amusing and yet monstrous in such a
man; and, perhaps, had we been in the same condition of exquisite
indetermination, to this hour we might all have been staying together
at Penrith. We, however, were previously bound to Edinburgh; and, as
soon as this was explained to him, that way he proposed to accompany
us. We took a chaise, therefore, jointly, to Carlisle; and, during
the whole eighteen miles, he astonished us by the wildest and most
frantic displays of erudition, much of it levelled at Sir Isaac Newton.
Much philosophical learning also he exhibited; but the grotesque
accompaniment of the whole was that, after every bravura, he fell back
into his corner in fits of laughter at himself. We began to find out
the unhappy solution of his indifference and purposeless condition;
he was a lunatic; and, afterwards, we had reason to suppose that he
was now a fugitive from his keepers. At Carlisle he became restless
and suspicious; and, finally, upon some real or imaginary business, he
turned aside to Whitehaven. We were not the objects of his jealousy;
for he parted with us reluctantly and anxiously. On our part, we felt
our pleasure overcast by sadness; for we had been much amused by his
conversation, and could not but respect the philological learning
which he had displayed. But one thing was whimsical enough:--Wilson
purposely said some startling things--startling in point of decorum,
or gay pleasantries _contra bonos mores_; at every sally of which he
looked as awfully shocked as though he himself had not been holding
the most licentious talk in another key, licentious as respected all
truth of history or of science. Another illustration, in fact, he
furnished of what I have so often heard Coleridge say--that lunatics,
in general, so far from being the brilliant persons they are thought,
and having a preternatural brightness of fancy, usually are the very
dullest and most uninspired of mortals. The sequel of our poor friend's
history--for the apparent goodness of his nature had interested us
both in his fortunes, and caused us to inquire after him through all
probable channels--was, that he was last seen by a Cambridge man of our
acquaintance, but under circumstances which confirmed our worst fears.
It was in a stage-coach; and, at first, the Cantab suspected nothing
amiss; but, some accident of conversation having started the topic of
La Place's _Mechanique Celeste_, off flew our jolly Penrith friend in
a tirade against Sir Isaac Newton; so that at once we recognised him,
as the Vicar of Wakefield his "cosmogony friend" in prison; but--and
that was melancholy to hear--this tirade was suddenly checked, in
the rudest manner, by a brutal fellow in one corner of the carriage,
who, as it now appeared, was attending him as a regular keeper, and,
according to the custom of such people, always laid an interdict upon
every ebullition of fancy or animated thought. He was a man whose mind
had got some wheel entangled, or some spring overloaded, but else was
a learned and able person; and he was to be silent at the bidding of a
low, brutal fellow, incapable of distinguishing between the gaieties of
fancy and the wandering of the intellect. Sad fate! and sad inversion
of the natural relations between the accomplished scholar and the rude
illiterate boor!
Of Edinburgh I thought to have spoken at length. But I pause, and
retreat from the subject, when I remember that so many of those whom
I loved and honoured at that time--some, too, among the gayest of the
gay--are now lying in their graves. Of Professor Wilson's sisters,
the youngest, at that time a child almost, and standing at the very
vestibule of womanhood, is alone living; she has had a romantic life;
has twice traversed, with no attendance but her servants, the gloomy
regions of the Caucasus, and once with a young child by her side. Her
husband, Mr. M'Neill, is now the English Envoy at the court of Teheran.
On the rest, one of whom I honoured and loved as a sister, the curtain
has fallen; and here, in the present mood of my spirits, I also feel
disposed to drop a curtain over my subsequent memoirs. Farewell,
hallowed recollections!
* * * * *
Thus, I have sketched the condition of the Lake District, as to society
of an intellectual order, at the time (viz. the winter of 1808-9)
when I became a personal resident in that district; and, indeed, from
this era, through a period of about twenty years in succession, I
may describe my domicile as being amongst the lakes and mountains of
Westmoreland. It is true, I often made excursions to London, Bath,
and its neighbourhood, or northwards to Edinburgh, and, perhaps, on
an average, passed one-fourth part of each year at a distance from
this district; but here only it was that henceforwards I had a house
and small establishment. The house, for a very long course of years,
was that same cottage in Grasmere, embowered in roses and jessamine,
which I have already described as a spot hallowed to the admirers
of Mr. Wordsworth by his seven years' occupation of its pretty
chambers and its rocky orchard: a little domain, which he has himself
apostrophized as the "lowest stair in that magnificent temple" forming
the north-eastern boundary of Grasmere. The little orchard is rightly
called "the lowest stair"; for within itself all is ascending ground;
hardly enough of flat area on which to pitch a pavilion, and even that
scanty surface an inclined plane; whilst the rest of the valley, into
which you step immediately from the garden gate, is (according to the
characteristic beauty of the northern English valleys, as first noticed
by Mr. Wordsworth himself) "flat as the floor of a temple."
In sketching the state of the literary society gathered or gathering
about the English lakes, at the time of my settling amongst them, I
have of course authorized the reader to suppose that I personally
mixed freely amongst the whole; else I should have had neither the
means for describing that society with truth, nor any motive for
attempting it. Meantime the direct object of my own residence at the
lakes was the society of Mr. Wordsworth. And it will be a natural
inference that, if I mingled on familiar or friendly terms with this
society, _a fortiori_ would Mr. Wordsworth do so, as belonging to
the lake district by birth, and as having been, in some instances, my
own introducer to members of this community. But it was not so; and
never was a grosser blunder committed than by Lord Byron when, in a
letter to Mr. Hogg (from which an extract is given in some volume of
Mr. Lockhart's "Life of Sir Walter Scott"), he speaks of Wordsworth,
Southey, &c., in connexion with Sir Walter, as all alike injured by
mixing only with little adoring coteries, which each severally was
supposed to have gathered about himself as a centre.[179] Now, had this
really been the case, I know not how the objects of such a partial
or exclusive admiration could have been injured by it in any sense
with which the public were concerned. A writer may--and of that there
are many instances--write the worse for meeting nobody of sympathy
with himself; no admiration sufficient to convince him that he has
written powerfully: that misfortune, when it occurs, may injure a
writer, or may cause him to cease cultivating his genius. But no man
was ever injured by the strong reflection of his own power in love and
admiration; not as a writer, I mean: though it is very true, from the
great variety of modes in which praise, or the indirect flattery of
silent homage, acts upon different minds, that some men may be injured
as social companions: vanity, and, still more, egotism--the habit
of making self the central point of reference in every treatment of
every subject--may certainly be cherished by the idolatry of a private
circle, continually ascending; but arrogance and gloomy anti-social
pride are qualities much more likely to be favoured by sympathy
withheld, and the unjust denial of a man's pretensions. This, however,
need not be discussed with any reference to Mr. Wordsworth; for he had
no such admiring circle: no applauding coterie ever gathered about
him.[180] Wordsworth was not a man to be openly flattered; his pride
repelled that kind of homage, or any homage that offered itself with
the air of conferring honour; and repelled it in a tone of loftiness
or arrogance that never failed to kindle the pride of the baffled
flatterer. Nothing in the way of applause could give Wordsworth any
pleasure, unless it were the spontaneous and half-unconscious utterance
of delight in some passage--the implicit applause of love, half
afraid to express itself; or else the deliberate praise of rational
examination, study, and comparison, applied to his writings: these
were the only modes of admiration which could recommend themselves
to Wordsworth. But, had it been otherwise, there was another mistake
in what Lord Byron said:--The neighbouring people, in every degree,
"gentle and simple," literary or half-educated, who had heard of
Wordsworth, agreed in despising him. Never had poet or prophet less
honour in his own country. Of the gentry, very few knew anything about
Wordsworth. Grasmere was a vale little visited at that time, except for
an hour's admiration. The case is now [1840] altered; and partly by a
new road, which, having pierced the valley by a line carried along
the water's edge, at a most preposterous cost, and with a large arrear
of debt for the next generation, saves the labour of surmounting a
laborious hill. The case is now altered no less for the intellect of
the age; and Rydal Mount is now one of the most honoured abodes in
the island. But, at that time, Grasmere did not differ more from the
Grasmere of to-day than Wordsworth from the Wordsworth of 1809-20. I
repeat that he was little known, even as a resident in the country;
and, as a poet, strange it would have been had the little town of
Ambleside undertaken to judge for itself, and against a tribunal which
had for a time subdued the very temper of the age. Lord Byron might
have been sure that nowhere would the contempt for Mr. Wordsworth be
rifer than exactly amongst those who had a local reason for curiosity
about the man, and who, of course, adopting the tone of the presiding
journals, adopted them with a personality of feeling unknown elsewhere.
[179] Byron's letter was not to Hogg, but to Moore, concerning a
letter received from Hogg; and the extract from it in _Lockhart_
to which De Quincey refers was as follows:--"Oh! I have had the
most amusing letter from Hogg, the Ettrick Minstrel and Shepherd.
I think very highly of him as a poet; but he and half of those
Scotch and Lake troubadours are spoilt by living in little circles
and petty coteries. London and the world is the only place to take
the conceit out of a man." The letter is dated 3d August 1814.--M.
[180] Scott, at all events, who had been personally acquainted
with Wordsworth since 1803,--when Wordsworth and his sister
Dorothy in the course of their Scottish tour visited Scott and his
wife at Lasswade,--had always been an admirer of Wordsworth, even
while dissenting from his poetical views. Scott and his wife had
paid a return visit to Wordsworth at Grasmere in 1805; and the two
poets had corresponded occasionally since then,--Scott decidedly
more deferential to Wordsworth than Wordsworth was to Scott.--M.
Except, therefore, with the Lloyds, or occasionally with Thomas
Wilkinson the Quaker, or very rarely with Southey, Wordsworth had no
intercourse at all beyond the limits of Grasmere: and in that valley I
was myself, for some years, his sole visiting friend; as, on the other
hand, my sole visitors as regarded that vale, were himself and his
family.
Among that family, and standing fourth in the series of his children,
was a little girl, whose life, short as it was, and whose death,
obscure and little heard of as it was amongst all the rest of the
world, connected themselves with the records of my own life by ties of
passion so profound, by a grief so frantic, and so memorable through
the injurious effects which it produced of a physical kind, that,
had I left untouched every other chapter of my own experience, I
should certainly have left behind some memorandum of this, as having
a permanent interest in the psychological history of human nature.
Luckily the facts are not without a parallel, and in well authenticated
medical books; else I should have scrupled (as what man does _not_
scruple who values, above all things, the reputation for veracity?) to
throw the whole stress of credibility on my own unattached narration.
But all experienced physicians know well that cases similar to mine,
though not common, occur at intervals in every large community.
When I first settled in Grasmere, Catherine Wordsworth was in her
infancy, but, even at that age, noticed me more than any other person,
excepting, of course, her mother. She had for an attendant a young
girl, perhaps thirteen years old--Sarah, one of the orphan children
left by the unfortunate couple, George and Sarah Green, whose tragical
end in a snow-storm I have already narrated.[181] This Sarah Green was
as far removed in character as could be imagined from that elder sister
who had won so much admiration in her childish days, by her premature
display of energy and household virtues. She was lazy, luxurious,
and sensual: one, in fact, of those nurses who, in their anxiety to
gossip about young men, leave their infant or youthful charges to
the protection of chance. It was, however, not in her out-of-door
ramblings, but at home, that the accident occurred which determined
the fortunes of little Catherine. Mr. Coleridge was at that time a
visitor to the Wordsworths at Allan Bank, that house in Grasmere to
which Wordsworth had removed upon quitting his cottage. One day about
noon, when, perhaps, he was coming down to breakfast, Mr. Coleridge
passed Sarah Green, playing after her indolent fashion with the child;
and between them lay a number of carrots. He warned the girl that raw
carrots were an indigestible substance for the stomach of an infant.
This warning was neglected: little Catherine ate--it was never known
how many; and, in a short time, was seized with strong convulsions.
I saw her in this state about two P.M. No medical aid was to be had
nearer than Ambleside; about six miles distant. However, all proper
measures were taken; and, by sunset, she had so far recovered as to
be pronounced out of danger. Her left side, however, left arm, and
left leg, from that time forward, were in a disabled state: not what
could be called paralyzed, but suffering a sort of atony or imperfect
distribution of vital power.
[181] The story will appear in a future volume.--M.
Catherine was not above three years old when she died; so that there
could not have been much room for the expansion of her understanding,
or the unfolding of her real character. But there was room enough in
her short life, and too much, for love the most frantic to settle
upon her. The whole vale of Grasmere is not large enough to allow of
any great distances between house and house; and, as it happened that
little Kate Wordsworth returned my love, she in a manner lived with
me at my solitary cottage; as often as I could entice her from home,
walked with me, slept with me, and was my sole companion. That I was
not singular in ascribing some witchery to the nature and manners of
this innocent child, you may gather from the following most beautiful
lines extracted from a sketch[182] towards her portraiture, drawn by
her father (with whom, however, she was noways a favourite):--
"And, as a faggot sparkles on the hearth,
Not less if unattended and alone
Than when both young and old sit gathered round
And take delight in its activity;
Even so this happy creature of herself
Was all sufficient: solitude to her
Was blithe society, who filled the air
With gladness and involuntary songs.
Light were her sallies as the tripping fawn's,
Forth-startled from the form where she lay couch'd;
Unthought of, unexpected, as the stir
Of the soft breeze ruffling the meadow-flowers,
Or from before it chasing wantonly
The many-coloured images impressed
Upon the bosom of a placid lake."
It was this radiant spirit of joyousness, making solitude for her
blithe society, and filling from morning to night the air "with
gladness and involuntary songs," this it was which so fascinated my
heart that I became blindly, doatingly, in a servile degree, devoted
to this one affection. In the spring of 1812, I went up to London; and,
early in June, by a letter from Miss Wordsworth, her aunt, I learned
the terrific news (for such to me it was) that she had died suddenly.
She had gone to bed in good health about sunset on June 4th; was found
speechless a little before midnight; and died in the early dawn, just
as the first gleams of morning began to appear above Seat Sandel and
Fairfield, the mightiest of the Grasmere barriers, about an hour,
perhaps, before sunrise.
[182] It is entitled "Characteristics of a Child Three Years Old";
and is dated at the foot 1811, which must be an oversight, for she
was not so old until the following year. I may as well add the
first six lines, though I had a reason for beginning the extract
where it does, in order to fix the attention upon the special
circumstance which had so much fascinated myself, of her
all-sufficiency to herself, and the way in which she "filled the
air with gladness and involuntary songs." The other lines are
these:
"Loving she is and tractable, though wild;
And Innocence hath privilege in her
To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes;
And feats of cunning; and the pretty round
Of trespasses, affected to provoke
Mock-chastisement and partnership in play."
Never, perhaps, from the foundations of those mighty hills, was there
so fierce a convulsion of grief as mastered my faculties on receiving
that heart-shattering news. Over and above my excess of love for her,
I had always viewed her as an impersonation of the dawn and the spirit
of infancy; and this abstraction seated in her person, together with
the visionary sort of connexion which, even in her parting hours, she
assumed with the summer sun, by timing her immersion into the cloud
of death with the rising and setting of that fountain of life,--these
combined impressions recoiled so violently into a contrast or polar
antithesis to the image of death that each exalted and brightened the
other. I returned hastily to Grasmere; stretched myself every night,
for more than two months running, upon her grave; in fact, often
passed the night upon her grave; not (as may readily be supposed) in
any parade of grief; on the contrary, in that quiet valley of simple
shepherds, I was secure enough from observation until morning light
began to return; but in mere intensity of sick, frantic yearning after
neighbourhood to the darling of my heart. Many readers will have seen
in Sir Walter Scott's "Demonology," and in Dr. Abercrombie's "Inquiries
concerning the Intellectual Powers," some remarkable illustrations of
the creative faculties awakened in the eye or other organs by peculiar
states of passion; and it is worthy of a place amongst cases of that
nature that, in many solitary fields, at a considerable elevation
above the level of the valleys,--fields which, in the local dialect,
are called "intacks,"--my eye was haunted at times, in broad noonday
(oftener, however, in the afternoon), with a facility, but at times
also with a necessity, for weaving, out of a few simple elements, a
perfect picture of little Kate in the attitude and onward motion of
walking. I resorted constantly to these "intacks," as places where I
was little liable to disturbance; and usually I saw her at the opposite
side of the field, which might sometimes be at a distance of a quarter
of a mile, generally not so much. Always almost she carried a basket
on her head; and usually the first hint upon which the figure arose
commenced in wild plants, such as tall ferns, or the purple flowers
of the foxglove; but, whatever might be the colours or the forms,
uniformly the same little full-formed figure arose, uniformly dressed
in the little blue bed-gown and black skirt of Westmoreland, and
uniformly with the air of advancing motion. Through part of June, July,
and part of August, in fact throughout the summer, this frenzy of grief
continued. It was reasonably to be expected that nature would avenge
such senseless self-surrender to passion; for, in fact, so far from
making an effort to resist it, I clung to it as a luxury (which, in
the midst of suffering, it really was in part). All at once, on a day
at the latter end of August, in one instant of time, I was seized with
some nervous sensation that, for a moment, caused sickness. A glass
of brandy removed the sickness; but I felt, to my horror, a sting as
it were, of some stationary torment left behind--a torment absolutely
indescribable, but under which I felt assured that life could not be
borne. It is useless and impossible to describe what followed: with
no apparent illness discoverable to any medical eye--looking, indeed,
better than usual for three months and upwards, I was under the
possession of some internal nervous malady, that made each respiration
which I drew an act of separate anguish. I travelled southwards
immediately to Liverpool, to Birmingham, to Bristol, to Bath, for
medical advice; and finally rested--in a gloomy state of despair,
rather because I saw no use in further change than that I looked for
any change in this place more than others--at Clifton, near Bristol.
Here it was, at length, in the course of November, that, in one hour,
my malady began to leave me: it was not quite so abrupt, however, in
its departure, as in its first development: a peculiar sensation arose
from the knee downwards, about midnight: it went forwards through a
space of about five hours, and then stopped, leaving me perfectly free
from every trace of the awful malady which had possessed me, but so
much debilitated as with difficulty to stand or walk. Going down soon
after this, to Ilfracombe, in Devonshire, where there were hot sea
baths, I found it easy enough to restore my shattered strength. But the
remarkable fact in this catastrophe of my illness is that all grief
for little Kate Wordsworth, nay, all remembrance of her, had, with my
malady, vanished from my mind. The traces of her innocent features
were utterly washed away from my heart: she might have been dead for a
thousand years, so entirely abolished was the last lingering image of
her face or figure. The little memorials of her which her mother had
given to me, as, in particular, a pair of her red morocco shoes, won
not a sigh from me as I looked at them: even her little grassy grave,
white with snow, when I returned to Grasmere in January, 1813, was
looked at almost with indifference; except, indeed, as now become a
memorial to me of that dire internal physical convulsion thence arising
by which I had been shaken and wrenched; and, in short, a case more
entirely realizing the old Pagan superstition of a nympholepsy in the
first place, and, secondly, of a Lethe or river of oblivion, and the
possibility, by one draught from this potent stream, of applying an
everlasting ablution to all the soils and stains of human anguish, I do
not suppose the psychological history of man affords.[183]
[183] The paper in _Tait's Magazine_ for August 1840 does not end
here, but includes all the matter of the next short chapter. As
that matter changes the scene from the Lakes, however, better to
put it in a chapter by itself.--M.