“Calm is the air, and loth to lose
Day’s grateful warmth, tho’ moist with falling dews.
Look for the stars, you’ll say that there are none;
Look up a second time, and one by one,
You mark them twinkling out with silvery light,
And wonder how they could elude the sight!
The birds, of late so noisy in their bowers,
Warbled awhile with faint and fainter powers,
But now are silent as the dim-seen flowers.
Nor does the village church clock’s iron tone
The time’s and season’s influence disown;
Nine beats distinctly to each other bound
In drowsy sequence--how unlike the sound
That in rough winter, oft inflicts a fear
On fireside listeners, doubting what they hear!
The shepherd, bent on rising with the sun,
Had closed his door before the day was done,
And now with thankful heart to bed doth creep,
And joins the little children in their sleep.
The bat, lured forth where trees the lane o’ershade,
Flits and reflits along the dark arcade;
The busy dor-hawk chases the white moth
With burring note, which industry and sloth
Might both be pleased with, for it suits them both.
A stream is heard--I see it not but know
By its soft music where the waters flow:
Wheels and the tread of hoofs are heard no more;
One boat there was, but it will touch the shore
With the next dipping of its slackened oar;
Faint sound that for the gayest of the gay,
Might give to serious thought a moment’s sway,
As a last token of man’s toilsome day.”
Wordsworth does not seem, during any period of his life, to have been on
intimate terms with any of his contemporaries. He preferred the flower
of the literateurs, Coleridge, Scott, Southey; and these, with the
exception perhaps of Rogers, were his chief friends. We have letters of
his, however, to much smaller fry; to Mrs. Hemans, and Miss Jewsbury,
for example--and to sundry editors of other men’s wares; but there is
little or no recognition of Byron, Shelly, Keats, Tennyson, Baily,
Campbell, Moore, nor yet of Dickens or Bulwer. His letters represent
his character even better than his poetry; they are Wordsworth in
undress, without the “garland and singing robe,” and are worthy to be
studied. I like much what he says to the Rev. Robert Montgomery, author
of “The Devil and Father Luther,” and pious Robert would do well even at
this late day to think on it. Montgomery had sent Wordsworth a copy of
his poems, and in reply, the poet answers: “I cannot conclude without
one word of literary advice which I hope you will deem my advanced age
entitles me to give. Do not, my dear sir, be anxious about any
individual’s opinion concerning your writings, however highly you may
think of his genius, or rate his judgment. Be a severe critic to
yourself; and depend upon it no person’s decision upon the merit of your
works will bear comparison in point of value with your own. You must be
conscious from what feeling they have flowed, and how far they may or
may not be allowed to claim on that account, permanent respect; and
above all I would remind you, with a view to tranquillise and steady
your mind, that no man takes the trouble of surveying and pondering
another’s writings with a hundredth part of the care which an author of
sense and genius will have bestowed upon his own. Add to this reflection
another, which I press upon you, as it has supported me through
life--viz.: That posterity will settle all accounts justly, and that
works which deserve to last will last; and if undeserving this fate, the
sooner they perish the better.”
In the year 1836 the sister of the poet’s wife--Miss Sarah Hutchinson,
who had resided with the family at Rydal, died, and was buried in
Grasmere church, “near the graves of two young children removed from a
family to which through life she was devoted.”
In the following year, 1837, Wordsworth, accompanied by his friend H. C.
Robinson, Esq., set off from London for Rome, returning in August. The
“Itinerary” of the travellers is contained in the “Memoirs,” along with
some memoranda by the poet; but they are not of much interest. Many fine
pieces, however, sprung as usual from the journey, as well as a goodly
number of sonnets. They originally appeared in a volume entitled “Poems,
chiefly of Early and Late Years,” in 1842. In 1839, Wordsworth received
the degree of D.C.L., from the University of Oxford, which was conferred
on him in the Sheldonian Theatre, amidst shouts of rejoicing such as had
never before been heard in that city, except upon the occasion of an
unexpected visit of the Duke of Wellington. In 1838, Wordsworth prepared
a new edition of his poems, to be published by Moxon, and continued to
live at Rydal, in his quiet and musical manner, writing poems, taking
rambles, and conducting his correspondence until 1843, when he was
appointed Poet Laureate of England, Southey having died on the 21st of
March of that year, and the appointment having been offered to
Wordsworth on the 31st of the same month. One occurrence only broke the
even tenor of the poet’s life in the interim alluded to, and this was an
accident by which he was upset from his gig, and thrown violently into a
plantation. The accident was owing to the carelessness and want of skill
in the driver of a coach, which they met on the road. No serious
consequences followed, however, and inquiries and congratulations flowed
in on all sides, from the peasant up to Queen Adelaide.
From the time of Wordsworth’s appointment as Laureate,--which it ought
to be said he at first refused, and only accepted with the understanding
that it should be an honorary office,--he wrote very little poetry. His
work, indeed, was done, his mission accomplished; and his old days were
spent in rambling over the hills, and in the quiet enjoyment of his
family, friends, fame, and fortune. Honours of a high order were
subsequently heaped upon him. In the year 1838, the University of Durham
took the initiative in conferring an academic degree on the poet; then
the grand old Mother, Oxford, followed,--and in 1846 he was put in
nomination, without his knowledge, for the office of Lord Rector of the
University of Oxford, and gained a majority of twenty-one votes, in
opposition to the premier, Lord John Russell. “The forms of election,
however,” says Wordsworth, in a letter to Sir W. Gomm, of Port Louis,
Mauritius, dated November 23, 1846, “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 result, being too advanced
in life to undertake with comfort any considerable public duty, and it
might have seemed ungracious to have declined the office.”
On the 20th of January, 1847, Mr. William Wordsworth, the younger son of
the poet, was married at Brighton, to Fanny Eliza Graham, youngest
daughter of Reginald Graham, Esq., of Brighton, who was a native of
Cumberland; and whilst the joy of this event was still fresh in the
hearts of the Rydal household, a dread calamity awaited them in the
death of Mrs. Quillinan--the sweet Dora so often spoken of in these
pages, the beloved daughter of the poet. As previously stated, she had
accompanied her husband to Portugal for the benefit of her health,--and
although the change seemed at first to have operated favourably upon
her, it was soon evident, on her return home, that she was doomed for
the silent bourne of all travellers in this world. She died on the 9th
day of July, 1847, and was buried in Grasmere church-yard. Her death was
a terrible blow to the venerable poet, now in his eightieth year,--but
he bore up patiently, with the heart and hope of a Christian.
Three years after this sad loss, Wordsworth himself was summoned away.
On Sunday, the 10th of March, 1850, he attended at Rydal chapel for the
last time, visiting, during the day, a poor old woman, who had once been
his servant, and another person who was sick, and as the poet said,
“never complained.”
“On the afternoon of the following day, he went towards Grasmere, to
meet his two nieces, who were coming from Town End. He called at the
cottage near the White Moss Quarry, and the occupant being within, _he
sat down on the stone seat of the porch, to watch the setting sun_. It
was a cold, bright day. His friend and neighbour, Mr. Roughsedge, came
to drink tea at Rydal, but Mr. Wordsworth not being well, went early to
bed.”
From this time he gradually grew worse; and in order to convey to him
the impressions of his physicians, Mrs. Wordsworth whispered in a soft
voice, full of deep devotion, “Dear William, you are going to Dora.” How
delicate, how affectionate, how poetical! But the poet did not hear, or
did not seem to hear; and yet, twenty-four hours after, when one of his
nieces came into the room, and gently drew aside the curtains of his
bed, he caught a glimpse of her figure, and asked, “Is that Dora?”
On the 23rd of April--the birth-day, and death-day of Shakspeare, the
great-hearted Wordsworth went back again to God.
He was buried on the 27th, in Grasmere church-yard.
Those who would know more of the poet must go to his writings; and, I
may add, that the “Memoirs” of Dr. Wordsworth are indispensable to a
full understanding both of the Poet and the Man. His letters, containing
his most private thoughts, are printed there with plentiful profuseness;
and the “Memoranda” respecting the origin of his poems are intensely
interesting and important to all students of Wordsworth. The
reminiscences of various persons who knew him, set the character of the
poet before us in strong relief. All agree in speaking of him as a most
kindly, affectionate, and hospitable man, living with the simple tastes
and manners of a patriarch, in his beautiful home. My limits prevent me
from entering into an analysis of his mind and character, as I had
intended to do; I must reserve this work, therefore, for another
occasion, and will conclude with a few quotations from the poet’s
“Table-Talk,” respecting his cotemporaries.--Speaking of Goethe, he
says:--
“He does not seem to me to be a great poet in either of the classes of
poets. At the head of the first I would place Homer and Shakspeare,
whose universal minds are able to reach every variety of thought and
feeling, without bringing his own individuality before the reader. They
infuse, they breathe life into every object they approach, but you
cannot find _themselves_. At the head of the second class, those whom
you can trace individually in all they write, I would place Spenser and
Milton. In all that Spenser writes, you can trace the gentle,
affectionate spirit of the man; in all that Milton writes, you find the
exalted, sustained being that he was. Now, in what Goethe writes, who
aims to be of the first class, the _universal_, you find the man
himself, the artificial man, where he should not be found; so that I
consider him a very artificial writer, aiming to be universal, and yet
constantly exposing his individuality, which his character was not of a
kind to dignify. He had not sufficiently clear moral perceptions to make
him anything but an artificial writer.