[Footnote 40: Probably some of the lines afterwards included in _The
Excursion._--ED.]
* * * * * *
_Friday, 20th._--We walked in the morning to Easedale. In the evening we
had cheerful letters from Coleridge and Sara.
_Saturday, 21st._--We walked in the morning, and paid one pound and 4d.
for letters. William out of spirits. We had a pleasant walk and spent a
pleasant evening. There was a furious wind and cold at night. Mr.
Simpson drank tea with us, and helped William out with the boat. Wm. and
Mary walked to the Swan, homewards, with him. A keen clear frosty night.
I went into the orchard while they were out.
_Sunday, 22nd._--We wrote to Coleridge.
* * * * * *
_Tuesday, 24th._-- ... It was very windy, and we heard the wind
everywhere about us as we went along the lane, but the walls sheltered
us. John Green's house looked pretty under Silver How. As we were going
along we were stopped at once, at the distance perhaps of 50 yards from
our favourite birch tree. It was yielding to the gusty wind with all its
tender twigs. The sun shone upon it, and it glanced in the wind like a
flying sunshiny shower. It was a tree in shape, with stem and branches,
but it was like a spirit of water. The sun went in, and it resumed its
purplish appearance, the twigs still yielding to the wind, but not so
visibly to us. The other birch trees that were near it looked bright and
cheerful, but it was a creature by its own self among them.... We went
through the wood. It became fair. There was a rainbow which spanned the
lake from the island-house to the foot of Bainriggs. The village looked
populous and beautiful. Catkins are coming out; palm trees budding; the
alder, with its plum-coloured buds. We came home over the
stepping-stones. The lake was foamy with white waves. I saw a solitary
butter-flower in the wood.... Reached home at dinner time. Sent Peggy
Ashburner some goose. She sent me some honey, with a thousand thanks.
"Alas! the gratitude of men has," etc.[41] I went in to set her right
about this, and sate a while with her. She talked about Thomas's having
sold his land. "I," says she, "said many a time he's not come fra London
to buy our land, however." Then she told me with what pains and industry
they had made up their taxes, interest, etc. etc., how they all got up
at 5 o'clock in the morning to spin and Thomas carded, and that they had
paid off a hundred pounds of the interest. She said she used to take
much pleasure in the cattle and sheep. "O how pleased I used to be when
they fetched them down, and when I had been a bit poorly I would gang
out upon a hill and look over't fields and see them, and it used to do
me so much good you cannot think." Molly said to me when I came in,
"Poor body! she's very ill, but one does not know how long she may last.
Many a fair face may gang before her." We sate by the fire without work
for some time, then Mary read a poem of Daniel.... Wm. read Spenser, now
and then, a little aloud to us. We were making his waistcoat. We had a
note from Mrs. C., with bad news from poor C.--very ill. William went to
John's Grove. I went to find him. Moonlight, but it rained.... He had
been surprised, and terrified, by a sudden rushing of winds, which
seemed to bring earth, sky, and lake together, as if the whole were
going to enclose him in. He was glad he was in a high road.
[Footnote 41: See, in the "Poetical Works," _Simon Lee_, II. 95, 96,
vol. i. p. 268.--ED.]
In speaking of our walk on Sunday evening, the 22nd November, I forgot
to notice one most impressive sight. It was the moon and the moonlight
seen through hurrying driving clouds immediately behind the Stone-Man
upon the top of the hill, on the forest side. Every tooth and every edge
of rock was visible, and the Man stood like a giant watching from the
roof of a lofty castle. The hill seemed perpendicular from the darkness
below it. It was a sight that I could call to mind at any time, it was
so distinct.
_Wednesday, 25th November._--It was a showery morning and threatened to
be a wettish day, but the sun shone once or twice. We were engaged to
Mr. Lloyd's and Wm. and Mary were determined to go that it might be
over. I accompanied them to the thorn beside Rydale water. I parted from
them first at the top of the hill, and they called me back. It rained a
little, and rained afterwards all the afternoon. I baked bread, and
wrote to Sara Hutchinson and Coleridge. I passed a pleasant evening, but
the wind roared so, and it was such a storm that I was afraid for them.
They came in at nine o'clock, no worse for their walk, and cheerful,
blooming, and happy.
_Thursday, 26th._--Mr. Olliff called before Wm. was up to say that they
would drink tea with us this afternoon. We walked into Easedale, to
gather mosses, and to fetch cream. I went for the cream, and they sate
under a wall. It was piercing cold.
* * * * * *
_Thursday, 3rd December 1801._--Wm. walked into Easedale. Hail and
snow.... I wrote a little bit of my letter to Coleridge....
_Friday, 4th._-- ... Wm. translating _The Prioress's Tale_. William and
Mary walked after tea to Rydale. I finished the letter to Coleridge, and
we received a letter from him and Sara. C.'s letter written in good
spirits. A letter of Lamb's about George Dyer with it.[42]
[Footnote 42: An unprinted letter.--ED.]
_Saturday, 5th._-- ... Wm. finished _The Prioress's Tale_, and after tea
Mary and he wrote it out....
_Sunday, 6th._--A very fine beautiful sunshiny morning. Wm. worked a
while at Chaucer, then we set forward to walk into Easedale.... We
walked backwards and forwards in the flat field, which makes the second
course of Easedale, with that beautiful rock in the field beside us, and
all the rocks and the woods and the mountains enclosing us round. The
sun was shining among them, the snow thinly scattered upon the tops of
the mountains. In the afternoon we sate by the fire: I read Chaucer
aloud, and Mary read the first canto of _The Fairy Queen_. After tea
Mary and I walked to Ambleside for letters.... It was a sober starlight
evening. The stars not shining as it were with all their brightness when
they were visible, and sometimes hiding themselves behind small greying
clouds, that passed soberly along. We opened C.'s letter at Wilcock's
door. We thought we saw that he wrote in good spirits, so we came
happily homewards where we arrived 2 hours after we left home. It was a
sad melancholy letter, and prevented us all from sleeping.
_Monday Morning, 7th._--We rose by candlelight. A showery unpleasant
morning, after a downright rainy night. We determined, however, to go to
Keswick if possible, and we set off a little after 9 o'clock. When we
were upon the Raise, it snowed very much; and the whole prospect closed
in upon us, like a moorland valley, upon a moor very wild. But when we
were at the top of the Raise we saw the mountains before us. The sun
shone upon them, here and there; and Wytheburn vale, though wild, looked
soft. The day went on cheerfully and pleasantly. Now and then a hail
shower attacked us; but we kept up a good heart, for Mary is a famous
jockey.... We reached Greta Hall at about one o'clock. Met Mrs. C. in
the field. Derwent in the cradle asleep. Hartley at his dinner. Derwent
the image of his father. Hartley well. We wrote to C. Mrs. C. left us at
1/2 past 2. We drank tea by ourselves, the children playing about us.
Mary said to Hartley, "Shall I take Derwent with me?" "No," says H., "I
cannot spare my little brother," in the sweetest tone possible, "and he
can't do without his mamma." "Well," says Mary, "why can't I be his
mamma? Can't he have more mammas than one?" "No," says H. "What for?"
"Because they do not love, and mothers do." "What is the difference
between mothers and mammas?" Looking at his sleeves, "Mothers wear
sleeves like this, pulling his own tight down, and mammas" (pulling them
up, and making a bustle about his shoulders) "so." We parted from them
at 4 o'clock. It was a little of the dusk when we set off. Cotton mills
lighted up. The first star at Nadel Fell, but it was never dark. We rode
very briskly. Snow upon the Raise. Reached home at seven o'clock.
William at work with Chaucer, _The God of Love_. Sate latish. I wrote a
letter to Coleridge.
_Tuesday, 8th December 1801._--A dullish, rainyish morning. Wm. at work
with Chaucer. I read Bruce's _Lochleven_.... William worked at _The
Cuckoo and the Nightingale_ till he was tired....
_Wednesday Morning, 9th December._-- ... I read _Palemon and
Arcite_.... William writing out his alteration of Chaucer's _Cuckoo and
Nightingale_.... When I had finished a letter to C., ... Mary and I
walked into Easedale, and backwards and forwards in that large field
under George Rawson's white cottage. We had intended gathering mosses,
and for that purpose we turned into the green lane, behind the tailor's,
but it was too dark to see the mosses. The river came galloping past the
Church, as fast as it could come; and when we got into Easedale we saw
Churn Milk Force, like a broad stream of snow at the little foot-bridge.
We stopped to look at the company of rivers, which came hurrying down
the vale, this way and that. It was a valley of streams and islands,
with that great waterfall at the head, and lesser falls in different
parts of the mountains, coming down to these rivers. We could hear the
sound of the lesser falls, but we could not see them. We walked
backwards and forwards till all distant objects, except the white shape
of the waterfall and the lines of the mountains, were gone. We had the
crescent moon when we went out, and at our return there were a few stars
that shone dimly, but it was a grey cloudy night.
_Thursday, 10th December._-- ... We walked into Easedale to gather
mosses, and then we went ... up the Gill, beyond that little waterfall.
It was a wild scene of crag and mountain. One craggy point rose above
the rest irregular and rugged, and very impressive it was. We were very
unsuccessful in our search after mosses. Just when the evening was
closing in, Mr. Clarkson came to the door. It was a fine frosty evening.
We played at cards.
* * * * * *
_Saturday, 12th._-- ... Snow upon the ground.... All looked cheerful
and bright. Helm Crag rose very bold and craggy, a Being by itself, and
behind it was the large ridge of mountain, smooth as marble and snow
white. All the mountains looked like solid stone, on our left, going
from Grasmere, _i.e._ White Moss and Nab Scar. The snow hid all the
grass, and all signs of vegetation, and the rocks showed themselves
boldly everywhere, and seemed more stony than rock or stone. The birches
on the crags beautiful, red brown and glittering. The ashes glittering
spears with their upright stems. The hips very beautiful, and so good!!
and, dear Coleridge! I ate twenty for thee, when I was by myself. I came
home first. They walked too slow for me. Wm. went to look at Langdale
Pikes. We had a sweet invigorating walk. Mr. Clarkson came in before
tea. We played at cards. Sate up late. The moon shone upon the waters
below Silver How, and above it hung, combining with Silver How on one
side, a bowl-shaped moon, the curve downwards, the white fields,
glittering roof of Thomas Ashburner's house, the dark yew tree, the
white fields gay and beautiful. Wm. lay with his curtains open that he
might see it.
_Sunday, 13th._--Mr. Clarkson left us, leading his horse.... The boy
brought letters from Coleridge, and from Sara. Sara in bad spirits about
C.
_Monday, 14th December._--Wm. and Mary walked to Ambleside in the
morning to buy mouse-traps.... I wrote to Coleridge a very long letter
while they were absent. Sate by the fire in the evening reading.
* * * * * *
_Thursday, 17th._--Snow in the night and still snowing.... Ambleside
looked excessively beautiful as we came out--like a village in another
country; and the light cheerful mountains were seen, in the long
distance, as bright and as clear as at mid-day, with the blue sky above
them. We heard waterfowl calling out by the lake side. Jupiter was very
glorious above the Ambleside hills, and one large star hung over the
corner of the hills on the opposite side of Rydale water.
_Friday, 18th December 1801._--Mary and Wm. walked round the two lakes.
I staid at home to make bread. I afterwards went to meet them, and I met
Wm. Mary had gone to look at Langdale Pikes. It was a cheerful glorious
day. The birches and all trees beautiful, hips bright red, mosses green.
I wrote to Coleridge.
* * * * * *
_Sunday, 20th December._--It snowed all day. It was a very deep snow.
The brooms were very beautiful, arched feathers with wiry stalks pointed
to the end, smaller and smaller. They waved gently with the weight of
the snow.
_Monday 21st_ being the shortest day, Mary walked to Ambleside for
letters. It was a wearisome walk, for the snow lay deep upon the roads
and it was beginning to thaw. I stayed at home. Wm. sate beside me, and
read _The Pedlar_. He was in good spirits, and full of hope of what he
should do with it. He went to meet Mary, and they brought four
letters--two from Coleridge, one from Sara, and one from France.
Coleridge's were melancholy letters. He had been very ill. We were made
very unhappy. Wm. wrote to him, and directed the letter into
Somersetshire. I finished it after tea. In the afternoon Mary and I
ironed.
_Tuesday, 22nd._-- ... Wm. composed a few lines of _The Pedlar_. We
talked about Lamb's tragedy as we went down the White Moss. We stopped a
long time in going to watch a little bird with a salmon-coloured breast,
a white cross or T upon its wings, and a brownish back with faint
stripes.... It began to pick upon the road at the distance of four yards
from us, and advanced nearer and nearer till it came within the length
of W.'s stick, without any apparent fear of us. As we came up the White
Moss, we met an old man, who I saw was a beggar by his two bags hanging
over his shoulder; but, from half laziness, half indifference, and
wanting to _try_ him, if he would speak, I let him pass. He said
nothing, and my heart smote me. I turned back, and said, "You are
begging?" "Ay," says he. I gave him something. William, judging from his
appearance, joined in, "I suppose you were a sailor?" "Ay," he replied,
"I have been 57 years at sea, 12 of them on board a man-of-war under Sir
Hugh Palmer." "Why have you not a pension?" "I have no pension, but I
could have got into Greenwich hospital, but all my officers are dead."
He was 75 years of age, had a freshish colour in his cheeks, grey hair,
a decent hat with a binding round the edge, the hat worn brown and
glossy, his shoes were small thin shoes low in the quarters, pretty
good. They had belonged to a gentleman. His coat was frock shaped,
coming over his thighs. It had been joined up at the seams behind with
paler blue, to let it out, and there were three bell-shaped patches of
darker blue behind, where the buttons had been. His breeches were either
of fustian, or grey cloth, with strings hanging down, whole and tight.
He had a checked shirt on, and a small coloured handkerchief tied round
his neck. His bags were hung over each shoulder, and lay on each side of
him, below his breast. One was brownish and of coarse stuff, the other
was white with meal on the outside, and his blue waistcoat was whitened
with meal.
* * * * * *
We overtook old Fleming at Rydale, leading his little Dutchman-like
grandchild along the slippery road. The same face seemed to be natural
to them both--the old man and the little child--and they went hand in
hand, the grandfather cautious, yet looking proud of his charge. He had
two patches of new cloth at the shoulder-blades of his faded
claret-coloured coat, like eyes at each shoulder, not worn elsewhere. I
found Mary at home in her riding-habit, all her clothes being put up. We
were very sad about Coleridge.... We stopped to look at the stone seat
at the top of the hill. There was a white cushion upon it, round at the
edge like a cushion, and the rock behind looked soft as velvet, of a
vivid green, and so tempting! The snow too looked as soft as a down
cushion. A young foxglove, like a star, in the centre. There were a few
green lichens about it, and a few withered brackens of fern here and
there upon the ground near, all else was a thick snow; no footmark to
it, not the foot of a sheep.... We sate snugly round the fire. I read to
them the Tale of Constance and the Syrian monarch, in the _Man of Lawe's
Tale_, also some of the _Prologue_....
_Wednesday, 23rd._-- ... Mary wrote out the Tales from Chaucer for
Coleridge. William worked at _The Ruined Cottage_ and made himself very
ill.... A broken soldier came to beg in the morning. Afterwards a tall
woman, dressed somewhat in a tawdry style, with a long checked muslin
apron, a beaver hat, and throughout what are called good clothes. Her
daughter had gone before, with a soldier and his wife. She had buried
her husband at Whitehaven, and was going back into Cheshire.
_Thursday, 24th._--Still a thaw. Wm., Mary, and I sate comfortably
round the fire in the evening, and read Chaucer. Thoughts of last year.
I took out my old Journal.
_Friday, 25th._--_Christmas Day._ We received a letter from Coleridge.
His letter made us uneasy about him. I was glad I was not by myself when
I received it.
_Saturday, 26th._-- ... We walked to Rydale. Grasmere Lake a beautiful
image of stillness, clear as glass, reflecting all things. The wind was
up, and the waters sounding. The lake of a rich purple, the fields a
soft yellow, the island yellowish-green, the copses red-brown, the
mountains purple, the church and buildings, how quiet they were! Poor
Coleridge, Sara, and dear little Derwent here last year at this time.
After tea we sate by the fire comfortably. I read aloud _The Miller's
Tale_. Wrote to Coleridge.... Wm. wrote part of the poem to
Coleridge.[43]
[Footnote 43: See _Stanzas, written in my Pocket Copy of Thomson's
Castle of Indolence_, "Poetical Works," vol. ii. p. 305.--ED.]
_Sunday, 27th._--A fine soft beautiful mild day, with gleams of
sunshine. William went to take in his boat. I sate in John's Grove a
little while. Mary came home. Mary wrote some lines of the third part of
his poem, which he brought to read to us, when we came home....
_Monday, 28th of December._--William, Mary, and I set off on foot to
Keswick. We carried some cold mutton in our pockets, and dined at John
Stanley's, where they were making Christmas pies. The sun shone, but it
was coldish. We parted from Wm. upon the Raise. He joined us opposite
Sara's rock. He was busy in composition, and sate down upon the wall. We
did not see him again till we arrived at John Stanley's. There we
roasted apples in the room. After we had left John Stanley's, Wm.
discovered that he had lost his gloves. He turned back, but they were
gone. Wm. rested often. Once he left his Spenser, and Mary turned back
for it, and found it upon the bank, where we had last rested.... We
reached Greta Hall at about 1/2 past 5 o'clock. The children and Mrs. C.
well. After tea, message came from Wilkinson, who had passed us on the
road, inviting Wm. to sup at the Oak. He went. Met a young man (a
predestined Marquis) called Johnston. He spoke to him familiarly of the
L. B. He had seen a copy presented by the Queen to Mrs. Harcourt. Said
he saw them everywhere, and wondered they did not sell. We all went
weary to bed....
_Tuesday, 29th._--A fine morning. A thin fog upon the hills which soon
disappeared. The sun shone. Wilkinson went with us to the top of the
hill. We turned out of the road at the second mile stone, and passed a
pretty cluster of houses at the foot of St. John's Vale. The houses were
among tall trees, partly of Scotch fir, and some naked forest trees. We
crossed a bridge just below these houses, and the river winded sweetly
along the meadows. Our road soon led us along the sides of dreary bare
hills, but we had a glorious prospect to the left of Saddleback,
half-way covered with snow, and underneath the comfortable white houses
and the village of Threlkeld. These houses and the village want trees
about them. Skiddaw was behind us, and dear Coleridge's desert home. As
we ascended the hills it grew very cold and slippery. Luckily, the wind
was at our backs, and helped us on. A sharp hail shower gathered at the
head of Martindale, and the view upwards was very grand--wild cottages,
seen through the hurrying hail-shower. The wind drove, and eddied about
and about, and the hills looked large and swelling through the storm. We
thought of Coleridge. O! the bonny nooks, and windings, and curlings of
the beck, down at the bottom of the steep green mossy banks. We dined at
the public-house on porridge, with a second course of Christmas pies. We
were well received by the landlady, and her little Jewish daughter was
glad to see us again. The husband a very handsome man. While we were
eating our dinner a traveller came in. He had walked over Kirkstone,
that morning. We were much amused by the curiosity of the landlord and
landlady to learn who he was, and by his mysterious manner of letting
out a little bit of his errand, and yet telling nothing. He had business
further up in the vale. He left them with this piece of information to
work upon, and I doubt not they discovered who he was and all his
business before the next day at that hour. The woman told us of the
riches of a Mr. Walker, formerly of Grasmere. We said, "What, does he do
nothing for his relations? He has a sickly sister at Grasmere." "Why,"
said the man, "I daresay if they had any sons to put forward he would do
it for them, but he has children of his own."
(_N.B._--His fortune is above £60,000, and he has two children!!)
The landlord went about a mile and a half with us to put us in the
right way. The road was often very slippery, the wind high, and it was
nearly dark before we got into the right road. I was often obliged to
crawl on all fours, and Mary fell many a time. A stout young man whom we
met on the hills, and who knew Mr. Clarkson, very kindly set us into the
right road, and we inquired again near some houses and were directed, by
a miserable, poverty-struck, looking woman, who had been fetching water,
to go down a miry lane. We soon got into the main road and reached Mr.
Clarkson's at tea time. Mary H. spent the next day with us, and we
walked on Dunmallet before dinner, but it snowed a little. The day
following, being New Year's Eve, we accompanied Mary to Howtown Bridge.
V
DOROTHY WORDSWORTH'S JOURNAL
WRITTEN AT GRASMERE
(FROM 1ST JANUARY 1802 TO 8TH JULY 1802)
EXTRACTS FROM DOROTHY WORDSWORTH'S JOURNAL (FROM 1ST JANUARY 1802
TO 8TH JULY 1802)
_New Year's Day._--We walked, Wm. and I, towards Martindale.
_January 2nd._--It snowed all day. We walked near to Dalemain in the
snow.
_January 3rd._--Sunday. Mary brought us letters from Sara and Coleridge
and we went with her homewards to ... Parted at the stile on the Pooley
side. Thomas Wilkinson dined with us and stayed supper.
I do not recollect how the rest of our time was spent exactly. We had a
very sharp frost which broke on Friday the 15th January, or rather on
the morning of Saturday 16th.
On Sunday the 17th we went to meet Mary. It was a mild gentle thaw.
She stayed with us till Friday, 22nd January. On Thursday we dined at
Mr. Myers's, and on Friday, 22nd, we parted from Mary. Before our
parting we sate under a wall in the sun near a cottage above Stainton
Bridge. The field in which we sate sloped downwards to a nearly level
meadow, round which the Emont flowed in a small half-circle as at
Lochleven.[44] The opposite bank is woody, steep as a wall, but not
high, and above that bank the fields slope gently, and irregularly down
to it. These fields are surrounded by tall hedges, with trees among
them, and there are clumps or grovelets of tall trees here and there.
Sheep and cattle were in the fields. Dear Mary! there we parted from
her. I daresay as often as she passes that road she will turn in at the
gate to look at this sweet prospect. There was a barn and I think two or
three cottages to be seen among the trees, and slips of lawn and
irregular fields. During our stay at Mr. Clarkson's we walked every day,
except that stormy Thursday. We dined at Thomas Wilkinson's on Friday
the 15th, and walked to Penrith for Mary. The trees were covered with
hoar-frost--grasses, and trees, and hedges beautiful; a glorious sunset;
frost keener than ever. Next day thaw. Mrs. Clarkson amused us with many
stories of her family and of persons whom she had known. I wish I had
set them down as I heard them, when they were fresh in my memory....
Mrs. Clarkson knew a clergyman and his wife who brought up ten children
upon a curacy, sent two sons to college, and he left £1000 when he died.
The wife was very generous, gave food and drink to all poor people. She
had a passion for feeding animals. She killed a pig with feeding it over
much. When it was dead she said, "To be sure it's a great loss, but I
thank God it did not die _clemmed_" (the Cheshire word for starved). Her
husband was very fond of playing back-gammon, and used to play whenever
he could get anybody to play with him. She had played much in her youth,
and was an excellent player; but her husband knew nothing of this, till
one day she said to him, "You're fond of back-gammon, come play with
me." He was surprised. She told him she had kept it to herself, while
she had a young family to attend to, but that now she would play with
him! So they began to play, and played every night. Mr. C. told us many
pleasant stories. His journey from London to Wisbeck on foot when a
schoolboy, knife and stick, postboy, etc., the white horse sleeping at
the turnpike gate snoring, the turnpike man's clock ticking, the burring
story, the story of the mastiff, bull-baiting by men at Wisbeck.
[Footnote 44: This refers probably to Loch Leven in Argyll, but its
point is not obvious, and Dorothy Wordsworth had not then been in
Scotland.--ED.]
On Saturday, January 23rd, we left Eusemere at 10 o'clock in the
morning, I behind Wm. Mr. Clarkson on his Galloway.[45] The morning not
very promising, the wind cold. The mountains large and dark, but only
thinly streaked with snow; a strong wind. We dined in Grisdale on ham,
bread, and milk. We parted from Mr. C. at one o'clock. It rained all the
way home. We struggled with the wind, and often rested as we went along.
A hail shower met us before we reached the Tarn, and the way often was
difficult over the snow; but at the Tarn the view closed in. We saw
nothing but mists and snow: and at first the ice on the Tarn below us
cracked and split, yet without water, a dull grey white. We lost our
path, and could see the Tarn no longer. We made our way out with
difficulty, guided by a heap of stones which we well remembered. We were
afraid of being bewildered in the mists, till the darkness should
overtake us. We were long before we knew that we were in the right
track, but thanks to William's skill we knew it long before we could see
our way before us. There was no footmark upon the snow either of man or
beast. We saw four sheep before we had left the snow region. The vale of
Grasmere, when the mists broke away, looked soft and grave, of a yellow
hue. It was dark before we reached home. O how happy and comfortable we
felt ourselves, sitting by our own fire, when we had got off our wet
clothes. We talked about the Lake of Como, read the description, looked
about us, and felt that we were happy....
[Footnote 45: A Galloway pony.--ED.]
_Sunday, 24th._--We went into the orchard as soon as breakfast was
over. Laid out the situation for our new room, and sauntered a while.
Wm. walked in the morning. I wrote to Coleridge....
_Monday, 25th January._-- ... Wm. tired with composition....
_Tuesday, 26th._-- ... We are going to walk, and I am ready and waiting
by the kitchen fire for Wm. We set forward intending to go into
Easedale, but the wind being loudish, and blowing down Easedale, we
walked under Silver How for a shelter. We went a little beyond the syke;
then up to John's Grove, where the storm of Thursday has made sad
ravages. Two of the finest trees are uprooted, one lying with the turf
about its root, as if the whole together had been pared by a knife. The
other is a larch. Several others are blown aside, one is snapped in two.
We gathered together a faggot. Wm. had tired himself with working.... We
received a letter from Mary with an account of C.'s arrival in London. I
wrote to Mary before bedtime.... Wm. wrote out part of his poem, and
endeavoured to alter it, and so made himself ill. I copied out the rest
for him. We went late to bed. Wm. wrote to Annette.[46]
[Footnote 46: See the "Poetical Works," vol. ii. p. 335.--ED.]
_Wednesday, 27th._--A beautiful mild morning; the sun shone; the lake
was still, and all the shores reflected in it. I finished my letter to
Mary. Wm. wrote to Stuart. I copied sonnets for him. Mr. Olliff called
and asked us to tea to-morrow. We stayed in the house till the sun shone
more dimly and we thought the afternoon was closing in, but though the
calmness of the Lake was gone with the bright sunshine, yet it was
delightfully pleasant. We found no letter from Coleridge. One from Sara
which we sate upon the wall to read; a sweet long letter, with a most
interesting account of Mr. Patrick. We cooked no dinner. Sate a while by
the fire, and then drank tea at Frank Raty's. As we went past the Nab I
was surprised to see the youngest child amongst them running about by
itself, with a canny round fat face, and rosy cheeks. I called in. They
gave me some nuts. Everybody surprised that we should come over
Grisdale. Paid £1: 3: 3 for letters come since December 1st. Paid also
about 8 shillings at Penrith. The bees were humming about the hive.
William raked a few stones off the garden, his first garden labour this
year. I cut the shrubs. When we returned from Frank's, Wm. wasted his
mind in the Magazines. I wrote to Coleridge, and Mrs. C., closed the
letters up to Samson. Then we sate by the fire, and were happy, only our
tender thoughts became painful.[47] Went to bed at 1/2 past 11.
[Footnote 47: Compare, in _Lines written in Early Spring_, vol. i.
p. 269--
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind. ED.]
_Thursday, 28th._--A downright rain. A wet night. Wm. wrote an epitaph,
and altered one that he wrote when he was a boy. It cleared up after
dinner. We were both in miserable spirits, and very doubtful about
keeping our engagements to the Olliffs. We walked first within view of
Rydale then to Lowthwaite, then we went to Mr. Olliff. We talked a
while. Wm. was tired. We then played at cards. Came home in the rain.
Very dark. Came with a lantern. Wm. out of spirits and tired. He called
at 1/4 past 3 to know the hour.
_Friday, 29th January._--Wm. was very unwell. Worn out with his bad
night's rest. I read to him, to endeavour to make him sleep. Then I came
into the other room, and I read the first book of _Paradise Lost_. After
dinner we walked to Ambleside.... A heart-rending letter from Coleridge.
We were sad as we could be. Wm. wrote to him. We talked about Wm.'s
going to London. It was a mild afternoon. There was an unusual softness
in the prospects as we went, a rich yellow upon the fields, and a soft
grave purple on the waters. When we returned many stars were out, the
clouds were moveless, and the sky soft purple, the lake of Rydale calm,
Jupiter behind. Jupiter at least _we_ call him, but William says we
always call the largest star Jupiter. When we came home we both wrote to
C. I was stupefied.
_Saturday, January 30th._--A cold dark morning. William chopped wood. I
brought it in a basket.... He asked me to set down the story of Barbara
Wilkinson's turtle dove. Barbara is an old maid. She had two turtle
doves. One of them died, the first year I think. The other continued to
live alone in its cage for nine years, but for one whole year it had a
companion and daily visitor--a little mouse, that used to come and feed
with it; and the dove would carry it and cover it over with its wings,
and make a loving noise to it. The mouse, though it did not testify
equal delight in the dove's company, was yet at perfect ease. The poor
mouse disappeared, and the dove was left solitary till its death. It
died of a short sickness, and was buried under a tree, with funeral
ceremony by Barbara and her maidens, and one or two others.
On _Saturday, 30th_, Wm. worked at _The Pedlar_ all the morning. He kept
the dinner waiting till four o'clock. He was much tired....
_Sunday, 31st._--Wm. had slept very ill. He was tired. We walked round
the two lakes. Grasmere was very soft, and Rydale was extremely
beautiful from the western side. Nab Scar was just topped by a cloud
which, cutting it off as high as it could be cut off, made the mountain
look uncommonly lofty.[48] We sate down a long time with different
plans. I always love to walk that way, because it is the way I first
came to Rydale and Grasmere, and because our dear Coleridge did also.
When I came with Wm., 6 and 1/2 years ago, it was just at sunset. There
was a rich yellow light on the waters, and the islands were reflected
there. To-day it was grave and soft, but not perfectly calm. William
says it was much such a day as when Coleridge came with _him_. The sun
shone out before we reached Grasmere. We sate by the roadside at the
foot of the Lake, close to Mary's dear name, which she had cut herself
upon the stone. Wm. cut at it with his knife to make it plainer.[49] We
amused ourselves for a long time in watching the breezes, some as if
they came from the bottom of the lake, spread in a circle, brushing
along the surface of the water, and growing more delicate as it were
thinner, and of a _paler_ colour till they died away. Others spread out
like a peacock's tail, and some went right forward this way and that in
all directions. The lake was still where these breezes were not, but
they made it all alive. I found a strawberry blossom in a rock. The
little slender flower had more courage than the green leaves, for _they_
were but half expanded and half grown, but the blossom was spread full
out. I uprooted it rashly, and I felt as if I had been committing an
outrage, so I planted it again. It will have but a stormy life of it,
but let it live if it can. We found Calvert here. I brought a
handkerchief full of mosses, which I placed on the chimneypiece when
Calvert was gone. He dined with us, and carried away the encyclopædias.
After they were gone, I spent some time in trying to reconcile myself to
the change, and in rummaging out and arranging some other books in their
places. One good thing is this--there is a nice elbow place for Wm., and
he may sit for the picture of John Bunyan any day. Mr. Simpson drank tea
with us. We paid our rent to Benson....
[Footnote 48: Compare the poem _To the Clouds_, vol. viii. p. 142, and
the Fenwick note to that poem.--ED.]
[Footnote 49: This still exists, but is known to few.--ED.]
_Monday, February 1st._--Wm. slept badly. I baked bread. William worked
hard at _The Pedlar_, and tired himself.... There was a purplish light
upon Mr. Olliff's house, which made me look to the other side of the
vale, when I saw a strange stormy mist coming down the side of Silver
How of a reddish purple colour. It soon came on a heavy rain.... A box
with books came from London. I sate by W.'s bedside, and read in _The
Pleasures of Hope_ to him, which came in the box. He could not fall
asleep.
_Tuesday, 2nd February._-- ... Wm. went into the orchard after
breakfast, to chop wood. We walked into Easedale.... Walked backwards
and forwards between Goody Bridge and Butterlip How. William wished to
break off composition, but was unable, and so did himself harm. The sun
shone, but it was cold. William worked at _The Pedlar_. After tea I read
aloud the eleventh book of _Paradise Lost_. We were much impressed, and
also melted into tears. The papers came in soon after I had laid aside
the book--a good thing for my Wm....
_Wednesday, 3rd._--A rainy morning. We walked to Rydale for letters.
Found one from Mrs. Cookson and Mary H. It snowed upon the hills. We
sate down on the wall at the foot of White Moss. Sate by the fire in the
evening. Wm. tired, and did not compose. He went to bed soon, and could
not sleep. I wrote to Mary H. Sent off the letter by Fletcher. Wrote
also to Coleridge. Read Wm. to sleep after dinner, and read to him in
bed till 1/2 past one.
_Thursday, 4th._-- ... Wm. thought a little about _The Pedlar_. Read
Smollet's life.
_Friday, 5th._--A cold snowy morning. Snow and hail showers. We did not
walk. Wm. cut wood a little. Sate up late at _The Pedlar_.
_Saturday, 6th February._-- ... Two very affecting letters from
Coleridge; resolved to try another climate. I was stopped in my writing,
and made ill by the letters.... Wrote again after tea, and translated
two or three of Lessing's _Fables_.
_Sunday, 7th._--A fine clear frosty morning. The eaves drop with the
heat of the sun all day long. The ground thinly covered with snow. The
road black, rocks black. Before night the island was quite green. The
sun had melted all the snow. Wm. working at his poem. We sate by the
fire, and did not walk, but read _The Pedlar_, thinking it done; but W.
could find fault with one part of it. It was uninteresting, and must be
altered. Poor Wm.!
_Monday Morning, 8th February 1802._--It was very windy and rained hard
all the morning. William worked at his poem and I read a little in
Lessing and the grammar. A chaise came past.
After dinner (_i.e._ we set off at about 1/2 past 4) we went towards
Rydale for letters. It was a "_cauld clash_." The rain had been so cold
that it hardly melted the snow. We stopped at Park's to get some straw
round Wm.'s shoes. The young mother was sitting by a bright wood fire,
with her youngest child upon her lap, and the other two sate on each
side of the chimney. The light of the fire made them a beautiful sight,
with their innocent countenances, their rosy cheeks, and glossy curling
hair. We sate and talked about poor Ellis, and our journey over the
Hawes. Before we had come to the shore of the Lake, we met our patient
bow-bent friend, with his little wooden box at his back. "Where are you
going?" said he. "To Rydale for letters." "I have two for you in my
box." We lifted up the lid, and there they lay. Poor fellow, he
straddled and pushed on with all his might; but we outstripped him far
away when we had turned back with our letters.... I could not help
comparing lots with him. He goes at that slow pace every morning, and
after having wrought a hard day's work returns at night, however weary
he may be, takes it all quietly, and, though perhaps he neither feels
thankfulness nor pleasure, when he eats his supper, and has nothing to
look forward to but falling asleep in bed, yet I daresay he neither
murmurs nor thinks it hard. He seems mechanised to labour. We broke the
seal of Coleridge's letters, and I had light enough just to see that he
was not ill. I put it in my pocket. At the top of the White Moss I took
it to my bosom,--a safer place for it. The sight was wild. There was a
strange mountain lightness, when we were at the top of the White Moss. I
have often observed it there in the evenings, being between the two
valleys. There is more of the sky there than any other place. It has a
strange effect. Sometimes, along with the obscurity of evening, or
night, it seems almost like a peculiar sort of light. There was not much
wind till we came to John's Grove, then it roared right out of the
grove, all the trees were tossing about. Coleridge's letter somewhat
damped us. It spoke with less confidence about France. Wm. wrote to him.
The other letter was from Montagu, with £8. Wm. was very unwell, tired
when he had written. He went to bed and left me to write to M. H.,
Montagu, and Calvert, and Mrs. Coleridge. I had written in his letter to
Coleridge. We wrote to Calvert to beg him not to fetch us on Sunday. Wm.
left me with a little peat fire. It grew less. I wrote on, and was
starved. At 2 o'clock I went to put my letters under Fletcher's door. I
never felt such a cold night. There was a strong wind and it froze very
hard. I gathered together all the clothes I could find (for I durst not
go into the pantry for fear of waking Wm.). At first when I went to bed
I seemed to be warm. I suppose because the cold air, which I had just
left, no longer touched my body; but I soon found that I was mistaken. I
could not sleep from sheer cold. I had baked pies and bread in the
morning. Coleridge's letter contained prescriptions.
_N.B._--The moon came out suddenly when we were at John's Grove, and a
star or two besides.
_Tuesday._--Wm. had slept better. He fell to work, and made himself
unwell. We did not walk. A funeral came by of a poor woman who had
drowned herself, some say because she was hardly treated by her husband;
others that he was a very decent respectable man, and _she_ but an
indifferent wife. However this was, she had only been married to him
last Whitsuntide and had had very indifferent health ever since. She had
got up in the night, and drowned herself in the pond. She had requested
to be buried beside her mother, and so she was brought in a hearse. She
was followed by some very decent-looking men on horseback, her
sister--Thomas Fleming's wife--in a chaise, and some others with her,
and a cart full of women. Molly says folks thinks o' their mothers. Poor
body, _she_ has been little thought of by any body else. We did a little
of Lessing. I attempted a fable, but my head ached; my bones were sore
with the cold of the day before, and I was downright stupid. We went to
bed, but not till Wm. had tired himself.
_Wednesday, 10th._--A very snowy morning.... I was writing out the poem,
as we hoped for a final writing.... We read the first part and were
delighted with it, but Wm. afterwards got to some ugly place, and went
to bed tired out. A wild, moonlight night.
_Thursday, 11th._-- ... Wm. sadly tired and working at _The Pedlar_....
We made up a good fire after dinner, and Wm. brought his mattress out,
and lay down on the floor. I read to him the life of Ben Jonson, and
some short poems of his, which were too interesting for him, and would
not let him go to sleep. I had begun with Fletcher, but he was too dull
for me. Fuller says, in his _Life of Jonson_ (speaking of his plays),
"If his latter be not so spriteful and vigorous as his first pieces, all
that are old, and all who desire to be old, should excuse him therein."
He says he "beheld" wit-combats between Shakespeare and Jonson, and
compares Shakespeare to an English man-of-war, Jonson to a great Spanish
galleon. There is one affecting line in Jonson's epitaph on his first
daughter--
Here lies to each her parents ruth,
Mary the daughter of their youth.
At six months' end she parted hence,
In safety of her innocence.
Two beggars to-day. I continued to read to Wm. We were much delighted
with the poem of _Penshurst_.[50] Wm. rose better. I was cheerful and
happy. He got to work again.
[Footnote 50: By Ben Jonson.--ED.]
_Friday, 12th._--A very fine, bright, clear, hard frost. Wm. working
again. I recopied _The Pedlar_, but poor Wm. all the time at work.... In
the afternoon a poor woman came, she said, to beg, ... but she has been
used to go a-begging, for she has often come here. Her father lived to
the age of 105. She is a woman of strong bones, with a complexion that
has been beautiful, and remained very fresh last year, but now she looks
broken, and her little boy--a pretty little fellow, and whom I have
loved for the sake of Basil--looks thin and pale. I observed this to
her. "Aye," says she, "we have all been ill. Our house was nearly
unroofed in the storm, and we lived in it so for more than a week." The
child wears a ragged drab coat and a fur cap. Poor little fellow, I
think he seems scarcely at all grown since the first time I saw him.
William was with me when we met him in a lane going to Skelwith Bridge.
He looked very pretty. He was walking lazily, in the deep narrow lane,
overshadowed with the hedgerows, his meal poke hung over his shoulder.
He said he "was going a laiting." Poor creature! He now wears the same
coat he had on at that time. When the woman was gone, I could not help
thinking that we are not half thankful enough that we are placed in that
condition of life in which we are. We do not so often bless God for
this, as we wish for this £50, that £100, etc. etc. We have not,
however, to reproach ourselves with ever breathing a murmur. This
woman's was but a common case. The snow still lies upon the ground. Just
at the closing in of the day, I heard a cart pass the door, and at the
same time the dismal sound of a crying infant. I went to the window, and
had light enough to see that a man was driving a cart, which seemed not
to be very full, and that a woman with an infant in her arms was
following close behind and a dog close to her. It was a wild and
melancholy sight. Wm. rubbed his tables after candles were lighted, and
we sate a long time with the windows unclosed, and almost finished
writing _The Pedlar_; but poor Wm. wore himself out, and me out, with
labour. We had an affecting conversation. Went to bed at 12 o'clock.
_Saturday, 13th._--It snowed a little this morning. Still at work at
_The Pedlar_, altering and refitting. We did not walk, though it was a
very fine day. We received a present of eggs and milk from Janet
Dockeray, and just before she went, the little boy from the Hill brought
us a letter from Sara H., and one from the Frenchman in London. I wrote
to Sara after tea, and Wm. took out his old newspapers, and the new ones
came in soon after. We sate, after I had finished the letter, talking;
and Wm. read parts of his _Recluse_ aloud to me....
_Sunday, 14th February._--A fine morning. The sun shines out, but it
has been a hard frost in the night. There are some little snowdrops that
are afraid to put their white heads quite out, and a few blossoms of
hepatica that are half-starved. Wm. left me at work altering some
passages of _The Pedlar_, and went into the orchard. The fine day pushed
him on to resolve, and as soon as I had read a letter to him, which I
had just received from Mrs. Clarkson, he said he would go to Penrith, so
Molly was despatched for the horse. I worked hard, got the writing
finished, and all quite trim. I wrote to Mrs. Clarkson, and put up some
letters for Mary H., and off he went in his blue spencer, and a pair of
new pantaloons fresh from London.... I then sate over the fire, reading
Ben Jonson's _Penshurst_, and other things. Before sunset, I put on my
shawl and walked out. The snow-covered mountains were spotted with rich
sunlight, a palish buffish colour.... I stood at the wishing-gate, and
when I came in view of Rydale, I cast a long look upon the mountains
beyond. They were very white, but I concluded that Wm. would have a very
safe passage over Kirkstone, and I was quite easy about him. After
dinner, a little before sunset, I walked out about 20 yards above
Glow-worm Rock. I met a carman, a Highlander I suppose, with four carts,
the first three belonging to himself, the last evidently to a man and
his family who had joined company with him, and who I guessed to be
potters. The carman was cheering his horses, and talking to a little
lass about ten years of age who seemed to make him her companion. She
ran to the wall, and took up a large stone to support the wheel of one
of his carts, and ran on before with it in her arms to be ready for him.
She was a beautiful creature, and there was something uncommonly
impressive in the lightness and joyousness of her manner. Her business
seemed to be all pleasure--pleasure in her own motions, and the man
looked at her as if he too was pleased, and spoke to her in the same
tone in which he spoke to his horses. There was a wildness in her whole
figure, not the wildness of a Mountain lass, but of the Road lass, a
traveller from her birth, who had wanted neither food nor clothes. Her
mother followed the last cart with a lovely child, perhaps about a year
old, at her back, and a good-looking girl, about fifteen years old,
walked beside her. All the children were like the mother. She had a very
fresh complexion, but she was blown with fagging up the steep hill, and
with what she carried. Her husband was helping the horse to drag the
cart up by pushing it with his shoulder. I reached home, and read German
till about 9 o'clock. I wrote to Coleridge. Went to bed at about 12
o'clock.... I slept badly, for my thoughts were full of Wm.
_Monday, 15th February._--It snowed a good deal, and was terribly cold.
After dinner it was fair, but I was obliged to run all the way to the
foot of the White Moss, to get the least bit of warmth into me. I found
a letter from C. He was much better, this was very satisfactory, but his
letter was not an answer to Wm.'s which I expected. A letter from
Annette. I got tea when I reached home, and then set on reading German.
I wrote part of a letter to Coleridge, went to bed and slept badly.
_Tuesday, 16th._--A fine morning, but I had persuaded myself not to
expect Wm., I believe because I was afraid of being disappointed. I
ironed all day. He came just at tea time, had only seen Mary H. for a
couple of hours between Eamont Bridge and Hartshorn Tree. Mrs. C.
better. He had had a difficult journey over Kirkstone, and came home by
Threlkeld. We spent a sweet evening. He was better, had altered _The
Pedlar_. We went to bed pretty soon. Mr. Graham said he wished Wm. had
been with him the other day--he was riding in a post-chaise and he heard
a strange cry that he could not understand, the sound continued, and he
called to the chaise driver to stop. It was a little girl that was
crying as if her heart would burst. She had got up behind the chaise,
and her cloak had been caught by the wheel, and was jammed in, and it
hung there. She was crying after it, poor thing. Mr. Graham took her
into the chaise, and her cloak was released from the wheel, but the
child's misery did not cease, for her cloak was torn to rags; it had
been a miserable cloak before, but she had no other, and it was the
greatest sorrow that could befall her. Her name was Alice Fell.[51] She
had no parents, and belonged to the next town. At the next town, Mr. G.
left money with some respectable people in the town, to buy her a new
cloak.
[Footnote 51: See the poem _Alice Fell_, in the "Poetical Works," vol.
ii. p. 273.--ED.]
_Wednesday, 17th._--A miserable nasty snowy morning. We did not walk,
but the old man from the hill brought us a short letter from Mary H. I
copied the second part of _Peter Bell_....
_Thursday, 18th._--A foggy morning. I copied new part of _Peter Bell_
in W.'s absence, and began a letter to Coleridge. Wm. came in with a
letter from Coleridge.... We talked together till 11 o'clock, when Wm.
got to work, and was no worse for it. Hard frost.
* * * * * *
_Saturday, 20th._-- ... I wrote the first part of _Peter Bell_....
_Sunday, 21st._--A very wet morning. I wrote the 2nd prologue to _Peter
Bell_.... After dinner I wrote the 1st prologue.... Snowdrops quite out,
but cold and winterly; yet, for all this, a thrush that lives in our
orchard has shouted and sung its merriest all day long ...
_Monday, 22nd._--Wm. brought me 4 letters to read--from Annette and
Caroline,[52] Mary and Sara, and Coleridge.... In the evening we walked
to the top of the hill, then to the bridge. We hung over the wall, and
looked at the deep stream below. It came with a full, steady, yet a very
rapid flow down to the lake. The sykes made a sweet sound everywhere,
and looked very interesting in the twilight, and that little one above
Mr. Olliff's house was very impressive. A ghostly white serpent line, it
made a sound most distinctly heard of itself. The mountains were black
and steep, the tops of some of them having snow yet visible.
[Footnote 52: See "Poetical Works," vol. ii. p. 335.--ED.]
_Tuesday, 23rd._-- ... When we came out of our own doors, that dear
thrush was singing upon the topmost of the smooth branches of the ash
tree at the top of the orchard. How long it had been perched on that
same tree I cannot tell, but we had heard its dear voice in the orchard
the day through, along with a cheerful undersong made by our winter
friends, the robins. As we came home, I picked up a few mosses by the
roadside, which I left at home. We then went to John's Grove. There we
sate a little while looking at the fading landscape. The lake, though
the objects on the shore were fading, seemed brighter than when it is
perfect day, and the island pushed itself upwards, distinct and large.
All the shores marked. There was a sweet, sea-like sound in the trees
above our heads. We walked backwards and forwards some time for dear
John's sake, then walked to look at Rydale. Wm. now reading in Bishop
Hall, I going to read German. We have a nice singing fire, with one
piece of wood....
_Wednesday, 24th._--A rainy morning. William returned from Rydale very
wet, with letters. He brought a short one from C., a very long one from
Mary. Wm. wrote to Annette, to Coleridge.... I wrote a little bit to
Coleridge. We sent off these letters by Fletcher. It was a tremendous
night of wind and rain. Poor Coleridge! a sad night for a traveller such
as he. God be praised he was in safe quarters. Wm. went out. He never
felt a colder night.
_Thursday, 25th._--A fine, mild, gay, beautiful morning. Wm. wrote to
Montagu in the morning.... I reached home just before dark, brought some
mosses and ivy, and then got tea, and fell to work at German. I read a
good deal of Lessing's Essay. Wm. came home between 9 and 10 o'clock. We
sat together by the fire till bedtime. Wm. not very much tired.
_Friday, 26th._--A grey morning till 10 o'clock, then the sun shone
beautifully. Mrs. Lloyd's children and Mrs. Luff came in a chaise, were
here at 11 o'clock, then went to Mrs. Olliff. Wm. and I accompanied them
to the gate. I prepared dinner, sought out _Peter Bell_, gave Wm. some
cold meat, and then we went to walk. We walked first to Butterlip How,
where we sate and overlooked the dale, no sign of spring but the red
tints of the woods and trees. Sate in the sun. Met Charles Lloyd near
the Bridge.... Mr. and Mrs. Luff walked home, the Lloyds stayed till 8
o'clock. Wm. always gets on better with conversation at home than
elsewhere. The chaise-driver brought us a letter from Mrs. H., a short
one from C. We were perplexed about Sara's coming. I wrote to Mary. Wm.
closed his letter to Montagu, and wrote to Calvert and Mrs. Coleridge.
Birds sang divinely to-day. Wm. better.
_Sunday, 28th February._--Wm. employed himself with _The Pedlar_. We got
papers in the morning.
_Monday._--A fine pleasant day, we walked to Rydale. I went on before
for the letters, brought two from M. and S. H. We climbed over the wall
and read them under the shelter of a mossy rock. We met Mrs. Lloyd in
going. Mrs. Olliff's child ill. The catkins are beautiful in the hedges,
the ivy is very green. Robert Newton's paddock is greenish--that is all
we see of Spring; finished and sent off the letter to Sara, and wrote to
Mary. Wrote again to Sara, and Wm. wrote to Coleridge. Mrs. Lloyd called
when I was in bed.
_Tuesday._[53]--A fine grey morning.... I read German, and a little
before dinner Wm. also read. We walked on Butterlip How under the wind.
It rained all the while, but we had a pleasant walk. The mountains of
Easedale, black or covered with snow at the tops, gave a peculiar
softness to the valley. The clouds hid the tops of some of them. The
valley was populous and enlivened with streams....
[Footnote 53: March 2nd.--ED.]
_Wednesday._--I was so unlucky as to propose to rewrite _The Pedlar_.
Wm. got to work, and was worn to death. We did not walk. I wrote in the
afternoon.
_Thursday._--Before we had quite finished breakfast Calvert's man
brought the horses for Wm. We had a deal to do, pens to make, poems to
put in order for writing, to settle for the press, pack up; and the man
came before the pens were made, and he was obliged to leave me with only
two. Since he left me at half-past 11 (it is now 2) I have been putting
the drawers into order, laid by his clothes which he had thrown here and
there and everywhere, filed two months' newspapers and got my dinner, 2
boiled eggs and 2 apple tarts. I have set Molly on to clean the garden a
little, and I myself have walked. I transplanted some snowdrops--the
Bees are busy. Wm. has a nice bright day. It was hard frost in the
night. The Robins are singing sweetly. Now for my walk. I _will_ be
busy. I _will_ look well, and be well when he comes back to me. O the
Darling! Here is one of his bitter apples. I can hardly find it in my
heart to throw it into the fire.... I walked round the two Lakes,
crossed the stepping-stones at Rydale foot. Sate down where we always
sit. I was full of thought about my darling. Blessings on him. I came
home at the foot of our own hill under Loughrigg. They are making sad
ravages in the woods. Benson's wood is going, and the woods above the
River. The wind has blown down a small fir tree on the Rock, that
terminates John's path. I suppose the wind of Wednesday night. I read
German after tea. I worked and read the L. B., enchanted with the _Idiot
Boy_. Wrote to Wm. and then went to bed. It snowed when I went to bed.
_Friday._--First walked in the garden and orchard, a frosty sunny
morning. After dinner I gathered mosses in Easedale. I saw before me
sitting in the open field, upon his pack of rags, the old Ragman that I
know. His coat is of scarlet in a thousand patches. When I came home
Molly had shook the carpet and cleaned everything upstairs. When I see
her so happy in her work, and exulting in her own importance, I often
think of that affecting expression which she made use of to me one
evening lately. Talking of her good luck in being in this house, "Aye,
Mistress, them 'at's low laid would have been proud creatures could they
but have seen where I is now, fra what they thought wud be my doom." I
was tired when I reached home. I sent Molly Ashburner to Rydale. No
letters. I was sadly mortified. I expected one fully from Coleridge.
Wrote to William, read the L. B., got into sad thoughts, tried at
German, but could not go on. Read L. B. Blessings on that brother of
mine! Beautiful new moon over Silver How.
_Friday Morning._--A very cold sunshiny frost. I wrote _The Pedlar_,
and finished it before I went to Mrs. Simpson's to drink tea. Miss S. at
Keswick, but she came home. Mrs. Jameson came in and stayed supper.
Fletcher's carts went past and I let them go with William's letter. Mr.
B. S. came nearly home with me. I found letters from Wm., Mary, and
Coleridge. I wrote to C. Sat up late, and could not fall asleep when I
went to bed.
* * * * * *
_Sunday Morning._--A very fine, clear frost. I stitched up _The Pedlar_;
wrote out _Ruth_; read it with the alterations, then wrote Mary H. Read
a little German, ... and in came William, I did not expect him till
to-morrow. How glad I was. After we had talked about an hour, I gave him
his dinner. We sate talking and happy. He brought two new stanzas of
_Ruth_....
_Monday Morning._--A soft rain and mist. We walked to Rydale for
letters. The Vale looked very beautiful in excessive simplicity, yet, at
the same time, in uncommon obscurity. The Church stood alone--mountains
behind. The meadows looked calm and rich, bordering on the still lake.
Nothing else to be seen but lake and island....
On Friday evening the moon hung over the northern side of the highest
point of Silver How, like a gold ring snapped in two, and shaven off at
the ends. Within this ring lay the circle of the round moon, as
distinctly to be seen as ever the enlightened moon is. William had
observed the same appearance at Keswick, perhaps at the very same
moment, hanging over the Newland Fells. Sent off a letter to Mary H.,
also to Coleridge, and Sara, and rewrote in the evening the alterations
of _Ruth_, which we sent off at the same time.
_Tuesday Morning._--William was reading in Ben Jonson. He read me a
beautiful poem on Love.... We sate by the fire in the evening, and read
_The Pedlar_ over. William worked a little, and altered it in a few
places....
_Wednesday._-- ... Wm. read in Ben Jonson in the morning. I read a
little German. We then walked to Rydale. No letters. They are slashing
away in Benson's wood. William has since tea been talking about
publishing the Yorkshire Wolds Poem with _The Pedlar_.
_Thursday._--A fine morning. William worked at the poem of _The Singing
Bird_.[54] Just as we were sitting down to dinner we heard Mr.
Clarkson's voice. I ran down, William followed. He was so finely mounted
that William was more intent upon the horse than the rider, an offence
easily forgiven, for Mr. Clarkson was as proud of it himself as he well
could be....
[Footnote 54: First published in 1807, under the title of _The
Sailor's Mother_.--ED.]
_Friday._--A very fine morning. We went to see Mr. Clarkson off. The sun
shone while it rained, and the stones of the walls and the pebbles on
the road glittered like silver.... William finished his poem of _The
Singing Bird_. In the meantime I read the remainder of Lessing. In the
evening after tea William wrote _Alice Fell_. He went to bed tired, with
a wakeful mind and a weary body....
_Saturday Morning._--It was as cold as ever it has been all winter, very
hard frost.... William finished _Alice Fell_, and then wrote the poem of
_The Beggar Woman_, taken from a woman whom I had seen in May (now
nearly two years ago) when John and he were at Gallow Hill. I sate with
him at intervals all the morning, took down his stanzas, etc.... After
tea I read to William that account of the little boy belonging to the
tall woman, and an unlucky thing it was, for he could not escape from
those very words, and so he could not write the poem. He left it
unfinished, and went tired to bed. In our walk from Rydale he had got
warmed with the subject, and had half cast the poem.
_Sunday Morning._--William ... got up at nine o'clock, but before he
rose he had finished _The Beggar Boy_, and while we were at breakfast
... he wrote the poem _To a Butterfly_! He ate not a morsel, but sate
with his shirt neck unbuttoned, and his waistcoat open while he did it.
The thought first came upon him as we were talking about the pleasure we
both always felt at the sight of a butterfly. I told him that I used to
chase them a little, but that I was afraid of brushing the dust off
their wings, and did not catch them. He told me how he used to kill all
the white ones when he went to school because they were Frenchmen.... I
wrote it down and the other poems, and I read them all over to him....
William began to try to alter _The Butterfly_, and tired himself....
_Monday Morning._--We sate reading the poems, and I read a little
German.... During W.'s absence a sailor who was travelling from
Liverpool to Whitehaven called, he was faint and pale when he knocked at
the door--a young man very well dressed. We sate by the kitchen fire
talking with him for two hours. He told us interesting stories of his
life. His name was Isaac Chapel. He had been at sea since he was 15
years old. He was by trade a sail-maker. His last voyage was to the
coast of Guinea. He had been on board a slave ship, the captain's name
Maxwell, where one man had been killed, a boy put to lodge with the pigs
and was half eaten, set to watch in the hot sun till he dropped down
dead. He had been away in North America and had travelled thirty days
among the Indians, where he had been well treated. He had twice swam
from a King's ship in the night and escaped. He said he would rather be
in hell than be pressed. He was now going to wait in England to appear
against Captain Maxwell. "O he's a Rascal, Sir, he ought to be put in
the papers!" The poor man had not been in bed since Friday night. He
left Liverpool at 2 o'clock on Saturday morning; he had called at a farm
house to beg victuals and had been refused. The woman said she would
give him nothing. "Won't you? Then I can't help it." He was excessively
like my brother John.
_Tuesday._-- ... William went up into the orchard, ... and wrote a part
of _The Emigrant Mother_. After dinner I read him to sleep. I read
Spenser.... We walked to look at Rydale. The moon was a good height
above the mountains. She seemed far distant in the sky. There were two
stars beside her, that twinkled in and out, and seemed almost like
butterflies in motion and lightness. They looked to be far nearer to us
than the moon.
_Wednesday._--William went up into the orchard and finished the poem. I
went and sate with W. and walked backwards and forwards in the orchard
till dinner time. He read me his poem. I read to him, and my Beloved
slept. A sweet evening as it had been a sweet day, and I walked quietly
along the side of Rydale lake with quiet thoughts--the hills and the
lake were still--the owls had not begun to hoot, and the little birds
had given over singing. I looked before me and saw a red light upon
Silver How as if coming out of the vale below,
There was a light of most strange birth,
A light that came out of the earth,
And spread along the dark hill-side.
Thus I was going on when I saw the shape of my Beloved in the road at a
little distance. We turned back to see the light but it was
fading--almost gone. The owls hooted when we sate on the wall at the
foot of White Moss; the sky broke more and more, and we saw the moon now
and then. John Gill passed us with his cart; we sate on. When we came in
sight of our own dear Grasmere, the vale looked fair and quiet in the
moonshine, the Church was there and all the cottages. There were huge
slow-travelling clouds in the sky, that threw large masses of shade upon
some of the mountains. We walked backwards and forwards, between home
and Olliff's, till I was tired. William kindled, and began to write the
poem. We carried cloaks into the orchard, and sate a while there. I left
him, and he nearly finished the poem. I was tired to death, and went to
bed before him. He came down to me, and read the poem to me in bed. A
sailor begged here to-day, going to Glasgow. He spoke cheerfully in a
sweet tone.
_Thursday._--Rydale vale was full of life and motion. The wind blew
briskly, and the lake was covered all over with bright silver waves,
that were there each the twinkling of an eye, then others rose up and
took their place as fast as they went away. The rocks glittered in the
sunshine. The crows and the ravens were busy, and the thrushes and
little birds sang. I went through the fields, and sate for an hour
afraid to pass a cow. The cow looked at me, and I looked at the cow, and
whenever I stirred the cow gave over eating.... A parcel came in from
Birmingham, with Lamb's play for us, and for C.... As we came along
Ambleside vale in the twilight, it was a grave evening. There was
something in the air that compelled me to various thoughts--the hills
were large, closed in by the sky.... Night was come on, and the moon was
overcast. But, as I climbed the moss, the moon came out from behind a
mountain mass of black clouds. O, the unutterable darkness of the sky,
and the earth below the moon, and the glorious brightness of the moon
itself! There was a vivid sparkling streak of light at this end of
Rydale water, but the rest was very dark, and Loughrigg Fell and Silver
How were white and bright, as if they were covered with hoar frost. The
moon retired again, and appeared and disappeared several times before I
reached home. Once there was no moonlight to be seen but upon the
island-house and the promontory of the island where it stands. "That
needs must be a holy place," etc. etc. I had many very exquisite
feelings, and when I saw this lofty Building in the waters, among the
dark and lofty hills, with that bright, soft light upon it, it made me
more than half a poet. I was tired when I reached home, and could not
sit down to reading. I tried to write verses, but alas! I gave up,
expecting William, and went soon to bed.
_Friday._--A very rainy morning. I went up into the lane to collect a
few green mosses to make the chimney gay against my darling's return.
Poor C., I did not wish for, or expect him, it rained so.... Coleridge
came in. His eyes were a little swollen with the wind. I was much
affected by the sight of him, he seemed half-stupefied. William came in
soon after. Coleridge went to bed late, and William and I sate up till
four o'clock. A letter from Sara sent by Mary. They disputed about Ben
Jonson. My spirits were agitated very much.
_Saturday._-- ... When I awoke the whole vale was covered with snow.
William and Coleridge walked.... We had a little talk about going
abroad. After tea William read _The Pedlar_. Talked about various
things--christening the children, etc. etc. Went to bed at 12 o'clock.
_Sunday._--Coleridge and William lay long in bed. We sent up to George
Mackareth's for the horse to go to Keswick, but we could not have it.
Went with C. to Borwick's where he left us. William very unwell. We had
a sweet and tender conversation. I wrote to Mary and Sara.
_Monday._--A rainy day. William very poorly. 2 letters from Sara, and
one from poor Annette. Wrote to my brother Richard. We talked a good
deal about C. and other interesting things. We resolved to see Annette,
and that Wm. should go to Mary. Wm. wrote to Coleridge not to expect us
till Thursday or Friday.
_Tuesday._--A mild morning. William worked at _The Cuckoo_ poem. I
sewed beside him.... I read German, and, at the closing-in of day, went
to sit in the orchard. William came to me, and walked backwards and
forwards. We talked about C. Wm. repeated the poem to me. I left him
there, and in 20 minutes he came in, rather tired with attempting to
write. He is now reading Ben Jonson. I am going to read German. It is
about 10 o'clock, a quiet night. The fire flickers, and the watch ticks.
I hear nothing save the breathing of my Beloved as he now and then
pushes his book forward, and turns over a leaf....
_Wednesday._--It was a beautiful spring morning, warm, and quiet with
mists. We found a letter from M. H. I made a vow that we would not leave
this country for G. Hill.[55] ... William altered _The Butterfly_ as we
came from Rydale....
[Footnote 55: Gallow Hill, Yorkshire.--ED.]
_Thursday._-- ... No letter from Coleridge.
_Friday._-- ... William wrote to Annette, then worked at _The
Cuckoo_.... After dinner I sate 2 hours in the orchard. William and I
walked together after tea, to the top of White Moss. I left Wm. and
while he was absent I wrote out poems. I grew alarmed, and went to seek
him. I met him at Mr. Olliff's. He has been trying, without success, to
alter a passage--his _Silver How_ poem. He had written a conclusion just
before he went out. While I was getting into bed, he wrote _The
Rainbow_.
_Saturday._--A divine morning. At breakfast William wrote part of an
ode.... We sate all day in the orchard.
_Sunday._--We went to Keswick. Arrived wet to the skin....
_Monday._--Wm. and C. went to Armathwaite.
_Tuesday, 30th March._--We went to Calvert's.
_Wednesday, 31st March._-- ... We walked to Portinscale, lay upon the
turf, and looked into the Vale of Newlands; up to Borrowdale, and down
to Keswick--a soft Venetian view. Calvert and Wilkinsons dined with us.
I walked with Mrs. W. to the Quaker's meeting, met Wm., and we walked in
the field together.
_Thursday, 1st April._--Mrs. C, Wm. and I went to the How. We came home
by Portinscale.
_Friday, 2nd._--Wm. and I sate all the morning in the field.
_Saturday, 3rd._--Wm. went on to Skiddaw with C. We dined at
Calvert's....
_Sunday, 4th._--We drove by gig to Water End. I walked down to
Coleridge's. Mrs. Calvert came to Greta Bank to tea. William walked down
with Mrs. Calvert, and repeated his verses to them....
_Monday, 5th._--We came to Eusemere. Coleridge walked with us to
Threlkeld....
* * * * * *
_Monday, 12th._-- ... The ground covered with snow. Walked to T.
Wilkinson's and sent for letters. The woman brought me one from William
and Mary. It was a sharp, windy night. Thomas Wilkinson came with me to
Barton, and questioned me like a catechiser all the way. Every question
was like the snapping of a little thread about my heart. I was so full
of thought of my half-read letter and other things. I was glad when he
left me. Then I had time to look at the moon while I was thinking my own
thoughts. The moon travelled through the clouds, tinging them yellow as
she passed along, with two stars near her, one larger than the other.
These stars grew and diminished as they passed from, or went into, the
clouds. At this time William, as I found the next day, was riding by
himself between Middleham and Barnard Castle....
_Tuesday, 13th April._--Mrs. C. waked me from sleep with a letter from
Coleridge.... I walked along the lake side. The air was become still,
the lake was of a bright slate colour, the hills darkening. The bays
shot into the low fading shores. Sheep resting. All things quiet. When I
returned _William_ was come. The surprise shot through me....
* * * * * *
_Thursday, 15th._--It was a threatening, misty morning, but mild. We
set off after dinner from Eusemere. Mrs. Clarkson went a short way with
us, but turned back. The wind was furious, and we thought we must have
returned. We first rested in the large boathouse, then under a furze
bush opposite Mr. Clarkson's. Saw the plough going in the field. The
wind seized our breath. The lake was rough. There was a boat by itself
floating in the middle of the bay below Water Millock. We rested again
in the Water Millock Lane. The hawthorns are black and green, the
birches here and there greenish, but there is yet more of purple to be
seen on the twigs. We got over into a field to avoid some cows--people
working. A few primroses by the roadside--woodsorrel flower, the
anemone, scentless violets, strawberries, and that starry, yellow flower
which Mrs. C. calls pile wort. When we were in the woods beyond
Gowbarrow Park we saw a few daffodils close to the water-side. We
fancied that the sea had floated the seeds ashore, and that the little
colony had so sprung up. But as we went along there were more and yet
more; and at last, under the boughs of the trees, we saw that there was
a long belt of them along the shore, about the breadth of a country
turnpike road. I never saw daffodils so beautiful. They grew among the
mossy stones about and above them; some rested their heads upon these
stones, as on a pillow, for weariness; and the rest tossed and reeled
and danced, and seemed as if they verily laughed with the wind, that
blew upon them over the lake; they looked so gay, ever glancing, ever
changing. This wind blew directly over the lake to them. There was here
and there a little knot, and a few stragglers higher up; but they were
so few as not to disturb the simplicity, unity, and life of that one
busy highway. We rested again and again. The bays were stormy, and we
heard the waves at different distances, and in the middle of the water,
like the sea.... All was cheerless and gloomy, so we faced the storm. At
Dobson's I was very kindly treated by a young woman. The landlady looked
sour, but it is her way.... William was sitting by a good fire when I
came downstairs. He soon made his way to the library, piled up in a
corner of the window. He brought out a volume of Enfield's _Speaker_,
another miscellany, and an odd volume of Congreve's plays. We had a
glass of warm rum and water. We enjoyed ourselves, and wished for Mary.
It rained and blew, when we went to bed.
_Friday, 16th April_ (_Good Friday_).--When I undrew curtains in the
morning, I was much affected by the beauty of the prospect, and the
change. The sun shone, the wind had passed away, the hills looked
cheerful, the river was very bright as it flowed into the lake. The
church rises up behind a little knot of rocks, the steeple not so high
as an ordinary three-story house. Trees in a row in the garden under the
wall. The valley is at first broken by little woody knolls that make
retiring places, fairy valleys in the vale, the river winds along under
these hills, travelling, not in a bustle but not slowly, to the lake. We
saw a fisherman in the flat meadow on the other side of the water. He
came towards us, and threw his line over the two-arched bridge. It is a
bridge of a heavy construction, almost bending inwards in the middle,
but it is grey, and there is a look of ancientry in the architecture of
it that pleased me. As we go on the vale opens out more into one vale,
with somewhat of a cradle bed. Cottages, with groups of trees, on the
side of the hills. We passed a pair of twin children, two years old.
Sate on the next bridge which we crossed--a single arch. We rested again
upon the turf, and looked at the same bridge. We observed arches in the
water, occasioned by the large stones sending it down in two streams. A
sheep came plunging through the river, stumbled up the bank, and passed
close to us. It had been frightened by an insignificant little dog on
the other side. Its fleece dropped a glittering shower under its belly.
Primroses by the road-side, pile wort that shone like stars of gold in
the sun, violets, strawberries, retired and half-buried among the grass.
When we came to the foot of Brothers Water, I left William sitting on
the bridge, and went along the path on the right side of the lake
through the wood. I was delighted with what I saw. The water under the
boughs of the bare old trees, the simplicity of the mountains, and the
exquisite beauty of the path. There was one grey cottage. I repeated
_The Glow-worm_, as I walked along. I hung over the gate, and thought I
could have stayed for ever. When I returned, I found William writing a
poem descriptive of the sights and sounds we saw and heard.[56] There
was the gentle flowing of the stream, the glittering, lively lake, green
fields without a living creature to be seen on them; behind us, a flat
pasture with forty-two cattle feeding; to our left, the road leading to
the hamlet. No smoke there, the sun shone on the bare roofs. The people
were at work ploughing, harrowing, and sowing; ... a dog barking now and
then, cocks crowing, birds twittering, the snow in patches at the top of
the highest hills, yellow palms, purple and green twigs on the birches,
ashes with their glittering stems quite bare. The hawthorn a bright
green, with black stems under the oak. The moss of the oak glossy. We
went on. Passed two sisters at work (they first passed us), one with two
pitchforks in her hand, the other had a spade. We had come to talk with
them. They laughed long after we were gone, perhaps half in wantonness,
half boldness. William finished his poem.[56] Before we got to the foot
of Kirkstone, there were hundreds of cattle in the vale. There we ate
our dinner. The walk up Kirkstone was very interesting. The becks among
the rocks were all alive. William showed me the little mossy streamlet
which he had before loved when he saw its bright green track in the
snow. The view above Ambleside very beautiful. There we sate and looked
down on the green vale. We watched the crows at a little distance from
us become white as silver as they flew in the sunshine, and when they
went still further, they looked like shapes of water passing over the
green fields. The whitening of Ambleside church is a great deduction
from the beauty of it, seen from this point. We called at the Luffs, the
Roddingtons there. Did not go in, and went round by the fields. I pulled
off my stockings, intending to wade the beck, but I was obliged to put
them on, and we climbed over the wall at the bridge. The post passed us.
No letters. Rydale Lake was in its own evening brightness: the Island,
and Points distinct. Jane Ashburner came up to us when we were sitting
upon the wall.... The garden looked pretty in the half-moonlight,
half-daylight, as we went up the vale....
[Footnote 56: See "The Cock is crowing," etc., vol. ii. p. 293.--ED.]
_Saturday, 17th._--A mild warm rain. We sate in the garden all the
morning. William dug a little. I transplanted a honey-suckle. The lake
was still. The sheep on the island, reflected in the water, like the
grey-deer we saw in Gowbarrow Park. We walked after tea by moonlight. I
had been in bed in the afternoon, and William had slept in his chair. We
walked towards Rydale backwards and forwards below Mr. Olliff's. The
village was beautiful in the moonlight. Helm Crag we observed very
distinct. The dead hedge round Benson's field bound together at the top
by an interlacing of ash sticks, which made a chain of silver when we
faced the moon. A letter from C. and also one from S. H. I saw a robin
chasing a scarlet butterfly this morning.
_Sunday, 18th._--Again a mild grey morning, with rising vapours. We sate
in the orchard. William wrote the poem on _The Robin and the
Butterfly_.[57] ... William met me at Rydale ... with the conclusion of
the poem of the Robin. I read it to him in bed. We left out some lines.
[Footnote 57: See vol. ii. p. 295.--ED.]
* * * * * *
_Tuesday, 20th._--A beautiful morning. The sun shone. William wrote a
conclusion to the poem of the Butterfly:--