_Tuesday, 25th._-- ... Papers and short note from C.; again no sleep for
William.
* * * * * *
_Friday, 28th._-- ... William tired himself with hammering at a passage.
... We sate in the orchard. The sky cloudy, the air sweet and cool. The
young bullfinches, in their party-coloured raiment, bustle about among
the blossoms, and poise themselves like wire-dancers or tumblers,
shaking the twigs and dashing off the blossoms.[68] There is yet one
primrose in the orchard. The stitchwort is fading. The vetches are in
abundance, blossoming and seeding. That pretty little wavy-looking
dial-like yellow flower, the speedwell, and some others, whose names I
do not yet know. The wild columbines are coming into beauty; some of the
gowans fading. In the garden we have lilies, and many other flowers. The
scarlet beans are up in crowds. It is now between eight and nine
o'clock. It has rained sweetly for two hours and a half; the air is very
mild. The heckberry blossoms are dropping off fast, almost gone;
barberries are in beauty; snowballs coming forward; May roses
blossoming.
[Footnote 68: Compare _The Green Linnett_, vol. ii. p. 367.--ED.]
_Saturday, 29th._-- ... William finished his poem on going for Mary. I
wrote it out. I wrote to Mary H., having received a letter from her in
the evening. A sweet day. We nailed up the honeysuckles, and hoed the
scarlet beans.
* * * * * *
_Monday, 31st._-- ... We sat out all the day.... I wrote out the poem on
"Our Departure," which he seemed to have finished. In the evening Miss
Simpson brought us a letter from M. H., and a complimentary and critical
letter to W. from John Wilson of Glasgow.[69]...
[Footnote 69: Christopher North.--ED.]
_Tuesday._--A very sweet day, but a sad want of rain. We went into the
orchard after I had written to M. H. Then on to Mr. Olliff's intake....
The columbine was growing upon the rocks; here and there a solitary
plant, sheltered and shaded by the tufts and bowers of trees. It is a
graceful slender creature, a female seeking retirement, and growing
freest and most graceful where it is most alone. I observed that the
more shaded plants were always the tallest. A short note and
gooseberries from Coleridge. We walked upon the turf near John's Grove.
It was a lovely night. The clouds of the western sky reflected a saffron
light upon the upper end of the lake. All was still. We went to look at
Rydale. There was an Alpine, fire-like red upon the tops of the
mountains. This was gone when we came in view of the lake. But we saw
the lake from a new and most beautiful point of view, between two little
rocks, and behind a small ridge that had concealed it from us. This
White Moss, a place made for all kinds of beautiful works of art and
nature, woods and valleys, fairy valleys and fairy tarns, miniature
mountains, alps above alps.
_Wednesday, 2nd June._--In the morning we observed that the scarlet
beans were drooping in the leaves in great numbers, owing, we guess, to
an insect.... Yesterday an old man called, a grey-headed man, above
seventy years of age. He said he had been a soldier, that his wife and
children had died in Jamaica. He had a beggar's wallet over his
shoulders; a coat of shreds and patches, altogether of a drab colour; he
was tall, and though his body was bent, he had the look of one used to
have been upright. I talked a while, and then gave him a piece of cold
bacon and some money. Said he, "You're a fine woman!" I could not help
smiling; I suppose he meant, "You're a kind woman." Afterwards a woman
called, travelling to Glasgow. After dinner we went into Frank's field,
crawled up the little glen, and planned a seat; ... found a beautiful
shell-like purple fungus in Frank's field. After tea we walked to
Butterlip How, and backwards and forwards there. All the young oak tree
leaves are dry as powder. A cold south wind, portending rain....
_Thursday, 3rd June 1802._--A very fine rain. I lay in my bed till ten
o'clock. William much better than yesterday. We walked into Easedale....
The cuckoo sang, and we watched the little birds as we sate at the door
of the cow-house. The oak copses are brown, as in autumn, with the late
frosts.... We have been reading the life and some of the writings of
poor Logan since dinner. There are many affecting lines and passages in
his poem, _e.g._
And everlasting longings for the lost.
... William is now sleeping with the window open, lying on the window
seat. The thrush is singing. There are, I do believe, a thousand buds on
the honeysuckle tree, all small and far from blowing, save one that is
retired behind the twigs close to the wall, and as snug as a bird nest.
John's rose tree is very beautiful, blended with the honeysuckle.
Yesterday morning William walked as far as the Swan with Aggy Fisher,
who was going to attend upon Goan's dying infant. She said, "There are
many heavier crosses than the death of an infant;" and went on, "There
was a woman in this vale who buried four grown-up children in one year,
and I have heard her say, when many years were gone by, that she had
more pleasure in thinking of those four than of her living children, for
as children get up and have families of their own, their duty to their
parents _wears out and weakens_. She could trip lightly by the graves of
those who died when they were young ... as she went to church on a
Sunday."
... A very affecting letter came from M. H., while I was sitting in the
window reading Milton's _Penseroso_ to William. I answered this letter
before I went to bed.
* * * * * *
_Saturday, 5th._--A fine showery morning. I made both pies and bread;
but we first walked into Easedale, and sate under the oak trees, upon
the mossy stones. There were one or two slight showers. The gowans were
flourishing along the banks of the stream. The strawberry flower hanging
over the brook; all things soft and green. In the afternoon William sate
in the orchard. I went there; was tired, and fell asleep. William began
a letter to John Wilson.
_Sunday, 6th June._--A showery morning. We were writing the letter to
John Wilson when Ellen came.... After dinner I walked into John Fisher's
intake with Ellen. He brought us letters from Coleridge, Mrs. Clarkson,
and Sara Hutchinson....
_Monday, 7th June._--I wrote to Mary H. this morning; sent the C.
"Indolence" poem. Copied the letter to John Wilson, and wrote to my
brother Richard and Mrs. Coleridge. In the evening I walked with Ellen
to Butterlip How.... It was a very sweet evening; there was the cuckoo
and the little birds; the copses still injured, but the trees in general
looked most soft and beautiful in tufts.... I went with Ellen in the
morning to Rydale Falls....
_Tuesday, 8th June._--Ellen and I rode to Windermere. We had a fine
sunny day, neither hot nor cold. I mounted the horse at the quarry. We
had no difficulties or delays but at the gates. I was enchanted with
some of the views. From the High Ray the view is very delightful, rich,
and festive, water and wood, houses, groves, hedgerows, green fields,
and mountains; white houses, large and small. We passed two or three
new-looking statesmen's houses. The Curwens' shrubberies looked pitiful
enough under the native trees. We put up our horses, ate our dinner by
the water-side, and walked up to the Station. We went to the Island,
walked round it, and crossed the lake with our horse in the ferry. The
shrubs have been cut away in some parts of the island. I observed to the
boatman that I did not think it improved. He replied: "We think it is,
for one could hardly see the house before." It seems to me to be,
however, no better than it was. They have made no natural glades; it is
merely a lawn with a few miserable young trees, standing as if they were
half-starved. There are no sheep, no cattle upon these lawns. It is
neither one thing nor another--neither natural, nor wholly cultivated
and artificial, which it was before. And that great house! Mercy upon
us! if it _could_ be concealed, it would be well for all who are not
pained to see the pleasantest of earthly spots deformed by man. But it
_cannot_ be covered. Even the tallest of our old oak trees would not
reach to the top of it. When we went into the boat, there were two men
standing at the landing-place. One seemed to be about sixty, a man with
a jolly red face; he looked as if he might have lived many years in Mr.
Curwen's house. He wore a blue jacket and trousers, as the people who
live close by Windermere, particularly at the places of chief resort....
He looked significantly at our boatman just as we were rowing off, and
said, "Thomas, mind you take the directions off that cask. You know what
I mean. It will serve as a blind for them. _You_ know. It was a blind
business, both for you, and the coachman, ... and all of us. Mind you
take off the directions. 'A wink's as good as a nod with some folks;'"
and then he turned round, looking at his companion with an air of
self-satisfaction, and deep insight into unknown things! I could hardly
help laughing outright at him. The laburnums blossom freely at the
island, and in the shrubberies on the shore; they are blighted
everywhere else. Roses of various sorts now out. The brooms were in full
glory everywhere, "veins of gold" among the copses. The hawthorns in the
valley fading away; beautiful upon the hills. We reached home at three
o'clock. After tea William went out and walked and wrote that poem,
The sun has long been set, etc.
He ... walked on our own path and wrote the lines; he called me into the
orchard, and there repeated them to me....
_Wednesday, 9th June._-- ... The hawthorns on the mountain sides like
orchards in blossom....
_Thursday, 10th June._-- ... Coleridge came in with a sack full of
books, etc., and a branch of mountain ash. He had been attacked by a
cow. He came over by Grisdale. A furious wind....
* * * * * *
_Saturday, 12th June._--A rainy morning. Coleridge set off before
dinner. We went with him to the Raise, but it rained, so we went no
further. Sheltered under a wall. He would be sadly wet, for a furious
shower came on just when we parted....
_Sunday, 13th June._--A fine morning. Sunshiny and bright, but with
rainy clouds. William ... has been altering the poem to Mary this
morning.... I wrote out poems for our journey.... Mr. Simpson came when
we were in the orchard in the morning, and brought us a beautiful
drawing which he had done. In the evening we walked, first on our own
path.... It was a silent night. The stars were out by ones and twos, but
no cuckoo, no little birds; the air was not warm, and we have observed
that since Tuesday, 8th, when William wrote, "The sun has long been
set," that we have had no birds singing after the evening is fairly set
in. We walked to our new view of Rydale, but it put on a sullen face.
There was an owl hooting in Bainrigg's. Its first halloo was so like a
human shout that I was surprised, when it gave its second call tremulous
and lengthened out, to find that the shout had come from an owl. The
full moon (not quite full) was among a company of shady island clouds,
and the sky bluer about it than the natural sky blue. William observed
that the full moon, above a dark fir grove, is a fine image of the
descent of a superior being. There was a shower which drove us into
John's Grove before we had quitted our favourite path. We walked upon
John's path before we went to view Rydale....
_Monday, 14th._-- ... William wrote to Mary and Sara about _The Leech
Gatherer_, and wrote to both of them in one ... and to Coleridge
also.... I walked with William ... on our own path. We were driven away
by the horses that go on the commons; then we went to look at Rydale;
walked a little in the fir grove; went again to the top of the hill, and
came home. A mild and sweet night. William stayed behind me. I threw him
the cloak out of the window. The moon overcast. He sate a few minutes in
the orchard; came in sleepy, and hurried to bed. I carried him his bread
and butter.
_Tuesday, 15th._--A sweet grey, mild morning. The birds sing soft and
low. William has not slept all night; it wants only ten minutes of ten,
and he is in bed yet. After William rose we went and sate in the orchard
till dinner time. We walked a long time in the evening upon our
favourite path; the owls hooted, the night hawk sang to itself
incessantly, but there were no little birds, no thrushes. I left William
writing a few lines about the night hawk and other images of the
evening, and went to seek for letters....
_Wednesday, 16th._--We walked towards Rydale for letters.... One from
Mary. We went up into Rydale woods and read it there. We sate near the
old wall, which fenced a hazel grove, which William said was exactly
like the filbert grove at Middleham. It is a beautiful spot, a sloping
or rather steep piece of ground, with hazels growing "tall and erect" in
clumps at distances, almost seeming regular, as if they had been
planted.... I wrote to Mary after dinner, while William sate in the
orchard.... I spoke of the little birds keeping us company, and William
told me that that very morning a bird had perched upon his leg. He had
been lying very still, and had watched this little creature. It had come
under the bench where he was sitting.... He thoughtlessly stirred
himself to look further at it, and it flew on to the apple tree above
him. It was a little young creature that had just left its nest, equally
unacquainted with man, and unaccustomed to struggle against the storms
and winds. While it was upon the apple tree the wind blew about the
stiff boughs, and the bird seemed bemazed, and not strong enough to
strive with it. The swallows come to the sitting-room window as if
wishing to build, but I am afraid they will not have courage for it; but
I believe they will build in my room window. They twitter, and make a
bustle, and a little cheerful song, hanging against the panes of glass
with their soft white bellies close to the glass and their forked
fish-like tails. They swim round and round, and again they come.... I do
not now see the brownness that was in the coppices. The bower hawthorn
blossoms passed away. Those on the hills are a faint white. The wild
guelder-rose is coming out, and the wild roses. I have seen no
honey-suckles yet.... Foxgloves are now frequent.
_Thursday, 17th._-- ... When I came home I found William at work
attempting to alter a stanza in the poem on our going for Mary, which I
convinced him did not need altering. We sate in the house after dinner.
In the evening walked on our favourite path. A short letter from
Coleridge. William added a little to the Ode he is writing.[70]
[Footnote 70: Doubtless the _Ode, Intimations of Immortality_.--ED.]
_Friday, 18th June._--When we were sitting after breakfast ... Luff came
in. He had rode over the Fells. He brought news about Lord Lowther's
intention to pay all debts, etc., and a letter from Mr. Clarkson. He saw
our garden, was astonished at the scarlet beans, etc. etc. etc. When he
was gone, we wrote to Coleridge, M. H., and my brother Richard about the
affair. William determined to go to Eusemere on Monday....
_Saturday, 19th._--The swallows were very busy under my window this
morning.... Coleridge, when he was last here, told us that for many
years, there being no Quaker meeting at Keswick, a single old Quaker
woman used to go regularly alone every Sunday to attend the
meeting-house, and there used to sit and perform her worship alone, in
that beautiful place among those fir trees, in that spacious vale, under
the great mountain Skiddaw!!!... On Thursday morning Miss Hudson of
Workington called. She said, "... I sow flowers in the parks several
miles from home, and my mother and I visit them, and watch them how they
grow." This may show that botanists may be often deceived when they find
rare flowers growing far from houses. This was a very ordinary young
woman, such as in any town in the North of England one may find a score.
I sate up a while after William. He then called me down to him. (I was
writing to Mary H.) I read Churchill's _Rosciad_. Returned again to my
writing, and did not go to bed till he called to me. The shutters were
closed, but I heard the birds singing. There was our own thrush,
shouting with an impatient shout; so it sounded to me. The morning was
still, the twittering of the little birds was very gloomy. The owls had
hooted a quarter of an hour before, now the cocks were crowing, it was
near daylight, I put out my candle, and went to bed....
_Sunday, 20th._-- ... We were in the orchard a great part of the
morning. After tea we walked upon our own path for a long time. We
talked sweetly together about the disposal of our riches. We lay upon
the sloping turf. Earth and sky were so lovely that they melted our very
hearts. The sky to the north was of a chastened yet rich yellow, fading
into pale blue, and streaked and scattered over with steady islands of
purple, melting away into shades of pink. It was like a vision to me....
* * * * * *
_Tuesday morning._-- ... I walked to Rydale. I waited long for the post,
lying in the field, and looking at the distant mountains, looking and
listening to the river. I met the post. Letters from Montagu and
Richard. I hurried back, forwarded these to William, and wrote to
Montagu. When I came home I wrote to my brother Christopher. I could
settle to nothing.... I read the _Midsummer Night's Dream_, and began
_As You Like It_.
_Wednesday, 23rd June._-- ... A sunshiny morning. I walked to the top
of the hill and sate under a wall near John's Grove, facing the sun. I
read a scene or two in _As You Like It_.... Coleridge and Leslie came
just as I had lain down after dinner. C. brought me William's letter. He
had got well to Eusemere. Coleridge and I accompanied Leslie to the
boat-house. It was a sullen, coldish evening, no sunshine; but after we
had parted from Leslie a light came out suddenly that repaid us for all.
It fell only upon one hill, and the island, but it arrayed the grass and
trees in gem-like brightness. I cooked Coleridge's supper. We sate up
till one o'clock.
_Thursday, 24th June._--I went with C. half way up the Raise. It was a
cool morning.... William came in just when M. had left me. It was a
mild, rainy evening.... We sate together talking till the first dawning
of day; a happy time.
_Friday, 25th June._-- ... I went, just before tea, into the garden. I
looked up at my swallow's nest, and it was gone. It had fallen down.
Poor little creatures, they could not themselves be more distressed than
I was. I went upstairs to look at the ruins. They lay in a large heap
upon the window ledge; these swallows had been ten days employed in
building this nest, and it seemed to be almost finished. I had watched
them early in the morning, in the day many and many a time, and in the
evenings when it was almost dark. I had seen them sitting together side
by side in their unfinished nest, both morning and night. When they
first came about the window they used to hang against the panes, with
their white bellies and their forked tails, looking like fish; but then
they fluttered and sang their own little twittering song. As soon as the
nest was broad enough, a sort of ledge for them, they sate both mornings
and evenings, but they did not pass the night there. I watched them one
morning, when William was at Eusemere, for more than an hour. Every now
and then there was a motion in their wings, a sort of tremulousness, and
they sang a low song to one another.
* * * * * *
... It is now eight o'clock; I will go and see if my swallows are on
their nest. Yes! there they are, side by side, both looking down into
the garden. I have been out on purpose to see their faces. I knew by
looking at the window that they were there.... Coleridge and William
came in at about half-past eleven. They talked till after twelve.
_Wednesday, 30th June._-- ... We met an old man between the Raise and
Lewthwaites. He wore a rusty but untorn hat, an excellent blue coat,
waistcoat, and breeches, and good mottled worsted stockings. His beard
was very thick and grey, of a fortnight's growth we guessed; it was a
regular beard, like grey _plush_. His bundle contained Sheffield ware.
William said to him, after we had asked him what his business was, "You
are a very old man?" "Aye, I am eighty-three." I joined in, "Have you
any children?" "Children? Yes, plenty. I have children and
grand-children, and great grand-children. I have a great grand-daughter,
a fine lass, thirteen years old." I then said, "Won't they take care of
you?" He replied, much offended, "Thank God, I can take care of myself."
He said he had been a servant of the Marquis of Granby--"O he was a good
man; he's in heaven; I hope he is." He then told us how he shot himself
at Bath, that he was with him in Germany, and travelled with him
everywhere. "He was a famous boxer, sir." And then he told us a story of
his fighting with his farmer. "He used always to call me bland and
sharp." Then every now and then he broke out, "He was a good man! When
we were travelling he never asked at the public-houses, as it might be
there" (pointing to the "Swan"), "what we were to pay, but he would put
his hand into his pocket and give them what he liked; and when he came
out of the house he would say, Now, they would have charged me a
shilling or tenpence. God help them, poor creatures!" I asked him again
about his children, how many he had. Says he, "I cannot tell you" (I
suppose he confounded children and grand-children together); "I have one
daughter that keeps a boarding-school at Skipton, in Craven. She teaches
flowering and marking. And another that keeps a boarding-school at
Ingleton. I brought up my family under the Marquis." He was familiar
with all parts of Yorkshire. He asked us where we lived. At Grasmere.
"The bonniest dale in all England!" says the old man. I bought a pair of
slippers from him, and we sate together by the road-side. When we parted
I tried to lift his bundle, and it was almost more than I could do....
After tea I wrote to Coleridge, and closed up my letter to M. H. We went
soon to bed. A weight of children a poor man's blessing!...
* * * * * *
_Friday, 2nd July._--A very rainy morning.... I left William, and wrote
a short letter to M. H. and to Coleridge, and transcribed the
alterations in _The Leech Gatherer_.
* * * * * *
_Sunday, 4th July._-- ... William finished _The Leech Gatherer_ to-day.
_Monday, 5th July._--A very sweet morning. William stayed some time in
the orchard.... I copied out _The Leech Gatherer_ for Coleridge, and for
us. Wrote to Mrs. Clarkson, M. H., and Coleridge....
_Tuesday, 6th July._-- ... We set off towards Rydale for letters. The
rain met us at the top of the White Moss, and it came on very heavily
afterwards. It drove past Nab Scar in a substantial shape, as if going
to Grasmere was as far as it could go.... The swallows have completed
their beautiful nest....
_Wednesday, 7th._-- ... Walked on the White Moss. Glow-worms. Well for
them children are in bed when they shine.
_Thursday, 8th._-- ... When I was coming home, a post-chaise passed
with a little girl behind in a patched, ragged cloak. In the afternoon,
after we had talked a little, William fell asleep. I read the _Winter's
Tale_; then I went to bed, but did not sleep. The swallows stole in and
out of their nest, and sate there, _whiles_ quite still, _whiles_ they
sung low for two minutes or more, at a time just like a muffled robin.
William was looking at _The Pedlar_ when I got up. He arranged it, and
after tea I wrote it out--280 lines.... The moon was behind. William
hurried me out in hopes that I should see her. We walked first to the
top of the hill to see Rydale. It was dark and dull, but our own vale
was very solemn--the shape of Helm Crag was quite distinct, though
black. We walked backwards and forwards on the White Moss path; there
was a sky-like white brightness on the lake. The Wyke cottage right at
the foot of Silver How. Glow-worms out, but not so numerous as last
night. O, beautiful place! Dear Mary, William. The hour is come ... I
must prepare to go. The swallows, I must leave them, the wall, the
garden, the roses, all. Dear creatures! they sang last night after I was
in bed; seemed to be singing to one another, just before they settled to
rest for the night. Well, I must go. Farewell.[71]
[Footnote 71: Several of the poems, referred to in this Journal, are
difficult, if not impossible, to identify. _The Inscription of the
Pathway_, finished on the 28th of August 1800; _The Epitaph_, written
on the 28th January 1801; _The Yorkshire Wolds poem_, referred to on
March 10th, 1802; also _The Silver Howe poem_, and that known in the
Wordsworth household as _The Tinker_. It is possible that some of them
were intentionally suppressed. The _Inscription of the Pathway_ and
_The Tinker_ will, however, soon be published.--ED.]