"Dear child; dear girl; thou walkest with me here;
If thou appear untouched by solemn thought,
Thy nature is not therefore less divine;
Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year;
And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not."
His own children he loved almost to idolatry, and after the lapse of
forty years, would speak with the deepest emotion of the little ones who
had died. Indeed, he was a man of profound feeling, passionate and
intense in his loves, though outwardly calm and self-contained. He
himself says:--
"Had I been a writer of love-poetry, it would have been natural for
me to write it with a degree of warmth which could hardly have been
approved by my principles, and which might have been undesirable
for the reader."
His sister Dorothy frequently refers to the intensity of his passionate
affection for the members of his family, and of the full and free
expression he gave it. Greatly indeed have they erred who have imagined
him as by nature cold or even tranquil. "What strange workings," writes
one, "are there in his great mind! how fearfully strong are all his
feelings and affections! If his intellect had been less powerful they
would have destroyed him long ago." Indeed, no one who had ever known
him well could doubt this intensity of nature, this smothered fire. It
leaped out in bursts of anger at the report of evil doings; in long and
violent tramps over the mountains, in exaggerated grief at the death of
loved ones; and in almost unnatural intensity of devotion, to his sister
first, and his daughter Dora afterwards. It took the form of passionate
adoration of Nature in his poems, and of passionate patriotism as well,
and it gave strength and fire to the best of all his literary work.
Let us dwell for a moment more upon the married life of the poet,--that
calm and quiet and happy life which made it possible that he should be
the poet he was, unvexed by worldly cares or vanities. His late
biographer, Mr. Myers, tells us:--
"The life which the young couple led was one of primitive
simplicity. In some respects it was even less luxurious than that
of the peasants about them. They drank water, and ate the simplest
fare. Miss Wordsworth had long rendered existence possible for her
brother, on the narrowest of means, by her unselfish energy and
skill in household management; and plain living and high thinking
were equally congenial to the new inmate of the frugal home.
Wordsworth gardened; and all together, or oftenest the poet and his
sister, wandered almost daily over the neighboring hills. Narrow
means did not prevent them from offering a generous welcome to
their few friends, especially Coleridge and his family, who
repeatedly stayed for months under Wordsworth's roof. Miss
Wordsworth's letters breathe the very spirit of hospitality in
their naive details of the little sacrifices gladly made for the
sake of the presence of these honored guests. But for the most
part the life was solitary and uneventful. Books they had few,
neighbors none, and their dependence was almost entirely upon
external nature."
The cottage in which they lived was very small, but they covered it with
roses and honeysuckles, and had a little garden around it. Inside, all
was the perfection of simplicity, but the soul of neatness and thrift
pervaded everything, and love glorified it all. They had a little boat
upon the lake, and rowing and walking were their pleasures.
They lived in this simple fashion that the poet might pursue his high
vocation, and not be put into the treadmill of any steady work. In after
years, through bequests from friends and a pension from Government, they
were made more prosperous, and their declining years were cheered by an
assured abundance. Rydal Mount has been described so often that it is
familiar to most readers. The house stands looking southward, on the
rocky side of Nab Scar above Rydal Lake. The garden is terraced, and was
full of flowering alleys in the poet's time. There was a tall ash-tree
in which the thrushes always sung, and a laburnum in which the osier
cage of the doves was hung. There were stone steps, in which poppies and
wild geraniums filled the interstices; and rustic seats here and there,
where they all sat all day during the pleasant weather. The poet spent
very little time in-doors. He lived constantly in the open air,
composing all his poems there, and committing them to paper afterwards.
Their friends grew more numerous in later life, and Wordsworth much
enjoyed their companionship, being himself very bright and delightful
company when in the mood for talk. Here that strange being, Thomas De
Quincey, came and lived, purposely to be near the poet. Coleridge was
always at call, genial Kit North paid loyal court to the great man from
the first, and loving and gentle Charles Lamb came at times, sadly
missing the town, and almost afraid of the mountains. Here Dr. Arnold of
Rugby came often from Fox How, his own house in the neighborhood;
hither Harriet Martineau walked over from Ambleside, with some new
theory of the universe to expound; and here poor Hartley Coleridge
passed the happiest hours of his unfortunate life. Wordsworth's kindness
and tenderness to this poor son of his great friend were well known to
his little world, and show some of the most pleasing traits of his
character. This amiable and gifted man, Hartley Coleridge, ruined
himself through the weakness of his will, finding it utterly impossible
to leave wine alone, even when he knew it was ruining his life, and so
sorely afflicting his friends. Wordsworth dealt with him like a father,
recognizing the weakness of his character, and perhaps being able to
trace it to inherited tendencies,--the elder Coleridge's devotion to
opium being well known. Poor Hartley lies with Wordsworth's own family
in the little churchyard at Grasmere, and we trust in that quiet retreat
sleeps well, at the foot of his friend and master.
Wordsworth's last years were of great solemnity and calm. He lived in
retrospection, and dwelt much upon the unseen world. The deep
spirituality of his nature was shown in all his later life. He was
absorbed, as it were, in thoughts of God, and of the ultimate destiny of
man. All worldly interests died out, and he was able to write even of
his fame:--
"It is indeed a deep satisfaction to hope and believe that my
poetry will be, while it lasts, a help to the cause of virtue and
truth, especially among the young. As for myself, it seems now of
little moment how long I may be remembered. When a man pushes off
in his little boat into the great seas of Infinity and Eternity, it
surely signifies little how long he is kept in sight by watchers
from the shore."
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