'While from the grassy mountain's open side
We gazed.'
The point here fixed upon in my imagination is half-way up the northern
side of Loughrigg Fell, from which the 'Pastor' and his companions are
supposed to look upwards to the sky and mountain-tops, and round the
Vale, with the Lake lying immediately beneath them.
'But turned, not without welcome promise given
That he would share the pleasures and pursuits
Of yet another Summer's day, consumed
In wandering with us.'
When I reported this promise of the 'Solitary,' and long after, it was
my wish, and I might say intention, that we should resume our wanderings
and pass the borders into his native country, where, as I hoped, he
might witness, in the society of the 'Wanderer,' some religious
ceremony--a sacrament say, in the open fields, or a preaching among the
mountains, which, by recalling to his mind the days of his early
childhood, when he had been present on such occasions in company with
his parents and nearest kindred, might have dissolved his heart into
tenderness, and so done more towards restoring the Christian faith in
which he had been educated, and, with that, contentedness and even
cheerfulness of mind, than all that the 'Wanderer' and 'Pastor' by their
several effusions and addresses had been enabled to effect. An issue
like this was in my intentions, but alas!
----'mid the wreck of is and was,
Things incomplete and purposes betrayed
Make sadder transits o'er thought's optic glass
Than noblest objects utterly decayed.'
Bydal Mount, June 24. 1843.
St. John Baptist Day.
Of the 'Church' in the 'Excursion' (Book v.) we find this additional
morsel in a letter to Lady Frederick Bentinck (_Memoirs_, i. 156): 'The
Church is a very ancient structure; some persons now propose to ceil
it, a project which, as a matter of taste and feeling, I utterly
disapprove. At present, it is open to the rafters, and is accordingly
spacious, and has a venerable appearance, favourable, when one first
enters, to devotional impressions.'
514. _The Aristocracy of Nature_.
----'much did he see of men.' ['Excursion,' Book i. 1. 344.]
At the risk of giving a shock to the prejudices of artificial society, I
have ever been ready to pay homage to the aristocracy of nature; under a
conviction that vigorous human-heartedness is the constituent principle
of true taste. It may still, however, be satisfactory to have prose
testimony how far a Character, employed for purposes of imagination, is
founded upon general fact. I, therefore, subjoin an extract from an
author who had opportunities of being well acquainted with a class of
men, from whom my own personal knowledge emboldened me to draw this
portrait.
'We learn from Caesar and other Roman Writers, that the travelling
merchants who frequented Gaul and other barbarous countries, either
newly conquered by the Roman arms, or bordering on the Roman conquests,
were ever the first to make the inhabitants of those countries
familiarly acquainted with the Roman modes of life, and to inspire them
with an inclination to follow the Roman fashions, and to enjoy Roman
conveniences. In North America, travelling merchants from the
settlements have done and continue to do much more towards civilising
the Indian natives, than all the missionaries, Papist or Protestant, who
have ever been sent among them.
'It is farther to be observed, for the credit of this most useful class
of men, that they commonly contribute, by their personal manners, no
less than by the sale of their wares, to the refinement of the people
among whom they travel. Their dealings form them to great quickness of
wit and acuteness of judgment. Having constant occasion to recommend
themselves and their goods, they acquire habits of the most obliging
attention, and the most insinuating address. As in their peregrinations
they have opportunity of contemplating the manners of various men and
various cities, they become eminently skilled in the knowledge of the
world. _As they wander, each alone, through thinly-inhabited
districts they form habits of reflection and of sublime contemplation_.
With all these qualifications, no wonder that they should often be, in
remote parts of the country, the best mirrors of fashion, and censors of
manners; and should contribute much to polish the roughness, and soften
the rusticity of our peasantry. It is not more than twenty or thirty
years since a young man going from any part of Scotland to England, of
purpose to _carry the pack_, was considered as going to lead the life
and acquire the fortune of a gentleman. When, after twenty years'
absence, in that honourable line of employment, he returned with his
acquisitions to his native country, he was regarded as a gentleman to
all intents and purposes.' _Heron's Journey in Scotland_, Vol. i. p. 89.
515. _Eternity_.
'Lost in unsearchable Eternity!' ['Excursion,' Book iii. 1. 112.]
Since this paragraph was composed, I have read with so much pleasure, in
Burnet's _Theory of the Earth_, a passage expressing corresponding
sentiments, excited by objects of a similar nature, that I cannot
forbear to transcribe it.
'Siquod verÚ Natura nobis dedit spectaculum, in h‚c tellure, verË
gratum, et philosopho dignum, id semel mihi contigisse arbitror; c˘m ex
celsissim‚ rupe speculabundus ad oram maris Mediterranei, hinc aequor
caeruleum, illinc tractus Alpinos prospexi; nihil quidem magÏs dispar
aut dissimile, nec in suo genere, magÏs egregium et singulare. Hoc
theatrum ego facilË praetulerim Romanis cunctis, Graecisve; atque id
quod natura hÓc spectandum exhibet, scenicis ludis omnibus, aut
amphitheatri certamiuibus. Nihil hÓc elegans aut venustum, sed ingens et
magnificum, et quod placet magnitudine su‚ et qu‚dam specie
immensitatis. Hinc intuebar maris aequabilem superficiem, usque et usque
diffusam, quantum maxim˘m oculorum acies ferri potuit; illinc
disruptissimam terrae faciem, et vastas moles variË elevatas aut
depressas, erectas, propendentes, reclinatas, coacervatas, omni situ
inaequali et turbido. Placuit, ex h‡c parte, Naturae unitas et
simplicitas, et inexhausta quaedam planities; ex alter‚, multiformis
confusio magnorum corporum, et insanae rerum strages: quas c˘m intuebar,
non urbis alicujus aut oppidi, sed confracti mundi rudera, ante oculos
habere mihi visus sum.
'In singulis ferË montibus erat aliquid insolens et mirabile, sed prae
caeteris mihi placebat illa, qu‚ sedebam, rupes; erat maxima et
altissima, et qu‚ terram respiciebat, molliori ascensu altitudinem suam
dissimulabat: qu‡ verÚ mare, horrend˙m praeceps, et quasi ad
perpendiculum facta, instar parietis. Praetere‡ facies illa marina adeÚ
erat laevis ac uniformis (quod in rupibus aliquando observare licet) ac
si scissa fuisset ‡ summo ad imum, in illo plano; vel terrae motu
aliquo, aut fulmine, divulsa.
'Ima pars rupis erat cava, recessusque habuit, et saxeos specus, euntes
in vacuum montem; sive natur‚ pridem factos, sive exesos mari, et
undarum crebris ictibus: In hos enim cum impetu ruebant et fragore,
aestuantis maris fluctus; quos iterum spumantes reddidit antrum, et
quasi ab imo ventre evomuit.
'Dextrum latus montis erat praeruptum, aspero saxo et nuda caute;
sinistrum non adeÚ neglexerat Natura, arboribus utpote ornatum: et prope
pedem montis rivus limpidae aquae prorupit; qui c˘m vicinam vallem
irrigaverat, lento motu serpens, et per varios maeandros, quasi ad
protrahendam vitam, in magno mari absorptus subito periit. Denique in
summo vertice promontorii, commodË eminebat saxum, cui insidebam
contemplabundus. Vale augusta sedes, Rege digna: Augusta rupes, semper
mihi memoranda!' P. 89. _Telluris Theoria sacra, &c. Editio secunda_.
516. _'Of Mississippi, or that Northern Stream;' William Gilbert_.
['Excursion,' Book iii. l. 935.]
'A man is supposed to improve by going out into the _World_, by visiting
_London_. Artificial man does; he extends with his sphere; but, alas!
that sphere is microscopic; it is formed of minutiae, and he surrenders
his genuine vision to the artist, in order to embrace it in his ken. His
bodily senses grow acute, even to barren and inhuman pruriency; while
his mental become proportionally obtuse. The reverse is the Man of Mind:
he who is placed in the sphere of Nature and of God, might be a mock at
Tattersall's and Brooks', and a sneer at St. James's: he would certainly
be swallowed alive by the first _Pizarro_ that crossed him:--But when he
walks along the river of Amazons; when he rests his eye on the
unrivalled Andes; when he measures the long and watered savannah; or
contemplates, from a sudden promontory, the distant, vast Pacific--and
feels himself a freeman in this vast theatre, and commanding each ready
produced fruit of this wilderness, and each progeny of this stream--his
exaltation is not less than imperial. He is as gentle, too, as he is
great: his emotions of tenderness keep pace with his elevation of
sentiment; for he says, "These were made by a good Being, who, unsought
by me, placed me here to enjoy them." He becomes at once a child and a
king. His mind is in himself; from hence he argues, and from hence he
acts, and he argues unerringly, and acts magisterially: his mind in
himself is also in his God; and therefore he loves, and therefore he
soars.'--From the notes upon 'The Hurricane,' a Poem, by William
Gilbert.
The Reader, I am sure, will thank me for the above quotation, which,
though from a strange book, is one of the finest passages of modern
English prose.
517. _Richard Baxter_.
''Tis, by comparison, an easy task
Earth to despise,' &c. ['Excursion,' Book iv. ll. 131-2.]
See, upon this subject, Baxter's most interesting review of his own
opinions and sentiments in the decline of life. It may be found (lately
reprinted) in Dr. Wordsworth's _Ecclesiastical Biography_.
518. _Endowment of immortal Power_.
'Alas! the endowment of Immortal Power,' &c. ['Excursion,' Ibid. ll. 206
_et seqq._]
This subject is treated at length in the Ode 'Intimations of
Immortality.'
519. _Samuel Daniel and Countess of Cumberland_. ['Excursion,' _ibid._
l. 326.]
'Knowing the heart of Man is set to be,' &c.
The passage quoted from Daniel is taken from a poem addressed to the
Lady Margaret, Countess of Cumberland, and the two last lines, printed
in Italics, are by him translated from Seneca. The whole Poem is very
beautiful. I will transcribe four stanzas from it, as they contain an
admirable picture of the state of a wise Man's mind in a time of public
commotion.
Nor is he moved with all the thunder-cracks
Of tyrants' threats, or with the surly brow
Of Power, that proudly sits on other's crimes;
Charged with more crying sins than those he checks.
The storms of sad confusion that may grow
Up in the present for the coming times,
Appal not him; that hath no side at all,
But of himself, and knows the worst can fall.
Although his heart (so near allied to earth)
Cannot but pity the perplexed state
Of troublous and distressed mortality,
That thus make way unto the ugly birth
Of their own sorrows, and do still beget
Affliction upon Imbecility;
Yet seeing thus the course of things must run,
He looks thereon not strange, but as foredone.
And whilst distraught ambition compasses,
And is encompassed, while as craft deceives,
And is deceived: whilst man doth ransack man,
And builds on blood, and rises by distress;
And th' Inheritance of desolation leaves
To great-expecting hopes: He looks thereon,
As from the shore of peace, with unwet eye,
And bears no venture in Impiety.
Thus, Lady, fares that man that hath prepared
A rest for his desire; and sees all things
Beneath him; and hath learned this book of man,
Full of the notes of frailty; and compared
The best of glory with her sufferings:
By whom, I see, you labour all you can
To plant your heart! and set your thoughts as near
His glorious mansion as your powers can bear.'
520. _Spires_.
And spires whose "silent finger points to Heaven."' ['Excursion,'
Book vi. l. 19.]
An instinctive taste teaches men to build their churches in flat
countries with spire-steeples, which as they cannot be referred to any
other object, point as with silent finger to the sky and stars, and
sometimes, when they reflect the brazen light of a rich though rainy
sunset, appear like a pyramid of flame burning heaven-ward. See 'The
Friend,' by S. T. Coleridge, No. 14, p. 223.
521. _Sycamores_.
'That sycamore which annually holds
Within its shade as in a stately tent.' ['Excursion,' Book vii. ll. 622-3.]
'This sycamore oft musical with Bees;
_Such tents_ the Patriarch loved.' S.T. COLERIDGE.
522. _The Transitory_.
'Perish the roses and the flowers of Kings.'
['Excursion,' Book vii. l. 990.]
The 'Transit gloria mundi' is finely expressed in the Introduction to
the Foundation-charters of some of the ancient Abbeys. Some expressions
here used are taken from that of the Abbey of St. Mary's, Furness, the
translation of which is as follows:
'Considering every day the uncertainty of life, that the roses and
flowers of Kings, Emperors, and Dukes, and the crowns and palms of all
the great, wither and decay; and that all things, with an uninterrupted
course, tend to dissolution and death: I therefore,' &c.
523. _Dyer and 'The Fleece.'_
---'Earth has lent
Her waters, Air her breezes.' ['Excursion,' Book viii. ll. 112-3.]
In treating this subject, it was impossible not to recollect, with
gratitude, the pleasing picture, which, in his Poem of the Fleece, the
excellent and amiable Dyer has given of the influences of manufacturing
industry upon the face of this Island. He wrote at a time when machinery
was first beginning to be introduced, and his benevolent heart prompted
him to augur from it nothing but good. Truth has compelled me to dwell
upon the baneful effects arising out of an ill-regulated and excessive
application of powers so admirable in themselves.
524. _Dr. Bell_.
'Binding herself by Statute.' ['Excursion,' Book ix. l. 300.]
The discovery of Dr. Bell affords marvellous facilities for carrying
this into effect; and it is impossible to over-rate the benefit which
might accrue to humanity from the universal application of this simple
engine under an enlightened and conscientious government.
II. LETTERS AND EXTRACTS FROM LETTERS.
NOTE.
On this division of the Prose, the Reader may see our Preface, Vol. I.
G.
1. _Autobiographical Memoranda dictated by William Wordsworth, P.L., at
Rydal Mount, November_ 1847.
I was born at Cockermouth, in Cumberland, on April 7th, 1770, the second
son of John Wordsworth, attorney-at-law, as lawyers of this class were
then called, and law-agent to Sir James Lowther, afterwards Earl of
Lonsdale. My mother was Anne, only daughter of William Cookson, mercer,
of Penrith, and of Dorothy, born Crackanthorp, of the ancient family of
that name, who from the times of Edward the Third had lived in Newbiggen
Hall, Westmoreland. My grandfather was the first of the name of
Wordsworth who came into Westmoreland, where he purchased the small
estate of Sockbridge. He was descended from a family who had been
settled at Peniston in Yorkshire, near the sources of the Don, probably
before the Norman Conquest. Their names appear on different occasions in
all the transactions, personal and public, connected with that parish;
and I possess, through the kindness of Col. Beaumont, an almery made in
1325, at the expense of a William Wordsworth, as is expressed in a Latin
inscription[16] carved upon it, which carries the pedigree of the family
back four generations from himself.
[16] The original is as follows, some of the abbreviations being
expanded: 'HOC OPUS FIEBAT ANNO DOMINI MCCCXXV EX SUMPIU WLLLELMI
WOBDESWORTH FILII W. FIL. JOH. FIL. W. FIL. NICH. VIRI ELIZABETH FILIAE
ET HEREDIS W. PROCTOR DE PENYSTON QUORUM ANIMABUS PROPITIETUE DEUS.'
On the almery are carved the letters 'I.H.S.' and 'M.;' also the emblem
of the Holy Trinity.
For further information concerning this oak press, see Mr. Hunter's
paper in _Gentleman's Magazine _for July, 1850, p. 43.
The time of my infancy and early boyhood was passed partly at
Cockermouth, and partly with my mother's parents at Penrith, where my
mother, in the year 1778, died of a decline, brought on by a cold, the
consequence of being put, at a friend's house in London, in what used to
be called 'a best bedroom.' My father never recovered his usual
cheerfulness of mind after this loss, and died when I was in my
fourteenth year, a school-boy, just returned from Hawkshead, whither I
had been sent with my elder brother Richard, in my ninth year.
I remember my mother only in some few situations, one of which was her
pinning a nosegay to my breast when I was going to say the catechism in
the church, as was customary before Easter.[17] I remember also telling
her on one week day that I had been at church, for our school stood in
the churchyard, and we had frequent opportunities of seeing what was
going on there. The occasion was, a woman doing penance in the church in
a white sheet. My mother commended my having been present, expressing a
hope that I should remember the circumstance for the rest of my life.
'But,' said I, 'Mama, they did not give me a penny, as I had been told
they would.' 'Oh,' said she, recanting her praises, 'if that was your
motive, you were very properly disappointed.'
My last impression was having a glimpse of her on passing the door of
her bedroom during her last illness, when she was reclining in her easy
chair. An intimate friend of hers, Miss Hamilton by name, who was used
to visit her at Cockermouth, told me that she once said to her, that the
only one of her five children about whose future life she was anxious,
was William; and he, she said, would be remarkable either for good or
for evil. The cause of this was, that I was of a stiff, moody, and
violent temper; so much so that I remember going once into the attics of
my grandfather's house at Penrith, upon some indignity having been put
upon me, with an intention of destroying myself with one of the foils
which I knew was kept there. I took the foil in hand, but my heart
failed. Upon another occasion, while I was at my grandfather's house at
Penrith, along with my eldest brother, Richard, we were whipping tops
together in the large drawing-room, on which the carpet was only laid
down upon particular occasions. The walls were hung round with family
pictures, and I said to my brother, 'Dare you strike your whip through
that old lady's petticoat?' He replied, 'No, I won't.' 'Then,' said I,
'here goes;' and I struck my lash through her hooped petticoat, for
which no doubt, though I have forgotten it, I was properly punished. But
possibly, from some want of judgment in punishments inflicted, I had
become perverse and obstinate in defying chastisement, and rather proud
of it than otherwise.
[17] See Ecclesiastical Sonnets, Part III. Sonnet xxii. 'On
Catechising.'
Of my earliest days at school I have little to say, but that they were
very happy ones, chiefly because I was left at liberty, then and in the
vacations, to read whatever books I liked. For example, I read all
Fielding's works, _Don Quixote, Gil Blas,_ and any part of Swift that I
liked; _Gulliver's Travels,_ and the _Tale of the Tub,_ being both much
to my taste. I was very much indebted to one of the ushers of Hawkshead
School, by name Shaw, who taught me more of Latin in a fortnight than I
had learnt during two preceding years at the school of Cockermouth.
Unfortunately for me this excellent master left our school, and went to
Stafford, where he taught for many years. It may be perhaps as well to
mention, that the first verses which I wrote were a task imposed by my
master; the subject, 'The Summer Vacation;' and of my own accord I added
others upon 'Return to School.' There was nothing remarkable in either
poem; but I was called upon, among other scholars, to write verses upon
the completion of the second centenary from the foundation of the school
in 1585, by Archbishop Sandys. These verses were much admired, far more
than they deserved, for they were but a tame imitation of Pope's
versification, and a little in his style. This exercise, however, put it
into my head to compose verses from the impulse of my own mind, and I
wrote, while yet a school-boy, a long poem running upon my own
adventures, and the scenery of the country in which I was brought up.
The only part of that poem which has been preserved is the conclusion of
it, which stands at the beginning of my collected Poems ['Dear native
regions,' &c.].
In the month of October, 1787, I was sent to St. John's College,
Cambridge, of which my uncle, Dr. Cookson, had been a fellow. The
master, Dr. Chevallier, died very soon after;[18] and, according to the
custom of that time, his body, after being placed in the coffin, was
removed to the hall of the college, and the pall, spread over the
coffin, was stuck over by copies of verses, English or Latin, the
composition of the students of St. John's. My uncle seemed mortified
when upon inquiry he learnt that none of these verses were from my pen,
'because,' said he, 'it would have been a fair opportunity for
distinguishing yourself.' I did not, however, regret that _I_ had been
silent on this occasion, as I felt no interest in the deceased person,
with whom I had had no intercourse, and whom I had never seen but during
his walks in the college grounds.
[18] He was succeeded by Dr. Craven in 1789.
When at school, I, with the other boys of the same standing, was put
upon reading the first six books of Euclid, with the exception of the
fifth; and also in algebra I learnt simple and quadratic equations; and
this was for me unlucky, because I had a full twelvemonth's start of the
freshmen of my year, and accordingly got into rather an idle way;
reading nothing but classic authors according to my fancy, and Italian
poetry. My Italian master was named Isola, and had been well acquainted
with Gray the poet. As I took to these studies with much interest, he
was proud of the progress I made. Under his correction I translated the
_Vision of Mirza_, and two or three other papers of the _Spectator_,
into Italian. In the month of August, 1790, I set off for the Continent,
in companionship with Robert Jones, a Welshman, a fellow-collegian. We
went staff in hand, without knapsacks, and carrying each his needments
tied up in a pocket handkerchief, with about twenty pounds apiece in our
pockets. We crossed from Dover and landed at Calais on the eve of the
day when the king was to swear fidelity to the new constitution: an
event which was solemnised with due pomp at Calais. On the afternoon of
that day we started, and slept at Ardres. For what seemed best to me
worth recording in this tour, see the 'Poem of my own Life.'[19]
After taking my degree in January, 1791, I went to London, stayed there
some time, and then visited my friend Jones, who resided in the Yale of
Clwydd, North Wales. Along with him I made a pedestrian tour through
North Wales, for which also see the Poem.[20]
In the autumn of 1791 I went to Paris, where I stayed some little time,
and then went to Orleans, with a view of being out of the way of my own
countrymen, that I might learn to speak the language fluently. At
Orleans, and Blois, and Paris, on my return, I passed fifteen or sixteen
months.[21] It was a stirring time. The king was dethroned when I was at
Blois, and the massacres of September took place when I was at Orleans.
But for these matters see also the Poem. I came home before the
execution of the king, and passed the subsequent time among my friends
in London and elsewhere, till I settled with my only sister at Piacedown
in Dorsetshire, in the year 1796.
[19] Prelude, book vi.
[20] Ibid, book xiv.
[21] This is not quite correct; the time of his absence did not exceed
thirteen months.
Here we were visited by Mr. Coleridge, then residing at Bristol; and for
the sake of being near him when he had removed to Nether-Stowey, in
Somersetshire, we removed to Alfoxden, three miles from that place. This
was a very pleasant and productive time of my life. Coleridge, my
sister, and I, set off on a tour to Linton and other places in
Devonshire; and in order to defray his part of the expense, Coleridge on
the same afternoon commenced his poem of the 'Ancient Mariner;' in which
I was to have borne my part, and a few verses were written by me, and
some assistance given in planning the poem; but our styles agreed so
little, that I withdrew from the concern, and he finished it himself.
In the course of that spring I composed many poems, most of which were
printed at Bristol, in one volume, by my friend Joseph Cottle, along
with Coleridge's 'Ancient Mariner,' and two or three other of his
pieces.
In the autumn of 1798, Mr. Coleridge, a friend of his Mr. Chester, my
sister, and I, crossed from Yarmouth to Hamburgh, where we remained a
few days, and saw, several times, Klopstock the poet. Mr. Coleridge and
his friend went to Ratzburg, in the north of Germany, and my sister and
I preferred going southward; and for the sake of cheapness, and the
neighbourhood of the Hartz Mountains, we spent the winter at the old
imperial city of Goslar. The winter was perishingly cold--the coldest of
this century; and the good people with whom we lodged told me one
morning, that they expected to find me frozen to death, my little
sleeping room being immediately over an archway. However, neither my
sister nor I took any harm.
We returned to England in the following spring, and went to visit our
friends the Hutchinsons, at Sockburn-on-Tees, in the county of Durham,
with whom we remained till the 19th of December. We then came, on St.
Thomas's Day, the 21st, to a small cottage at Town-End, Grasmere, which,
in the course of a tour some months previously with Mr. Coleridge, I had
been pleased with, and had hired. This we furnished for about a hundred
pounds, which sum had come to my sister by a legacy from her uncle
Crackanthorp.
I fell to composition immediately, and published, in 1800, the second
volume of the 'Lyrical Ballads.'
In the year 1802 I married Mary Hutchinson, at Brompton, near
Scarborough, to which part of the country the family had removed from
Sockburn. We had known each other from childhood, and had practised
reading and spelling under the same old dame at Penrith, a remarkable
personage, who had taught three generations, of the upper classes
principally, of the town of Penrith and its neighbourhood.
After our marriage we dwelt, together with our sister, at Town-End,
where three of our children were born. In the spring of 1808, the
increase of our family caused us to remove to a larger house, then just
built, Allan Bank, in the same vale; where our two younger children were
born, and who died at the rectory, the house we afterwards occupied for
two years. They died in 1812, and in 1813 we came to Rydal Mount, where
we have since lived with no further sorrow till 1836, when my sister
became a confirmed invalid, and our sister Sarah Hutchinson died. She
lived alternately with her brother and with us.[22]
2. _His Schoolmistress, Mrs. Anne Birkett, Penrith_.
'The old dame did not affect to make theologians, or logicians, but she
taught to read, and she practised the memory, often no doubt by rote;
but still the faculty was improved. Something perhaps she explained, and
left the rest to parents, to masters, and to the pastor of the
parish.'[23]
3. _Books and Reading_.
'Do not trouble yourself with reading modern authors at present; confine
your attention to ancient classical writers; make yourself master of
them; and when you have done that, you will come down to us; and then
you will be able to judge us according to our deserts.'[24]
[22] _Memoirs_, i. pp. 7-17.
[23] Letter to Rev. H.J. Rose (1828), _Memoirs_, i. 33.
[24] Letter to a nephew, _Memoirs_, i. 48-9.
4. _Tour on the Continent_, 1790.
LETTER TO MISS WORDSWORTH, SEPT. 6 1790.
Sept. 6, 1790, Keswill (a small village on the
Lake of Constance).
MY DEAR SISTER,
My last letter was addressed to you from St. Valier and the Grande
Chartreuse. I have, since that period, gone over a very considerable
tract of country, and I will give you a sketch of my route as far as
relates to mentioning places where I have been, after I have assured you
that I am in excellent health and spirits, and have had no reason to
complain of the contrary during our whole tour. My spirits have been
kept in a perpetual hurry of delight, by the almost uninterrupted
succession of sublime and beautiful objects which have passed before my
eyes during the course of the last mouth. I will endeavour to give you
some idea of our route. It will be utterly impossible for me to dwell
upon particular scenes, as my paper would be exhausted before I had done
with the journey of two or three days. On quitting the Grande
Chartreuse, where we remained two days, contemplating, with increased
pleasure, its wonderful scenery, we passed through Savoy to Geneva;
thence, along the Pays do Vaud side of the lake, to Villeneuve, a small
town seated at its head. The lower part of the lake did not afford us a
pleasure equal to what might have been expected from its celebrity; this
owing partly to its width, and partly to the weather, which was one of
those hot gleamy days in which all distant objects are veiled in a
species of bright obscurity. But the higher part of the lake made us
ample amends; 'tis true we had some disagreeable weather, but the banks
of the water are infinitely more picturesque, and, as it is much
narrower, the landscape suffered proportionally less from that pale
steam which before almost entirely hid the opposite shore. From
Villeneuve we proceeded up the Rhone to Martigny, where we left our
bundles, and struck over the mountains to Chamouny, and visited the
glaciers of Savoy. You have undoubtedly heard of these celebrated
scenes, but if you have not read about them, any description which I
have room to give you must be altogether inadequate. After passing two
days in the environs of Chamouny, we returned to Martigny, and pursued
our mount up the Valais, along the Rhine, to Brig. At Brig we quitted
the Valais, and passed the Alps at the Simplon, in order to visit part
of Italy. The impressions of three hours of our walk among these Alps
will never be effaced. From Duomo d'Ossola, a town of Italy which lay in
our route, we proceeded to the lake of Locarno, to visit the Boromean
Islands, and thence to Como. A more charming path was scarcely ever
travelled over. The banks of many of the Italian and Swiss lakes are so
steep and rocky as not to admit of roads; that of Como is partly of
this character. A small foot-path is all the communication by land
between one village and another, on the side along which we passed, for
upwards of thirty miles. We entered upon this path about noon, and,
owing to the steepness of the banks, were soon unmolested by the sun,
which illuminated the woods, rocks, and villages of the opposite shore.
The lake is narrow, and the shadows of the mountains were early thrown
across it. It was beautiful to watch them travelling up the side of the
hills,--for several hours to remark one half of a village covered with
shade, and the other bright with the strongest sunshine. It was with
regret that we passed every turn of this charming path, where every new
picture was purchased by the loss of another which we should never have
been tired of gazing upon. The shores of the lake consist of steeps
covered with large, sweeping woods of chestnut, spotted with villages;
some clinging from the summits of the advancing rocks, and others hiding
themselves within their recesses. Nor was the surface of the lake less
interesting than its shores; half of it glowing with the richest green
and gold, the reflection of the illuminated wood and path, shaded with a
soft blue tint. The picture was still further diversified by the number
of sails which stole lazily by us as we paused in the wood above them.
After all this we had the moon. It was impossible not to contrast that
repose, that complacency of spirit, produced by these lovely scenes,
with the sensations I had experienced two or three days before, in
passing the Alps. At the lake of Como, my mind ran through a thousand
dreams of happiness, which might be enjoyed upon its banks, if
heightened by conversation and the exercise of the social affections.
Among the more awful scenes of the Alps, I had not a thought of man, or
a single created being; my whole soul was turned to Him who produced the
terrible majesty before me. But I am too particular for the limits of my
paper.
We followed the lake of Como to its head, and thence proceeded to
Chiavenna, where we began to pass a range of the Alps, which brought us
into the country of the Grisons at Sovozza. From Sovozza we pursued the
valley of Myssen, in which it is situated, to its head; passed Mount
Adula to Hinter Rhine, a small village near one of the sources of the
Rhine. We pursued this branch of the Rhine downward through the Grisons
to Michenem, where we turned up the other branch of the same river, and
following it to Chiamut, a small village near its source. Here we
quitted the Grisons, and entered Switzerland at the valley of Urseren,
and pursued the course of the Reuss down to Altorf; thence we proceeded,
partly upon the lake and partly behind the mountains on its banks, to
Lucerne, and thence to Zurich. From Zurich, along the banks of the lake,
we continued our route to Richtenschwyl: here we left the lake to visit
the famous church and convent of Einsiedeln, and thence to Glaris. But
this catalogue must be shockingly tedious. Suffice it to say, that,
after passing a day in visiting the romantic valley of Glaris, we
proceeded by the lake of Wallenstadt and the canton of Appenzell to the
lake of Constance, where this letter was begun nine days ago. From
Constance we proceeded along the banks of the Rhine to Schaffhausen, to
view the falls of the Rhine there. Magnificent as this fall certainly
is, I must confess I was disappointed in it. I had raised my ideas too
high.
We followed the Rhine downward about eight leagues from Schaffhausen,
where we crossed it, and proceeded by Baden to Lucerne. I am at this
present moment (14th September) writing at a small village on the road
from Grindelwald to Lauterbrunnen. By consulting your maps, you will
find these villages in the south-east part of the canton of Berne, not
far from the lakes of Thun and Brientz. After viewing the valley of
Lauterbrunnen, we shall have concluded our tour of the more Alpine part
of Switzerland. We proceed thence to Berne, and intend, after making two
or three small excursions about the lake of Neufchatel, to go to Basle,
a town in Switzerland, upon the Rhine, whence we shall, if we find we
can afford it, take advantage of the river down to Cologne, and so cross
to Ostend, where we shall take the packet to Margate. To-day is the 14th
of September; and I hope we shall be in England by the 10th of October.
I have had, during the course of this delightful tour, a great deal of
uneasiness from an apprehension of your anxiety on my account. I have
thought of you perpetually; and never have my eyes burst upon a scene of
particular loveliness but I have almost instantly wished that you could
for a moment be transported to the place where I stood to enjoy it. I
have been more particularly induced to form those wishes, because the
scenes of Switzerland have no resemblance to any I have found in
England; consequently it may probably never be in your power to form an
idea of them. We are now, as I observed above, upon the point of
quitting these most sublime and beautiful parts; and you cannot imagine
the melancholy regret which I feel at the idea. I am a perfect
enthusiast in my admiration of nature in all her various forms; and I
have looked upon, and, as it were, conversed with, the objects which
this country has presented to my view so long, and with such increasing
pleasure, that the idea of parting from them oppresses me with a sadness
similar to what I have always felt in quitting a beloved friend.
There is no reason to be surprised at the strong attachment which the
Swiss have always shown to their native country. Much of it must
undoubtedly have been owing to those charms which have already produced
so powerful an effect upon me, and to which the rudest minds cannot
possibly be indifferent. Ten thousand times in the course of this tour
have I regretted the inability of my memory to retain a more strong
impression of the beautiful forms before me; and again and again, in
quitting a fortunate station, have I returned to it with the most eager
avidity, in the hope of bearing away a more lively picture. At this
moment, when many of these landscapes are floating before my mind, I
feel a high enjoyment in reflecting that perhaps scarcely a day of my
life will pass in which I shall not derive some happiness from these
images.
With regard to the manners of the inhabitants of this singular country,
the impressions which we have had often occasion to receive have been
unfavourable; but it must be remembered that we have had little to do
but with innkeepers, and those corrupted by perpetual intercourse with
strangers. Had we been able to speak the language, which is German, and
had we time to insinuate ourselves into their cottages, we should
probably have had as much occasion to admire the simplicity of their
lives as the beauties of their country. My partiality to Switzerland,
excited by its natural charms, induces me to hope that the manners of
the inhabitants are amiable; but at the same time I cannot help
frequently comparing them with those of the French, and, as far as I
have had opportunity to observe, they lose very much by the comparison.
We not only found the French a much less imposing people, but that
politeness diffused through the lowest ranks had an air so engaging that
you could scarce attribute it to any other cause than real benevolence.
During the time, which was near a month, that we were in France, we had
not once to complain of the smallest deficiency in courtesy in any
person, much less of any positive rudeness. We had also perpetual
occasion to observe that cheerfulness and sprightliness for which the
French have always been remarkable. But I must remind you that we
crossed at the time when the whole nation was mad with joy in
consequence of the Revolution. It was a most interesting period to be in
France; and we had many delightful scenes, where the interest of the
picture was owing solely to this cause. I was also much pleased with
what I saw of the Italians during the short time we were among them. We
had several times occasion to observe a softness and elegance which
contrasted strongly with the severe austereness of their neighbours on
the other side of the Alps. It was with pleasure I observed, at a small
inn on the lake of Como, the master of it playing upon his harpsichord,
with a large collection of Italian music about him. The outside of the
instrument was such that it would not much have graced an English
drawing-room; but the tones that he drew from it were by no means
contemptible.
But it is time to talk about England. When you write to my brothers, I
must beg of you to give my love, and tell them I am sorry it has not
been in my power to write to them. Kit will be surprised he has not
heard from me, as we were almost upon terms of regular correspondence. I
had not heard from Richard for some time before I set out. I did not
call upon him when I was in London; not so much because we were
determined to hurry through London, but because he, as many of our
friends at Cambridge did, would look upon our scheme as mad and
impracticable. I expect great pleasure, on my return to Cambridge, in
exulting over those of my friends who threatened us with such an
accumulation of difficulties as must undoubtedly render it impossible
for us to perform the tour. Every thing, however, has succeeded with us
far beyond my most sanguine expectations. We have, it is true, met with
little disasters occasionally, but far from distressing, and they rather
gave us additional resolution and spirits. We have both enjoyed most
excellent health; and we have been so inured to walking, that we are
become almost insensible to fatigue. We have several times performed a
journey of thirteen leagues over the most mountainous parts of
Switzerland without any more weariness than if we had been walking an
hour in the groves of Cambridge. Our appearance is singular; and we have
often observed, that, in passing through a village, we have excited a
general smile. Our coats, which we had made light on purpose for the
journey, are of the same piece; and our manner of carrying our bundles,
which is upon our heads, with each an oak stick in our hands,
contributes not a little to that general curiosity which we seem to
excite. But I find I have again relapsed into egotism, and must here
entreat you, not only to pardon this fault, but also to make allowance
for the illegible hand and desultory style of this letter. It has been
written, as you will see by its different shades, at many sittings, and
is, in fact, the produce of most of the leisure which I have had since
it was begun, and is now finally drawing to a conclusion, it being on
the 16th of September. I flatter myself still with the hope of seeing
you for a fortnight or three weeks, if it be agreeable to my uncle, as
there will be no necessity for me to be in Cambridge before the 10th of
November. I shall be better able to judge whether I am likely to enjoy
this pleasure in about three weeks. I shall probably write to you again
before I quit France; if not, most certainly immediately on my landing
in England. You will remember me affectionately to my uncle and aunt: as
he was acquainted with my giving up all thoughts of a fellowship, he
may, perhaps, not be so much displeased at this journey. I should be
sorry if I have offended him by it. I hope my little cousin is well. I
must now bid you adieu, with assuring you that you are perpetually in my
thoughts, and that I remain,
Most affectionately yours,
W. WORDSWORTH.
On looking over this letter, I am afraid you will not be able to read
half of it. I must again beg you to excuse me.
Miss Wordsworth, Rev. Wm. Cookson's, Long Stretton, Norfolk,
L'Angleterre.[25]
[25] Memoirs, pp. 57-66.
5. _In Wales_.
'You will see by the date of this letter that I am in Wales, and whether
you remember the place of Jones's residence or no, you will immediately
conclude that I am with him. I quitted London about three weeks ago,
where my time passed in a strange manner, sometimes whirled about by the
vortex of its _strenua inertia_, and sometimes thrown by the eddy into a
corner of the stream. Think not, however, that I had not many pleasant
hours.... My time has been spent since I reached Wales in a very
agreeable manner, and Jones and I intend to make a tour through its
northern counties,--on foot, as you will easily suppose.'[26]
6. _Melancholy of a Friend_.
'I regret much not to have been made acquainted with your wish to have
employed your vacation in a pedestrian tour, both on your account, as it
would have contributed greatly to exhilarate your spirits, and on mine,
as we should have gained much from the addition of your society. Such an
excursion would have served like an Aurora Borealis to gild your long
Lapland night of melancholy.'[27]
7. _Holy Orders_.
About this time Wordsworth was urged by some of his relatives to take
holy orders. Writing from Cambridge, September 23rd, to Mathews, he
says: 'I quitted Wales on a summons from Mr. Robinson, a gentleman you
most likely have heard me speak of, respecting my going into orders and
taking a curacy at Harwich; which curacy he considered as introductory
to the living. I thought it was best to pay my respects to him in
person, to inform him that I am not of age for ordination.'[28]
[26] Letter to William Mathews, _Memoirs_, i. 70.
[27] Ibid. _Memoirs_, i. 71.
[28] _Memoirs_, i. 71.
8. _The French Revolution: _1792.
'The horrors excited by the relation of the events consequent upon the
commencement of hostilities is general. Not but that there are some men
who felt a gloomy satisfaction from a measure which seemed to put the
patriot army out of a possibility of success. An ignominious flight, the
massacre of their general, a dance performed with savage joy round his
burning body, the murder of six prisoners, are events which would have
arrested the attention of the reader of the annals of Morocco.'
He then expresses his fear that the patriot army would be routed by the
invaders. But 'suppose,' he adds, 'that the German army is at the gates
of Paris, what will be the consequence? It will be impossible for it to
make any material alterations in the constitution; impossible to
reinstate the clergy in its ancient guilty splendour; impossible to
restore an existence to the noblesse similar to that it before enjoyed;
impossible to add much to the authority of the king. Yet there are in
France some (millions?)--I speak without exaggeration--who expect that
this will take place.'[29]
9. _Failure of Louvets Denunciation of Robespierre_.
At Paris his feelings were still more disturbed by the abortive issue of
Louvet's denunciation of Robespierre: he began to forebode the
commencement of the Reign of Terror; he was paralysed with sorrow and
dismay, and stung with disappointment, that no paramount spirit had
emerged to abash the impious crests of the leaders of 'the atheist
crew,' and 'to quell outrage and bloody power,' and to 'clear a passage
for just government, and leave a solid birthright to the state.'[30]
[29] Extract of letter to Mathews, May 17, 1792, _Memoirs_, i. 75.
[30] _Memoirs_, i. 76.
10. _Of inflammatory Political Opinions_.
'I disapprove of monarchical and aristocratical governments, however
modified. Hereditary distinctions, and privileged orders of every
species, I think, must necessarily counteract the progress of human
improvement. Hence it follows, that I am not among the admirers of the
British constitution. I conceive that a more excellent system of civil
policy might be established among us; yet in my ardour to attain the
goal, I do not forget the nature of the ground where the race is to be
run. The destruction of those institutions which I condemn appears to me
to be hastening on too rapidly. I recoil from the very idea of a
revolution. I am a determined enemy to every species of violence. I see
no connection, but what the obstinacy of pride and ignorance renders
necessary, between justice and the sword, between reason and bonds. I
deplore the miserable condition of the French, and think that _we_ can
only be guarded from the same scourge by the undaunted efforts of good
men.... I severely condemn all inflammatory addresses to the passions of
men. I know that the multitude walk in darkness. I would put into each
man's hands a lantern, to guide him; and not have him to set out upon
his journey depending for illumination on abortive flashes of lightning,
or the coruscations of transitory meteors.'[31]
11. _At Milkhouse, Halifax_: 'Not _to take orders_.'
'My sister,' he says, in a letter to Mathews (February 17th, 1794), 'is
under the same roof with me; indeed it was to see her that I came into
this country. I have been doing nothing, and still continue to do
nothing. What is to become of me I know not.' He announces his resolve
_not_ to take orders; and 'as for the Law, I have neither strength of
mind, purse, or constitution, to engage in that pursuit.'[32]
12. _Literary Work: Evening Walk and Descriptive Sketches_: 1794.
In May, 1794, William Wordsworth was at Whitehaven, at his uncle's, Mr.
Richard Wordsworth's; and he then proposes to his friend Mathews, who
was resident in London, that they should set on foot a monthly political
and literary Miscellany, to which, he says, 'he would communicate
critical remarks on poetry, the arts of painting, gardening, &c.,
besides essays on morals and politics.' 'I am at present,' he adds,
'nearly at leisure--I say _nearly_, for I am _not quite_ so, as I am
correcting, and considerably adding to, those poems which I published in
your absence' ('The Evening Walk' and 'Descriptive Sketches'). 'It was
with great reluctance that I sent those two little works into the world
in so imperfect a state. But as I had done nothing by which to
distinguish myself at the university, I thought these little things
might show that I _could_ do something. They have been treated with
unmerited contempt by some of the periodicals, and others have spoken in
higher terms of them than they deserve.'[33]
[31] Extract of letter to Mathews, _Memoirs_, i. 79-80.
[32] _Memoirs_, i. 82.
[33] Ibid. i. 82-3.
13. _Employment on a London Newspaper_.
Writing from Keswick on November 7th, 1794, he announces to his friend
Mathews, who _was_ employed on the newspapers, his desire and intention
of coming to London for the same purpose, and requests him to procure
for him a similar engagement. 'You say a newspaper would be glad of me.
Do you think you could ensure me employment in that way, on terms
similar to your own? I mean, also, in an Opposition paper, for I cannot
abet, in the smallest degree, the measures pursued by the present
ministry. They are already so deeply advanced in iniquity, that, like
Macbeth, they cannot retreat. When I express myself in this manner, I am
far from reprobating those whose sentiments differ from my own; I know
that many good men are persuaded of the expediency of the present war.'
He then turns to domestic matters: 'You would probably see that my
brother [afterwards the Master of Trinity] has been honoured with two
college declamation prizes. This goes towards a fellowship, which I hope
he will obtain, and am sure he will merit. He is a lad of talents, and
industrious withal. This same industry is a good old Roman quality, and
nothing is to be done without it.'[34]
14. _Raisley Culvert's last Illness_.
'My friend' [Calvert] 'has every symptom of a confirmed consumption, and
I cannot think of quitting him in his present debilitated state.'[35]
Again: 'I have been here [Mr. Somerby's, at the sign of the Robin Hood,
Penrith] for some time. I am still much engaged with my sick friend; and
sorry am I to add that he worsens daily ... he is barely alive.'[36]
[34] Memoirs, i. 85.
[35] Letter to Mathews, Nov. 9, 1794.
[36] Memoirs, i. 85-6.
15. _Family History_.
LETTER TO SIR GEORGE H. BEAUMONT, BART.
Grasmere, Feb. 20, 1805.
My dear friend,
My father, who was an attorney of considerable eminence, died intestate
when we were children; and the chief part of his personal property after
his decease was expended in an unsuccessful attempt to compel the late
Lord Lonsdale to pay a debt of about 5000_l._ to my father's estate.
Enough, however, was scraped together to educate us all in different
ways. I, the second son, was sent to college with a view to the
profession of the church or law; into one of which I should have been
forced by necessity, had not a friend left me 900_l._ This bequest was
from a young man with whom, though I call him friend, I had had but
little connection; and the act was done entirely from a confidence on
his part that I had powers and attainments which might be of use to
mankind. This I have mentioned, because it was his due, and I thought
the fact would give you pleasure. Upon the interest of the 900_l._,
400_l._ being laid out in annuity, with 200_l._ deducted from the
principal, and 100_l._ a legacy to my sister, and a 100_l._ more which
the 'Lyrical Ballads' have brought me, my sister and I contrived to live
seven years, nearly eight. Lord Lonsdale. then died, and the present
Lord Lowther paid to my father's estate 8500_l._ Of this sum I believe
1800_l._ apiece will come to my sister and myself; at least, would have
come: but 3000_l._ was lent out to our poor brother,[37] I mean taken
from the whole sum, which was about 1200_l._ more than his share, which
1200_l._ belonged to my sister and me. This 1200_l._ we freely lent him;
whether it was insured or no, I do not know; but I dare say it will
prove to be the case; we did not, however, stipulate for its being
insured. But you shall faithfully know all particulars as soon as I have
learned them.[38]
16. _Reading: 1795_.
Here [Racedown Lodge, near Crewkerne, Dorsetshire] he and his sister
employed themselves industriously in reading--'if reading can ever
deserve the name of industry,' says Wordsworth in a letter to his friend
Mathews of March 21, 1796.[39]
[37] Captain John Wordsworth, who perished by shipwreck a short time
before the date of this letter.
[38] _Memoirs_, i. 88-9.
[39] Ibid. i. 94.
17. _Satire: Poetical Imitations of Juvenal: 1795_.
LETTER TO WRANGHAM.
Nov. 7. 1806.
'I have long since come to a fixed resolution to steer clear of personal
satire; in fact, I never will have anything to do with it as far as
concerns the _private_ vices of individuals on any account. With respect
to public delinquents or offenders, I will not say the same; though I
should be slow to meddle even with these. This is a rule which I have
laid down for myself, and shall rigidly adhere to; though I do not in
all cases blame those who think and act differently.
'It will therefore follow, that I cannot lend any assistance to your
proposed publication. The verses which you have of mine I should wish to
be destroyed; I have no copy of them myself, at least none that I can
find. I would most willingly give them up to you, fame, profit, and
everything, if I thought either true fame or profit could arise out of
them.'[40]
18. _Visit to Thelwall_.
'Mr. Coleridge, my sister, and I had been visiting the famous John
Thelwall, who had taken refuge from politics after a trial for high
treason, with a view to bring up his family by the profits of
agriculture, which proved as unfortunate a speculation as that he had
fled from. Coleridge and he had been public lecturers, Coleridge
mingling with his politics theology, from which the other elocutionist
abstained, unless it were for the sake of a sneer. This quondam
community of public employment induced Thelwall to visit Coleridge, at
Nether-Stowey, where he fell in my way. He really was a man of
extraordinary talent, an affectionate husband, and a good father. Though
brought up in the City, on a tailor's board, he was truly sensible of
the beauty of natural objects. I remember once, when Coleridge, he, and
I were seated upon the turf on the brink of the stream, in the most
beautiful part of the most beautiful glen of Alfoxden, Coleridge
exclaimed, "This is a place to reconcile one to all the jarrings and
conflicts of the wide world." "Nay," said Thelwall, "to make one forget
them altogether." The visit of this man to Coleridge was, as I believe
Coleridge has related, the occasion of a spy being sent by Government to
watch our proceedings, which were, I can say with truth, such as the
world at large would have thought ludicrously harmless.'[41]
[40] _Memoirs_, i. 95-6.
[41] Ibid. i. 104-5.
19. _Poetry added to: April 12th, 1798_.
'You will be pleased to hear that I have gone on very rapidly adding to
my stock of poetry. Do come and let me read it to you under the old
trees in the park [at Alfoxden]. We have little more than two months to
stay in this place.'[42]
20. _On the Wye_.
'We left Alfoxden on Monday morning, the 26th of June, stayed with
Coleridge till the Monday following, then set forth on foot towards
Bristol. We were at Cottle's for a week, and thence we went towards the
banks of the Wye. We crossed the Severn Ferry, and walked ten miles
further to Tintern Abbey, a very beautiful ruin on the Wye. The next
morning we walked along the river through Monmouth to Goderich Castle,
there slept, and returned the next day to Tintern, thence to Chepstow,
and from Chepstow back again in a boat to Tintern, where we slept, and
thence back in a small vessel to Bristol.
'The Wye is a stately and majestic river from its width and depth, but
never slow and sluggish; you can always hear its murmur. It travels
through a woody country, now varied with cottages and green meadows, and
now with huge and fantastic rocks.'[43]
21. _At Home again_.
'We are now' (he says in a letter to Cottle) 'in the county of Durham,
just upon the borders of Yorkshire. We left Coleridge well at Gottingen
a month ago. We have spent our time pleasantly enough in Germany, but we
are right glad to find ourselves in England--for we have learnt to know
its value.'[44]
22. _Early Visit to the Lake District_.
On September 2nd [1799] Wordsworth writes from Sockburn to his friend
Cottle: 'If you come down.... I will accompany you on your tour. You
will come by Greta Bridge, which is about twenty miles from this place:
thither Dorothy and I will go to meet you.... Dorothy will return to
Sockburn, and I will accompany you into Cumberland and
Westmoreland.'[45]
[42] Letter to Cottle, _Memoirs_, i. 116.
[43] Ibid. i. 116-17.
[44] 1799: _Memoirs_, i. 145.
[45] Ibid. i. 147.
23. _On a Tour, 1799_.
'We left Cottle, as you know, at Greta Bridge. We were obliged to take
the mail over Stanemoor: the road interesting with sun and mist. At
Temple Sowerby I learned that John was at Newbiggin. I sent a note; he
came, looks very well, said he would accompany us a few days. Next day
we set off and dined at Mr. Myers', thence to Bampton, where we slept.
On Friday proceeded along the lake of Hawes-Water, a noble scene which
pleased us much. The mists hung so low that we could not go directly
over to Ambleside, so we went round by Long Sleddale to Kentmere,
Troutbeck, Rayrigg, and Bowness; ... a rainy and raw day.... Went to the
ferry, much disgusted with the new erections about Windermere; ...
thence to Hawkshead: great change among the people since we were last
there. Next day by Rydal to Grasmere, Robert Newton's. At Robert
Newton's we have remained till to-day. John left us on Tuesday: we
walked with him to the tarn. This day was a fine one, and we had some
grand mountain scenery; the rest of the week has been bad weather. The
evening before last we walked to the upper waterfall at Rydal, and saw
it through the gloom, and it was very magnificent. Coleridge was much
struck with Grasmere and its neighbourhood. I have much to say to you.
You will think my plan a mad one, but I have thought of building a house
there by the lake-side. John would give me 40_l._ to buy the ground.
There is a small house at Grasmere empty, which, perhaps, we may take;
but of this we will speak.'[46]
[46] _Memoirs_, i. 148-9.
24. _At the Lakes_.
LETTER TO COLERIDGE (1799): JOURNEY FROM SOCKBURN TO GRASMERE.
'We arrived here on the evening of St. Thomas's day, last Friday [1799],
and have now been four days in our new abode without writing to you--a
long time! but we have been in such confusion as not to have had a
moment's leisure. My dear friend, we talk of you perpetually, and for me
I see you every where. But let me be a little more methodical. We left
Sockburn last Tuesday morning. We crossed the Tees by moonlight in the
Sockburn fields, and after ten good miles' riding came in sight of the
Swale. It is there a beautiful river, with its green bank and flat holms
scattered over with trees. Four miles further brought us to Richmond,
with its huge ivied castle, its friarage steeple, its castle tower
resembling a huge steeple, and two other steeple towers, for such they
appeared to us. The situation of this place resembles that of Barnard
Castle, but I should suppose is somewhat inferior to it. George
accompanied us eight miles further, and there we parted with sorrowful
hearts. We were now in Wensley Dale, and D[orothy] and I set off side by
side to foot it as far as Kendal. I will not clog my letter with a
description of this celebrated dale; but I must not neglect to mention
that a little before sunset we reached one of the waterfalls, of which I
read you a short description in Mr. Taylor's tour. It is a singular
scene; I meant to have given you some account of it, but I feel myself
too lazy to execute the task. 'Tis such a performance as you might have
expected from some giant gardener employed by one of Queen Elizabeth's
courtiers, if this same giant gardener had consulted with Spenser, and
they two had finished the work together. By this you will understand
that it is at once formal and wild. We reached Askrigg, twelve miles,
before six in the evening, having been obliged to walk the last two
miles over hard frozen roads, to the great annoyance of our ankles and
feet. Next morning the earth was thinly covered with snow, enough to
make the road soft, and prevent its being slippery. On leaving Askrigg,
we turned aside to see another waterfall. It was a beautiful morning,
with driving snow showers, which disappeared by fits, and unveiled the
east, which was all one delicious pale orange colour. After walking
through two small fields we came to a mill, which we passed; and in a
moment a sweet little valley opened before us with an area of grassy
ground, and a stream dashing over various laminae of black rocks close
under a bank covered with firs; the bank and stream on our left, another
woody bank on our right, and the flat meadow in front, from which, as at
Buttermere the stream had retired, as it were, to hide itself under the
shade. As we walked up this delightful valley we were tempted to look
back perpetually on the stream, which reflected the orange lights of the
morning among the gloomy rocks, with a brightness varying with the
agitation of the current. The steeple of Askrigg was between us and the
east, at the bottom of the valley; it was not a quarter of a mile
distant, but oh! how far we were from it! The two banks seemed to join
before us with a facing of rock common to them both. When we reached
this bottom the valley opened out again; two rocky banks on each side,
which, hung with ivy and moss, and fringed luxuriantly with brushwood,
ran directly parallel to each other, and then approaching with a gentle
curve at their point of union, presented a lofty waterfall, the
termination of the valley. It was a keen frosty morning, showers of snow
threatening us, but the sun bright and active. We had a task of
twenty-one miles to perform in a short winter's day. All this put our
minds into such a state of excitation, that we were no unworthy
spectators of this delightful scene. On a nearer approach the waters
seemed to fall down a tall arch, or niche, that had shaped itself by
insensible moulderings in the wall of an old castle. We left this spot
with reluctance, but highly exhilarated. When we had walked about a mile
and a half, we overtook two men with a string of ponies and some empty
carts. I recommended to Dorothy to avail herself of this opportunity of
husbanding her strength: we rode with them more than two miles. 'Twas
bitter cold, the wind driving the snow behind us in the best style of a
mountain storm. We soon reached an inn at a place called Hardrane, and
descending from our vehicles, after warming ourselves by the cottage
fire, we walked up the brook-side to take a view of a third waterfall.
We had not walked above a few hundred yards between two winding rocky
banks, before we came full upon the waterfall, which seemed to throw
itself in a narrow line from a lofty wall of rock, the water, which shot
manifestly to some distance from the rock, seeming to be dispersed into
a thin shower scarcely visible before it reached the bason. We were
disappointed in the cascade itself, though the introductory and
accompanying banks were an exquisite mixture of grandeur and beauty. We
walked up to the fall; and what would I not give if I could convey to
you the feelings and images which were then communicated to me? After
cautiously sounding our way over stones of all colours and sizes,
encased in the clearest water formed by the spray of the fall, we found
the rock, which before had appeared like a wall, extending itself over
our heads, like the ceiling of a huge cave, from the summit of which the
waters shot directly over our heads into a bason, and among fragments
wrinkled over with masses of ice as white as snow, or rather, as Dorothy
says, like congealed froth. The water fell at least ten yards from us,
and we stood directly behind it, the excavation not so deep in the rock
as to impress any feeling of darkness, but lofty and magnificent; but in
connection with the adjoining banks excluding as much of the sky as
could well be spared from a scene so exquisitely beautiful. The spot
where we stood was as dry as the chamber in which I am now sitting, and
the incumbent rock, of which the groundwork was limestone, veined and
dappled with colours which melted into each other with every possible
variety of colour. On the summit of the cave were three festoons, or
rather wrinkles, in the rock, run up parallel like the folds of a
curtain when it is drawn up. Each of these was hung with icicles of
various length, and nearly in the middle of the festoon in the deepest
valley of the waves that ran parallel to each other, the stream shot
from the rows of icicles in irregular fits of strength, and with a body
of water that varied every moment. Sometimes the stream shot into the
bason in one continued current; sometimes it was interrupted almost in
the midst of its fall, and was blown towards part of the waterfall at no
great distance from our feet like the heaviest thunder-shower. In such a
situation you have at every moment a feeling of the presence of the sky.
Large fleecy clouds drove over our heads above the rush of the water,
and the sky appeared of a blue more than usually brilliant. The rocks on
each side, which, joining with the side of this cave, formed the vista
of the brook, were chequered with three diminutive waterfalls, or rather
courses of water. Each of these was a miniature of all that summer and
winter can produce of delicate beauty. The rock in the centre of the
falls, where the water was most abundant, a deep black, the adjoining
parts yellow, white, purple, and dove-colour, covered with water-plants
of the most vivid green, and hung with streaming icicles, that in some
places seem to conceal the verdure of the plants, and the violet and
yellow variegation of the rocks; and in some places render the colours
more brilliant. I cannot express to you the enchanting effect produced
by this Arabian scene of colour as the wind blew aside the great
waterfall behind which we stood, and alternately hid and revealed each
of these fairy cataracts in irregular succession, or displayed them
with various gradations of distinctness as the intervening spray was
thickened or dispersed. What a scene, too, in summer! In the luxury of
our imagination we could not help feeding upon the pleasure which this
cave, in the heat of a July noon, would spread through a frame
exquisitely sensible. That huge rock on the right, the bank winding
round on the left, with all its living foliage, and the breeze stealing
up the valley, and bedewing the cavern with the freshest imaginable
spray. And then the murmur of the water, the quiet, the seclusion, and a
long summer day.'[47]
25. _Inconsistent Opinions on his Poems_.
|----------------------------------------------------------------------------------|
| 'HARMONIES OF CRITICISM.' |
|---------------------------------------|------------------------------------------|
| '_Nutting_.' | '_Nutting_.' |
|Mr. C.W.: | 'Mr. S.: |
|'Worth its weight in gold.' | 'Can make neither head nor tail of it.'|
| | |
| '_Joanna_.' | '_Joanna_.' |
| | |
|Mr. J.W.: | Mr. S.: |
|'The finest poem of its | |
|length you have written.' | 'Can make nothing of it.' |
| | |
| '_Poet's Epitaph_.' | '_Poet's Epitaph_.' |
| | |
|Mr. Charles Lamb: | Mr. S.: |
|'The latter part preÎminently | |
|good, and your own.' | 'The latter part very ill written. |
| | |
| '_Cumberland Beggar_.' | '_Cumberland Beggar_.' |
|Mr. J.W.: | Mr. Charles Lamb: |
|'Everybody seems delighted.' | 'You seem to presume your readers |
| | are stupid: the instructions too |
| | direct.' |
| | |
| '_Idiot Boy_.' | '_Idiot Boy_.' |
|Mr. J.W.: | Mr. S.: |
|'A lady, a friend of mine, could | 'Almost thrown by it into a fit |
|talk of nothing else: this, of all the | with disgust; _cannot read it_!' |
|poems, her delight.' | |
| | |
|But here comes the waggon | |
| | W.W.[48] |
|---------------------------------------|------------------------------------------|
26. _On his Scottish Tour_.
TO SCOTT.
Grasmere, Oct. 16. 1803.
'We had a delightful journey home, delightful weather, and a sweet
country to travel through. We reached our little cottage in high
spirits, and thankful to God for all His bounties. My wife and child
were both well, and, as I need not say, we had all of us a happy
meeting.... We passed Branxholme (your Branxholme, we supposed) about
four miles on this side of Hawick. It looks better in your poem than in
its present realities. The situation, however, is delightful, and makes
amends for an ordinary mansion. The whole of the Teviot, and the
pastoral steeps about Mosspaul, pleased us exceedingly. The Esk, below
Langholm, is a delicious river, and we saw it to great advantage. We did
not omit noticing Johnnie Armstrong's Keep; but his hanging-place, to
our great regret, we missed. We were, indeed, most truly sorry that we
could not have you along with us into Westmoreland. The country was in
its full glory; the verdure of the valleys, in which we are so much
superior to you in Scotland, but little tarnished by the weather; and
the trees putting on their most beautiful looks. My sister was quite
enchanted; and we often said to each other, "What a pity Mr. Scott is
not with us!..." I had the pleasure of seeing Coleridge and Southey at
Keswick last Sunday. Southey, whom I never saw much of before, I liked
much: he is very pleasant in his manner, and a man of great reading in
old books, poetry, chronicles, memoirs, &c., particularly Spanish and
Portuguese.... My sister and I often talk of the happy days that we
spent in your company. Such things do not occur often in life. If we
live, we shall meet again; that is my consolation when I think of these
things. Scotland and England sound like division, do what we can; but we
really are but neighbours, and if you were no further off, and in
Yorkshire, we should think so. Farewell! God prosper you, and all that
belongs to you! Your sincere friend, for such I will call myself, though
slow to use a word of such solemn meaning to any one,
'W. WORDSWORTH.'[49]
[49] _Life of Scott_, by Lockhart, vol. ii. 165-7 (1856). The following
from the same source, earlier, may fitly find a place here: 'It was in
the September of this year [1803] that Scott first saw Wordsworth. Their
common acquaintance, Stoddart, had so often talked of them to each
other, that they met as if they had not been strangers; and they parted
friends. Mr. and Miss Wordsworth had just completed that tour in the
Highlands of which so many incidents have since been immortalised, both
in the poet's sense and in the hardly less poetical prose of his
sister's Diary. On the morning of the 17th of September, having left
their carriage at Rosslyn, they walked down the valley to Lasswade, and
arrived there before Mr. and Mrs. Scott had risen. "We were received,"
Mr. Wordsworth has told me, "with that frank cordiality which, under
whatever circumstances I afterwards met him, always marked his manners;
and, indeed, I found him then in every respect--except perhaps that his
animal spirits were somewhat higher--precisely the same man that you
knew him in later life; the same lively, entertaining conversation, full
of anecdote, and averse from disquisition; the same unaffected modesty
about himself; the same cheerful and benevolent and hopeful views of man
and the world. He partly read and partly recited, sometimes in an
enthusiastic style of chant, the first four cantos of the "Lay of the
Last Minstrel;" and the novelty of the manners, the clear picturesque
descriptions, and the easy glowing energy of much of the verse, greatly
delighted me."' (pp. 160-1).
27. _The Grove: Captain John Wordsworth_.
John Wordsworth left Grasmere on Michaelmas-day, 1800, walking over by
Grisedale Tarn to Paterdale, whence he would proceed to Penrith; he took
leave of his brother William, near the Tarn, where Ullswater first comes
in view; and he went to sea again, in the Abergavenny East-Indiaman, in
the spring of 1801.
After his departure from Grasmere, the Poet discovered a track which had
been worn by his brother's steps 'pacing there unwearied and alone,'
during the winter weather, in a sheltering fir-grove above the cottage,
and henceforth _that_ fir-grove was known to the Poet's household by the
name of 'John's Grove,' or 'Brother's Grove.' Of this Wordsworth writes:
'_When to the attractions of the busy world_,' 1805.--'The grove still
exists, but the plantation has been walled in, and is not so accessible
as when my brother John wore the path in the manner described. The grove
was a favourite haunt with us all while we lived at Town-End.'[50]
28. _Spenser and Milton_.
Captain Wordsworth returned from the voyage on which he sailed in 1801;
and in November 1802, he writes for directions what books to buy to
carry with him on a voyage of sixteen months....
[50] _Memoirs_, i. 282.
'Tell John' says Wordsworth, 'when he buys Spenser, to purchase an
edition which has his "State of Ireland" in it. This is in prose. This
edition may be scarce, but one surely can be found.
'Milton's Sonnets (transcribe all this for John, as said by me to him) I
think manly and dignified compositions, distinguished by simplicity and
unity of object and aim, and undisfigured by false or vicious ornaments.
They are in several places incorrect, and sometimes uncouth in language,
and, perhaps, in some, inharmonious; yet, upon the whole, I think the
music exceedingly well suited to its end, that is, it has an energetic
and varied flow of sound crowding into narrow room more of the combined
effect of rhyme and blank verse than can be done by any other kind of
verse I know. The Sonnets of Milton which I like best are that to
_Cyriack Skinner_; on his _Blindness_; _Captain or Colonel_; _Massacre
of Piedmont_; _Cromwell_, except two last lines; _Fairfax_, &c.'[51]
[51] _Memoirs_, i. 287.
29. _Death of Captain John Wordsworth_.
LETTER TO SIR GEORGE H. BEAUMONT, BART.
Grasmere, Feb. 11. 1805.
MY DEAR FRIEND,
The public papers will already have broken the shock which the sight of
this letter will give you: you will have learned by them the loss of the
Earl of Abergavenny East-Indiaman, and, along with her, of a great
proportion of the crew,--that of her captain, our brother, and a most
beloved brother he was. This calamitous news we received at 2 o'clock
to-day, and I write to you from a house of mourning. My poor sister, and
my wife who loved him almost as we did (for he was one of the most
amiable of men), are in miserable affliction, which I do all in my power
to alleviate; but Heaven knows I want consolation myself. I can say
nothing higher of my ever-dear brother, than that he was worthy of his
sister, who is now weeping beside me, and of the friendship of
Coleridge; meek, affectionate, silently enthusiastic, loving all quiet
things, and a poet in every thing but words.
Alas! what is human life! This present moment, I thought, this morning,
would have been devoted to the pleasing employment of writing a letter
to amuse you in your confinement. I had singled out several little
fragments (descriptions merely), which I purposed to have transcribed
from my poems, thinking that the perusal of them might give you a few
minutes' gratification; and now I am called to this melancholy office.
I shall never forget your goodness in writing so long and interesting a
letter to me under such circumstances. This letter also arrived by the
same post which brought the unhappy tidings of my brother's death, so
that they were both put into my hands at the same moment....
Your affectionate friend,
W. WORDSWORTH.
I shall do all in my power to sustain my sister under her sorrow, which
is, and long will be, bitter and poignant. We did not love him as a
brother merely, but as a man of original mind, and an honour to all
about him. Oh! dear friend, forgive me for talking thus. We have had no
tidings of Coleridge. I tremble for the moment when he is to hear of my
brother's death; it will distress him to the heart,--and his poor body
cannot bear sorrow. He loved my brother, and he knows how we at Grasmere
loved him.
Nine days afterwards, Wordsworth resumed the subject as follows:
Grasmere, Feb. 20. 1805.
Having spoken of worldly affairs, let me again mention my beloved
brother. It is now just five years since, after a separation of fourteen
years (I may call it a separation, for we only saw him four or five
times, and by glimpses), he came to visit his sister and me in this
cottage, and passed eight blessed months with us. He was then waiting
for the command of the ship to which he was appointed when he quitted
us. As you will have seen, we had little to live upon, and he as little
(Lord Lonsdale being then alive). But he encouraged me to persist, and
to keep my eye steady on its object. He would work for me (that was his
language), for me and his sister; and I was to endeavour to do something
for the world. He went to sea, as commander, with this hope; his voyage
was very unsuccessful, he having lost by it considerably. When he came
home, we chanced to be in London, and saw him. 'Oh!' said he, 'I have
thought of you, and nothing but you; if ever of myself, and my bad
success, it was only on your account.' He went again to sea a second
time, and also was unsuccessful; still with the same hopes on our
account, though then not so necessary, Lord Lowther having paid the
money.[52] Lastly came the lamentable voyage, which he entered upon,
full of expectation, and love to his sister and myself, and my wife,
whom, indeed, he loved with all a brother's tenderness. This is the end
of his part of the agreement--of his efforts for my welfare! God grant
me life and strength to fulfil mine! I shall never forget him,--never
lose sight of him: there is a bond between us yet, the same as if he
were living, nay, far more sacred, calling upon me to do my utmost, as
he to the last did his utmost to live in honour and worthiness. Some of
the newspapers carelessly asserted that he did not wish to survive his
ship. This is false. He was heard by one of the surviving officers
giving orders, with all possible calmness, a very little before the ship
went down; and when he could remain at his post no longer, then, and not
till then, he attempted to save himself. I knew this would be so, but it
was satisfactory for me to have it confirmed by external evidence. Do
not think our grief unreasonable. Of all human beings whom I ever knew,
he was the man of the most rational desires, the most sedate habits, and
the most perfect self-command. He was modest and gentle, and shy even to
disease; but this was wearing off. In every thing his judgments were
sound and original; his taste in all the arts, music and poetry in
particular (for these he, of course, had had the best opportunities of
being familiar with), was exquisite; and his eye for the beauties of
nature was as fine and delicate as ever poet or painter was gifted with,
in some discriminations, owing to his education and way of life, far
superior to any person's I ever knew. But, alas! what avails it? It was
the will of God that he should be taken away.
* * * * *
I trust in God that I shall not want fortitude; but my loss is great and
irreparable.
[52] Due to Wordsworth's father from James, Earl of Lonsdale, at whose
death, in 1802, it was paid by his Lordship's successor, and divided
among the five children.
* * * * *
Many thanks for the offer of your house; but I am not likely to be
called to town. Lady Beaumont gives us hope we may see you next summer:
this would, indeed, be great joy to us all. My sister thanks Lady B. for
her affectionate remembrance of her and her letter, and will write as
soon as ever she feels herself able. Her health, as was to be expected,
has suffered much.
Your most affectionate friend,
W. WORDSWORTH.
Again:
Grasmere, March 12. 1805.
As I have said, your last letter affected me much. A thousand times have
I asked myself, as your tender sympathy led me to do, 'why was he taken
away?' and I have answered the question as you have done. In fact, there
is no other answer which can satisfy and lay the mind at rest. Why have
we a choice, and a will, and a notion of justice and injustice, enabling
us to be moral agents? Why have we sympathies that make the best of us
so afraid of inflicting pain and sorrow, which yet we see dealt about so
lavishly by the Supreme Governor? Why should our notions of right
towards each other, and to all sentient beings within our influence,
differ so widely from what appears to be His notion and rule, _if every
thing were to end here_? Would it not be blasphemy to say that, upon the
supposition of the thinking principle being _destroyed by death_,
however inferior we may be to the great Cause and Ruler of things, we
have _more of love_ in our nature than He has? The thought is monstrous;
and yet how to get rid of it, except upon the supposition of _another_
and a _better world_, I do not see. As to my departed brother, who leads
our minds at present to these reflections, he walked all his life pure
among many impure. Except a little hastiness of temper, when any thing
was done in a clumsy or bungling manner, or when improperly contradicted
upon occasions of not much importance, he had not one vice of his
profession. I never heard an oath, or even an indelicate expression or
allusion, from him in my life; his modesty was equal to that of the
purest woman. In prudence, in meekness, in self-denial, in fortitude, in
just desires and elegant and refined enjoyments, with an entire
simplicity of manners, life, and habit, he was all that could be wished
for in man; strong in health, and of a noble person, with every hope
about him that could render life dear, thinking of, and living only for,
others,--and we see what has been his end! So good must be better; so
high must be destined to be higher.
* * * * *
I will take this opportunity of saying, that the newspaper accounts of
the loss of the ship are throughout grossly inaccurate. The chief facts
I will state, in a few words, from the deposition at the India House of
one of the surviving officers. She struck at 5 P.M. Guns were fired
immediately, and were continued to be fired. She was gotten off the rock
at half-past seven, but had taken in so much water, in spite of constant
pumping, as to be water-logged. They had, however, hope that she might
still be run upon Weymouth Sands, and with this view continued pumping
and baling till eleven, when she went down. The longboat could not be
hoisted out, as, had that been done, there would have been no
possibility of the ship being run aground. I have mentioned these
things, because the newspaper accounts were such as tended to throw
discredit on my brother's conduct and personal firmness, stating that
the ship had struck an hour and a half before guns were fired, and that,
in the agony of the moment, the boats had been forgotten to be hoisted
out. We knew well this could not be; but, for the sake of the relatives
of the persons lost, it distressed us much that it should have been
said. A few minutes before the ship went down, my brother was seen
talking with the first mate, with apparent cheerfulness; and he was
standing on the hen-coop, which is the point from which he could
overlook the whole ship, the moment she went down, dying, as he had
lived, in the very place and point where his duty stationed him. I must
beg your pardon for detaining you so long on this melancholy subject;
and yet it is not altogether melancholy, for what nobler spectacle can
be contemplated than that of a virtuous man, with a serene countenance,
in such an overwhelming situation? I will here transcribe a passage
which I met with the other day in a review; it is from Aristotle's
'Synopsis of the Virtues and Vices.'[53] 'It is,' says he, 'the property
of fortitude not to be easily terrified by the dread of things
pertaining to death; to possess good confidence in things terrible, and
presence of mind in dangers; rather to prefer to be put to death
worthily, than to be preserved basely; and to be the cause of victory.
Moreover, it is the property of fortitude to labour and endure, and to
make valorous exertion an object of choice. Further, presence of mind, a
well-disposed soul, confidence and boldness are the attendants on
fortitude; and, besides these, industry and patience.' Except in the
circumstance of making valorous exertion an 'object _of choice_' (if the
philosopher alludes to general habits of character), my brother might
have sat for this picture; but he was of a meek and retired nature,
loving all quiet things.
[53] Vol. ix. p. 395, ed. Bekker. Oxon. 1837.
I remain, dear Sir George,
Your most affectionate friend,
W. WORDSWORTH.
The following, to his friend Southey, was written the morrow after the
arrival of the sad tidings:
Tuesday Evening, Grasmere, 1805.
We see nothing here that does not remind us of our dear brother; there
is nothing about us (save the children, whom he had not seen) that he
has not known and loved.
If you could bear to come to this house of mourning to-morrow, I should
be for ever thankful. We weep much to-day, and that relieves us. As to
fortitude, I hope I shall show that, and that all of us will show it in
a proper time, in keeping down many a silent pang hereafter. But grief
will, as you say, and must, have its course; there is no wisdom in
attempting to check it under the circumstances which we are all of us in
here.
I condole with you, from my soul, on the melancholy account of your own
brother's situation; God grant you may not hear such tidings! Oh! it
makes the heart groan, that, with such a beautiful world as this to live
in, and such a soul as that of man's is by nature and gift of God, that
we should go about on such errands as we do, destroying and laying
waste; and ninety-nine of us in a hundred never easy in any road that
travels towards peace and quietness. And yet, what virtue and what
goodness, what heroism and courage, what triumphs of disinterested love
everywhere, and human life, after all, what is it! Surely, this is not
to be for ever, even on this perishable planet! Come to us to-morrow,
if you can; your conversation, I know, will do me good.
* * * * *
All send best remembrances to you all.
Your affectionate friend,
W. WORDSWORTH.
The following, to another friend, completes the sad tale:
Grasmere, March 16. 1805.
He wrote to us from Portsmouth, about twelve days before this disaster,
full of hopes, saying that he was to sail to-morrow. Of course, at the
time when we heard this deplorable news, we imagined that he was as far
on his voyage as Madeira. It was, indeed, a thunderstroke to us! The
language which he held was always so encouraging, saying that ships
were, in nine instances out of ten, lost by mismanagement: he had,
indeed, a great fear of pilots, and I have often heard him say, that no
situation could be imagined more distressing than that of being at the
mercy of these men. 'Oh!' said he, 'it is a joyful hour for us when we
get rid of them.' His fears, alas! were too well founded; his own ship
was lost while under the management of the pilot, whether mismanaged by
him or not, I do not know; but know for certain, which is, indeed, our
great consolation, that our dear brother did all that man could do, even
to the sacrifice of his own life. The newspaper accounts were grossly
inaccurate; indeed, that must have been obvious to any person who could
bear to think upon the subject, for they were absolutely unintelligible.
There are two pamphlets upon the subject; one a mere transcript from the
papers; the other may be considered, as to all important particulars, as
of authority; it is by a person high in the India House, and contains
the deposition of the surviving officers concerning the loss of the
ship. The pamphlet, I am told, is most unfeelingly written: I have only
seen an extract from it, containing Gilpin's deposition, the fourth
mate. From this, it appears that every thing was done that could be
done, under the circumstances, for the safety of the lives and the ship.
My poor brother was standing on the hen-coop (which is placed upon the
poop, and is the most commanding situation in the vessel) when she went
down, and he was thence washed overboard by a large sea, which sank the
ship. He was seen struggling with the waves some time afterwards, having
laid hold, it is said, of a rope. He was an excellent swimmer; but what
could it avail in such a sea, encumbered with his clothes, and exhausted
in body, as he must have been!
For myself, I feel that there is something cut out of my life which
cannot be restored. I never thought of him but with hope and delight: we
looked forward to the time, not distant, as we thought, when he would
settle near us, when the task of his life would be over, and he would
have nothing to do but reap his reward. By that time, I hoped also that
the chief part of my labours would be executed, and that I should be
able to show him that he had not placed a false confidence in me. I
never wrote a line without a thought of its giving him pleasure: my
writings, printed and manuscript, were his delight, and one of the chief
solaces of his long voyages. But let me stop: I will not be cast down;
were it only for his sake, I will not be dejected. I have much yet to
do, and pray God to give me strength and power: his part of the
agreement between us is brought to an end, mine continues; and I hope
when I shall be able to think of him with a calmer mind, that the
remembrance of him dead will even animate me more than the joy which I
had in him living. I wish you would procure the pamphlet I have
mentioned; you may know the right one, by its having a motto from
Shakspeare, from Clarence's dream. I wish you to see it, that you may
read G.'s statement, and be enabled, if the affair should ever be
mentioned in your hearing, to correct the errors which they must have
fallen into who have taken their ideas from the newspaper accounts. I
have dwelt long, too long I fear, upon this subject, but I could not
write to you upon any thing else, till I had unburthened my heart. We
have great consolations from the sources you allude to; but, alas! we
have much yet to endure. Time only can give us regular tranquillity. We
neither murmur nor repine, but sorrow we must; we should be senseless
else.[54]
[54] _Memoirs_, i. 288-98.
30. _Of Dryden_.
LETTER TO SIR WALTER SCOTT.[55]
[55] From Lockhart's _Life of Scott_, vol. ii. pp. 287-9 (edit. 1856).
Paterdale, Nov. 7. 1803.
MY DEAR SCOTT,
I was much pleased to hear of your engagement with Dryden: not that he
is, as a poet, any great favourite of mine. I admire his talents and
genius highly, but his is not a poetical genius. The only qualities I
can find in Dryden that are _essentially_ poetical, are a certain ardour
and impetuosity of mind, with an excellent ear. It may seem strange that
I do not add to this, great command of language. _That_ he certainly
has, and of such language too, as it is most desirable that a poet
should possess, or rather, that he should not be without. But it is not
language that is, in the highest sense of the word, poetical, being
neither of the imagination nor of the passions; I mean the amiable, the
ennobling, or the intense passions. I do not mean to say that there is
nothing of this in Dryden, but as little, I think, as is possible,
considering how much he has written. You will easily understand my
meaning, when I refer to his versification of 'Palamon and Arcite,' as
contrasted with the language of Chaucer. Dryden had neither a tender
heart nor a lofty sense of moral dignity. Whenever his language is
poetically impassioned, it is mostly upon unpleasing subjects, such as
the follies, vices, and crimes of classes of men, or of individuals.
That his cannot be the language of imagination, must have necessarily
followed from this,--that there is not a single image from Nature in the
whole body of his works; and in his translation from Virgil, whenever
Virgil can be fairly said to have his _eye_ upon his object, Dryden
always spoils the passage.
But too much of this; I am glad that you are to be his editor. His
political and satirical pieces may be greatly benefited by illustration,
and even absolutely require it. A correct text is the first object of an
editor; then such notes as explain difficult or obscure passages; and
lastly, which is much less important, notes pointing out authors to whom
the Poet has been indebted, not in the fiddling way of phrase here and
phrase there (which is detestable as a general practice), but where he
has had essential obligations either as to matter or manner.
If I can be of any use to you, do not fail to apply to me. One thing I
may take the liberty to suggest, which is, when you come to the fables,
might it not be advisable to print the whole of the Tales of Boccace in
a smaller type in the original language? If this should look too much
like swelling a book, I should certainly make such extracts as would
show where Dryden has most strikingly improved upon, or fallen below,
his original. I think his translations from Boccace are the best, at
least the most poetical, of his poems. It is many years since I saw
Boccace, but I remember that Sigismunda is not married by him to
Guiscard (the names are different in Boccace in both tales, I believe,
certainly in Theodore, &c.). I think Dryden has much injured the story
by the marriage, and degraded Sigismunda's character by it. He has also,
to the best of my remembrance, degraded her still more, by making her
love absolute sensuality and appetite; Dryden had no other notion of the
passion. With all these defects, and they are very gross ones, it is a
noble poem. Guiscard's answer, when first reproached by Tancred, is
noble in Boccace, nothing but this: _Amor pu‡ molto pi˘ che ne roi ne io
possiamo_. This, Dryden has spoiled. He says first very well, 'The
faults of love by love are justified,' and then come four lines of
miserable rant, quite _‡ la Maximin_. Farewell, and believe me ever,
Your affectionate friend,
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
31. _Of Marmion_.
EXTRACT OF LETTER TO SIR WALTER SCOTT (1808).
Thank you for 'Marmion.' I think your end has been attained. That it is
not the end which I should wish you to propose to yourself, you will be
well aware, from what you know of my notions of composition, both as to
matter and manner. In the circle of my acquaintance it seems as well
liked as the 'Lay,' though I have heard that in the world it is not so.
Had the Poem been much better than the Lay, it could scarcely have
satisfied the public, which has too much of the monster, the moral
monster, in its composition. The Spring has burst out upon us all at
once, and the vale is now in exquisite beauty; a gentle shower has
fallen this morning, and I hear the thrush, who has built in my orchard,
singing amain. How happy we should be to see you here again! Ever, my
dear Scott, your sincere friend,
W. W.[56]
32. _Topographical History_, &_c_.
LETTER TO REV. FRANCIS WRANGHAM, HUNMANBY, NEAR BRIDLINGTON, YORKSHIRE.
Grasmere, Oct. 2. 1808.
MY DEAR WRANGHAM,
In what are you employed--I mean by way of amusement and relaxation from
your professional duties? Is there any topographical history of your
neighbourhood? I remember reading White's _Natural History and
Antiquities of Selbourne_ with great pleasure, when a boy at school, and
I have lately read Dr. Whitaker's _History of Craven and Whalley_, both
with profit and pleasure. Would it not be worth your while to give some
of your leisure hours to a work of this kind, making those works partly
your model, and adding thereto from the originality of your own mind?
With your activity you might produce something of this kind of general
interest, taking for your limit any division in your neighbourhood,
natural, ecclesiastical, or civil: suppose, for example, the coast from
the borders of Cleveland, or from Scarborough, to Spurnhead; and inward
into the country to any boundary that you might approve of. Pray think
of this. I am induced to mention it from belief that you are admirably
qualified for such a work; that it would pleasantly employ your leisure
hours; and from a regret in seeing works of this kind, which might be
made so very interesting, utterly marred by falling into the hands of
wretched bunglers, _e.g._ the _History of Cleveland_, which I have just
read, by a Clergyman of ----, the most heavy performance I ever
encountered; and what an interesting district! Pray let me hear from you
soon.
Affectionately and sincerely yours,
W. WORDSWORTH.[57]
[56] Lockhart's _Life_, iii. 45-6.
[57] _Memoirs_, i. 385-6.
33. _The War in Spain: Benefactors of Mankind, &c._
TO THE SAME.
Grasmere, Dec. 3. 1808.
MY DEAR WRANGHAM,
On the other side you have the prospectus of a weekly essay intended to
be published by your friend Coleridge.
* * * * *
Your Sermon did not reach me till the night before last; we have all
read it, and are much pleased with it. Upon the whole, I like it better
than the last: it must have been heard with great interest. I differ,
however, from you in a few particulars. 1st. The Spaniards 'devoting
themselves for an imprisoned Bourbon, or the crumbling relics of the
Inquisition.' This is very fair for pointing a sentence, but it is not
the truth. They have told us over and over again, that they are
_fighting against a foreign tyrant_, who has dealt with them most
perfidiously and inhumanly, who must hate them for their worth, and on
account of the injuries they have received from him, and whom they must
hate accordingly; _against_ a ruler over whom they could have no
control, and _for_ one whom they have told us they will establish as a
sovereign of a _free_ people, and therefore must he himself be a limited
monarch. You will permit me to make to you this representation for its
truth's sake, and because it gives me an opportunity of letting out a
secret, viz. that I myself am very deep in this subject, and about to
publish upon it, first, I believe, in a newspaper, for the sake of
immediate and wide circulation; and next, the same matter in a separate
pamphlet, under the title of 'The Convention of Cintra brought to the
test of principles, and the people of Great Britain vindicated from the
charge of having prejudged it.' You will wonder to hear me talk of
principles when I have told you that I also do not go along with you in
your sentiments respecting the Roman Catholic question. I confess I am
not prepared to see the Roman Catholic religion as the Established
Church of Ireland; and how that can be consistently refused to them, if
other things are granted on the plea of their being the majority, I do
not see. Certainly this demand will follow, and how would it be
answered?
There is yet another circumstance in which I differ from you. If Dr.
Bell's plan of education be of that importance which it appears to be
of, it cannot be a matter of indifference whether he or Lancaster have a
rightful claim to the invention. For Heaven's sake let all benefactors
of their species have the honour due to them. Virgil gives a high place
in Elysium to the improvers of life, and it is neither the least
philosophical or least poetical passage of the _Aeneid_.[58] These
points of difference being stated, I may say that in other things I
greatly approve both of the matter and manner of your Sermon.
Do not fail to return my best thanks to the lady to whom I am obliged
for the elegant and accurate drawing of Broughton Church. I should have
written to thank her and you for it immediately, but I foresaw that I
should have occasion to write to you on this or other business.
All here desire their best remembrances; and believe me (in great haste,
for I have several other letters to write on the same subject),
affectionately yours,
W. WORDSWORTH.[59]
[58] 'Quique sui memores alios fecere merendo.' _Aen_. vi. 664.
[59] _Memoirs_, i. 386-8.
34. _The Convention of Cintra: the Roman Catholics_.
TO THE SAME.
Workington, April 8. 1809.
MY DEAR WRANGHAM,
You will think I am afraid that I have used you ill in not replying
sooner to your last letter; particularly as you were desirous to be
informed in what newspaper my Pamphlet was printing. I should not have
failed to give you immediately any information upon this subject which
could be of use; but in fact, though I began to publish in a newspaper,
viz. the '_Courier_, an accidental loss of two or three sheets of the
manuscript prevented me from going on in that mode of publication after
two sections had appeared. The Pamphlet will be out in less than a
fortnight, entitled, at full length, 'Concerning the relations of Great
Britain, Spain, and Portugal, to each other, and to the common enemy at
this crisis, and specifically as affected by the Convention of Cintra;
the whole brought to the test of those principles by which alone the
independence and freedom of nations can be preserved or recovered.' This
is less a Title than a Table of Contents. I give it you at full length
in order that you may set your fancy at work (if you have no better
employment for it) upon what the Pamphlet may contain. I sent off the
last sheets only a day or two since, else I should have written to you
sooner; it having been my intention to pay my debt to you the moment I
had discharged this debt to my country. What I have written has been
done according to the best light of my conscience: it is indeed very
imperfect, and will, I fear, be little read; but if it is read, cannot,
I hope, fail of doing some good; though I am aware it will create me a
world of enemies, and call forth the old yell of Jacobinism. I have not
sent it to any personal friends as such, therefore I have made no
exception in your case. I have ordered it to be sent to two, the Spanish
and Portuguese Ambassadors, and three or four other public men and
Members of Parliament, but to nobody of my friends and relations. It is
printed with my name, and, I believe, will be published by Longman.... I
am very happy that you have not been inattentive to my suggestion on the
subject of Topography. When I ventured to recommend the pursuit to you,
I did not for a moment suppose that it was to interfere with your
appropriate duties as a parish priest; far otherwise: but I know you are
of an active mind, and I am sure that a portion of your time might be
thus employed without any deduction from that which was due to your
professional engagements. It would be a recreation to you; and also it
does appear to me that records of this kind ought to be executed by
somebody or other, both for the instruction of those now living and for
the sake of posterity; and if so, the duty devolves more naturally upon
clergymen than upon other persons, as their opportunities and
qualifications are both likely to be better than those of other men. If
you have not seen White's and Whitaker's books do procure a sight of
them.
I was aware that you would think me fair game upon the Roman Catholic
question; but really I should be greatly obliged to any man who would
help me over the difficulty I stated. If the Roman Catholics, upon the
plea of their being the majority merely (which implies an admission on
our part that their profession of faith is in itself as good as ours, as
consistent with civil liberty), if they are to have their requests
accorded, how can they be refused (consistently) the further prayer of
being constituted, upon the same plea, the Established Church? I
confess I am not prepared for this. With the Methodists on one side and
the Catholics on the other, what is to become of the poor church and the
people of England? to both of which I am most tenderly attached, and to
the former not the less so, on account of the pretty little spire of
Broughton Parish Church, under which you and I were made happy men by
the gift from Providence of two excellent wives. To Mrs. Wrangham,
present my cordial regards, and believe me, dear Wrangham, your very
Sincere and affectionate friend,
W. WORDSWORTH.[60]
35. _The Tractate on 'The Convention of Cintra.'_
LETTER TO LORD LONSDALE.
Grasmere, May 25 [1809].
MY LORD,
I had also another reason for deferring this acknowledgment to your
Lordship, viz. that at the same time I wished to present to you a Tract
which I have lately written, and which I hope you have now received. It
was finished, and ought to have appeared, two months ago, but has been
delayed by circumstances (connected with my distance from the press)
over which I had no control. If this Tract should so far interest your
Lordship as to induce you to peruse it, I do not doubt that it will be
thoughtfully and candidly judged by you; in which case I fear no
censure, but that which every man is liable to who, with good
intentions, may have occasionally fallen into error; while at the same
time I have an entire confidence that the principles which I have
endeavoured to uphold must have the sanction of a mind distinguished,
like that of your Lordship, for regard to morality and religion, and the
true dignity and honour of your country.
* * * * *
May I beg of your Lordship to present my respectful compliments to Lady
Lonsdale.
I have the honour to be, my Lord,
Your Lordship's most obedient servant,
W. WORDSWORTH.[61]
[60] _Memoirs_, i. 388-90.
[61] _Ibid_, i. 390-1.
36. _Of 'The Convention of Cintra,' &c._
LETTER TO SOUTHEY.
MY DEAR SOUTHEY,[62]
[62] Mr. Southey's opinions on the Convention of Cintra, at the time of
its ratification, were in unison with those of his friend. See Southey's
_Correspondence_, vol. iii. p. 177-180.
Col. Campbell, our neighbour at G., has sent for your book; he served
during the whole of the Peninsular war, and you shall hear what he says
of it in _due course_. We are out of the way of all literary
communication, so I can report nothing. I have read the whole with great
pleasure; the work will do you everlasting honour. I have said _the
whole_, forgetting, in that contemplation, my feelings upon one part,
where you have tickled with a feather when you should have branded with
a red-hot iron. You will guess I mean the Convention of Cintra. My
detestation, I may say abhorrence, of that event is not at all
diminished by your account of it. Buonaparte had committed a capital
blunder in supposing that when he had _intimidated_ the _Sovereigns_ of
Europe he had _conquered_ the several _Nations_. Yet it was natural for
a wiser than he was to have fallen into this mistake; for the old
despotisms had deprived the body of the people of all practical
knowledge in the management, and, of necessity, of all interest, in the
course of affairs. The French themselves were astonished at the apathy
and ignorance of the people whom they had supposed they had utterly
subdued, when they had taken their fortresses, scattered their armies,
entered their capital cities, and struck their cabinets with dismay.
There was no hope for the deliverance of Europe till the nations had
suffered enough to be driven to a passionate recollection of all that
was honourable in their past history, and to make appeal to the
principles of universal and everlasting justice. These sentiments, the
authors of that Convention most unfeelingly violated; and as to the
principles, they seemed to be as little aware even of the existence of
such powers, for powers emphatically may they be called, as the tyrant
himself. As far, therefore, as these men could, they put an extinguisher
upon the star which was then rising. It is in vain to say that after the
first burst of indignation was over, the Portuguese themselves were
reconciled to the event, and rejoiced in their deliverance. We may
infer from that the horror which they must have felt in the presence of
their oppressors; and we may see in it to what a state of helplessness
their bad government had reduced them. Our duty was to have treated them
with respect as the representatives of suffering humanity beyond what
they were likely to look for themselves, and as deserving greatly, in
common with their Spanish brethren, for having been the first to rise
against the tremendous oppression, and to show how, and how only, it
could be put an end to.
WM. WORDSWORTH.[63]
37. _Home at Grasmere: 'The Parsonage.'_
'The house which I have for some time occupied is the Parsonage of
Grasmere. It stands close by the churchyard [where his two children were
buried], and I have found it absolutely necessary that we should quit a
place which, by recalling to our minds at every moment the losses we
have sustained in the course of the last year [1811-12] would grievously
retard our progress toward that tranquillity which it is our duty to aim
at.'[64]
38. _On Education of the Young_.
LETTER TO PROFESSOR HAMILTON, OBSERVATORY, DUBLIN.
Lowther Castle, Sunday Mor[ning] [Sept. 26, 1830].
MY DEAR MR. HAMILTON,
I profit by the frank in which the letter for your sister will be
enclosed, to thank you for yours of the 11th, and the accompanying
spirited and elegant verses. You ask many questions, kindly testifying
thereby the interest you take in us and our neighbourhood. Most probably
some of them are answered in my daughter's letter to Miss E.H. I will,
however, myself reply to one or two at the risk of repeating what she
may have said. 1st. Mrs. Hemans has not sent us any tidings of her
movements and intentions since she left us; so I am unable to tell you
whether she mean to settle in Edinburgh or London.
[63] _Memoirs_, i. 391-8.
[64] Letter to Lord Lonsdale, Jan. 8. 1813: _Memoirs_, ii. 2.
She said she would write as soon as she could procure a frank. That
accommodation is, I suppose, more rare in Scotland than at this season
in our neighbourhood. I assure you the weather has been so unfavourable
to out-door amusements since you left us (not but that we have had a
sprinkling of fine and bright days), that little or no progress has been
made in the game of the Graces; and I fear that amusement must be
deferred till next summer, if we or anybody else are to see another. Mr.
Barber has dined with us once, and my sister and Mrs. Marshall, of
Halsteads, have seen his palace and grounds; but I cannot report upon
the general state of his temper. I believe he continues to be enchanted,
as far as decayed health will allow, with a Mr. Cooper, a clergyman who
has just come to the living of Hawkshend (about five miles from
Ambleside). Did I tell you that Professor Wilson, with his two sons and
daughter, have been, and probably still are, at Elleray? He heads the
gaieties of the neighbourhood, and has presided as steward at two
regattas. Do these employments come under your notions of action opposed
to contemplation? Why should they not? Whatever the high moralists may
say, the political economists will, I conclude, approve them as setting
capital afloat, and giving an impulse to manufacture and handicrafts;
but I speak of the improvement which may come thence to navigation and
nautical science. I have dined twice along with my brother (who left us
some time ago) in the Professor's company--at Mrs. Watson's, widow of
the Bp., at Calgarth, and at Mr. Bolton's. Poor Mr. B.! he must have
been greatly shocked at the fatal accident that put an end to his friend
Huskisson's earthly career. There is another acquaintance of mine also
recently gone--a person for whom I never had any love, but with whom I
had for a short time a good deal of intimacy. I mean Hazlitt, whose
death you may have seen announced in the papers. He was a man of
extraordinary acuteness, but perverse as Lord Byron himself; whose life
by Galt I have been skimming since I came here. Galt affects to be very
profound, though [he] is in fact a very shallow fellow,--and perhaps the
most illogical writer that these illogical days have produced. His
'buts' and his 'therefores' are singularly misapplied, singularly even
for this unthinking age. He accuses Mr. Southey of pursuing Lord B----
with _rancour_. I should like a reference to what Mr. S---- has written
of Lord B----, to ascertain whether this charge be well founded. I
trust it is not, both from what I know of my friend, and for the
aversion which Mr. G---- has expressed towards the Lakers, whom in the
plenitude of his ignorance he is pleased to speak of as a _class_ or
_school_ of Poets.
Now for a word on the serious part of your letter. Your views of action
and contemplation are, I think, just. If you can lay your hands upon Mr.
Coleridge's 'Friend,' you will find some remarks of mine upon a letter
signed, if I recollect right, 'Mathetes,' which was written by Professor
Wilson, in which, if I am not mistaken, sentiments like yours are
expressed. At all events, I am sure that I have long retained those
opinions, and have frequently expressed them either by letter or
otherwise. One thing, however, is not to be forgotten concerning active
life--that a personal independence must be provided for; and in some
cases more is required--ability to assist our friends, relations, and
natural dependents. The party are at breakfast, and I must close this
wretched scrawl, which pray excuse.
Ever faithfully yours,
WM. WORDSWORTH.[65]
[65] _Memoirs_, i. 433, with important additions from the MS. G.
Pray continue to write at your leisure. How could I have forgot so long
to thank you for your obliging present, which I shall value on every
account?
39. _Roman Catholics: Bible Society, &c._
LETTER TO ARCHDEACON WRANGHAM.
Grasmere, March 27 [1811].
MY DEAR WRANGHAM,
Your last letter, which I have left so long unanswered, found me in a
distressed state of mind, with one of my children lying nearly, as I
thought, at the point of death. This put me off answering your
letter....
You return to the R. Catholic Question. I am decidedly of opinion that
no further concessions should be made. The R. Catholic Emancipation is a
mere pretext of ambitious and discontented men. Are you prepared for the
next step--a R. Catholic Established Church? I confess I dread the
thought.
As to the Bible Society, my view of the subject is as follows:--1st.
Distributing Bibles is a good thing. 2ndly. More Bibles will be
distributed in consequence of the existence of the Bible Society;
therefore, so far as that goes, the existence of the Bible Society is
good. But, 3rdly, as to the _indirect_ benefits expected from it, as
producing a golden age of unanimity among Christians, all that I think
fume and emptiness; nay, far worse. So deeply am I persuaded that
discord and artifice, and pride and ambition, would be fostered by such
an approximation and unnatural alliance of sects, that I am inclined to
think the evil thus produced would more than outweigh the good done by
dispersing the Bibles. I think the last fifty or sixty pages of my
brother's pamphlet[66] merit the serious consideration of all persons of
the Established Church who have connected themselves with the sectaries
for this purpose....
Entreating your pardon for my long delay in answering your letter, let
me conclude with assuring you that I remain, with great truth, your
affectionate friend,
W. WORDSWORTH.[67]
[66] _Reasons for declining to become a Subscriber to the British and
Foreign Bible Society_, by Christopher Wordsworth, D.D., Dean of
Bocking. Lond. 1810. See also his _Letter to Lord Teignmouth_ in
vindication of the above Letter. Lond. 1810.
[67] _Memoirs_, ii. 8-9.
40. _Death of Children: Politics, &c._
Rydal Mount, near Ambleside, Aug. 28, 1813.
MY DEAR WRANGHAM,
Your letter arrived when I was on the point of going from home on
business. I took it with me, intending to answer it upon the road, but I
had not courage to undertake the office on account of the inquiries it
contains concerning my family. I will be brief on this melancholy
subject. In the course of the last year I have lost two sweet children,
a girl and a boy, at the ages of four and six and a half. These
innocents were the delight of our hearts, and beloved by everybody that
knew them. They were cut off in a few hours--one by the measles, and the
other by convulsions; dying, one half a year after the other. I quit
this sorrowful subject, secure of your sympathy as a father and as my
friend.
* * * * *
My employment I find salutary to me, and of consequence in a pecuniary
point of view, as my literary employments bring me no remuneration, nor
promise any. As to what you say about the Ministry, I very much prefer
the course of their policy to that of the Opposition; especially on two
points most near my heart: resistance of Buonaparte by force of arms,
and their adherence to the principles of the British Constitution in
withholding political power from the Roman Catholics. My most determined
hostility shall always be directed against those statesmen who, like
Whitbread, Grenville, and others, would crouch to a sanguinary tyrant;
and I cannot act with those who see no danger to the Constitution in
introducing papists into Parliament. There are other points of policy in
which I deem the Opposition grievously mistaken, and therefore I am at
present, and long have been, by principle, a supporter of ministers, as
far as my little influence extends. With affectionate wishes for your
welfare and that of your family, and with best regards to Mrs. Wrangham,
I am, my dear friend,
Faithfully yours,
W. WORDSWORTH.[68]
[68] _Memoirs_, ii. 9-10.
41. _Letter of Introduction: Humour_.
TO ARCHDEACON WRANGHAM.
Rydal Mount, near Kendal, April 26. 1814.
MY DEAR WRANGHAM,
I trouble you with this in behalf of a very deserving young clergyman of
the name of Jameson, who is just gone from this neighbourhood to a
curacy at Sherbourne, in the neighbourhood of Ferry Bridge. He has a
mother and a younger brother dependent upon his exertions, and it is his
wish to take pupils in order to increase his income, which, as he is a
curate, you know, cannot but be small. He is an excellent young man, a
good scholar, and likely to become much better, for he is extremely
industrious. Among his talents I must mention that for drawing, in which
he is a proficient.... Now my wish is that, if it fall in your way, you
would vouchsafe him your patronage....
Of course, you cannot speak for him directly till you have seen him;
but, might he be permitted to refer to you, you could have no objection
to say that you were as yet ignorant of his merits as to your own
knowledge, but that 'your _esteemed_ friend Mr. Wordsworth, that
_popular_ poet, stamp-collector for Westmoreland, &c., had recommended
him strenuously to you as in all things deserving.'
A portion of a long poem[69] from me will see the light ere long; I hope
it will give you pleasure. It is serious, and has been written with
great labour....
I mean to make a tour in Scotland with Mrs. W---- and her sister, Miss
Hutchinson. I congratulate you on the overthrow of the execrable despot,
and the complete triumph of the _war faction_, of which noble body I
have the honour to be as active a member as my abilities and industry
would allow. Best remembrances to yourself and Mrs. Wrangham,
And believe me affectionately yours,
W. WORDSWORTH.[70]
42. _The Peninsular War_.
LETTER TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ.
----, 1827.
MY DEAR SIR,
Edith thanked you, in my name, for your valuable present of the
'Peninsular War.' I have read it with great delight: it is beautifully
written, and a most interesting story. I did not notice a single
sentiment or opinion that I could have wished away but one--where you
support the notion that, if the Duke of Wellington had not lived and
commanded, Buonaparte must have continued the master of Europe. I do not
object to this from any dislike I have to the Duke, but from a
conviction--I trust, a philosophic one--that Providence would not allow
the upsetting of so diabolical a system as Buonaparte's to depend upon
the existence of any individual. Justly was it observed by Lord
Wellesley, that Buonaparte was of an order of minds that created for
themselves great reverses. He might have gone further, and said that it
is of the nature of tyranny to work to its own destruction.[71]
[69] 'The Excursion,' published 1814.
[70] _Memoirs_, ii 10-11.
[71] As has been said by Demosthenes.
The sentence of yours which occasioned these loose remarks is, as I
said, the only one I objected to, while I met with a thousand things to
admire. Your sympathy with the great cause is every where energetically
and feelingly expressed. What fine fellows were Alvarez and Albuquerque;
and how deeply interesting the siege of Gerona!
I have not yet mentioned dear Sir George Beaumont.[72] His illness was
not long; and he was prepared by habitually thinking on his latter end.
But it is impossible not to grieve for ourselves, for his loss cannot be
supplied. Let dear Edith stay as long as you can; and when she must go,
pray come for her, and stay a few days with us. Farewell.
Ever most affectionately yours,
W. W----.[73]
[72] Who died Feb. 7, 1827.
[73] _Memoirs_, ii. 20-1.
43._Of the Writings of Southey_.
LETTER TO G. HUNTLY GORDON, ESQ.
Rydal Mount, May 14. 1829.