Without the exultant spirits or rare mental endowment of Miss Wordsworth, the poet's wife was eminently fitted for his companionship, one which lasted during the fifty following years. Mr. Lockhart speaks of her as having one of the most benignant tempers that ever diffused peace and cheerfulness through a home. Although not written till some years after, perhaps the present is the most fitting place in which to quote De Quincey's description of Mrs. Wordsworth:[2]
"I saw sufficiently to be aware of two ladies just entering the room, through a doorway opening upon a little staircase. The foremost, a tallish young woman, with the most winning expression of benignity upon her features, advanced to me, presenting her hand with so frank an air, that all embarrassment must have fled in a moment before the native goodness of her manner. This was Mrs. Wordsworth, cousin of the poet, and, for the last five years or more, his wife. She was now mother of two children, a son and a daughter; and she furnished a remarkable proof how possible it is for a woman, neither handsome nor even comely, according to the rigour of criticism—nay, generally pronounced very plain—to exercise all the practical fascination of beauty, through the mere compensatory charms of sweetness all but angelic, of simplicity the most entire, womanly self-respect and purity of heart speaking through all her looks, acts, and movements. Words, I was going to have added; but her words were few. In reality, she talked so little, that Mr. Slave-Trade Clarkson used to allege against her, that she could only say, 'God bless you!' Certainly, her intellect was not of an active order; but, in a quiescent, reposing, meditative way, she appeared always to have a genial enjoyment from her own thoughts; and it would have been strange, indeed, if she, who enjoyed such eminent advantages of training, from the daily society of her husband and his sister, failed to acquire some power of judging for herself, and putting forth some functions of activity. But, undoubtedly, that was not her element: to feel and to enjoy in a luxurious repose of mind—there was her forte and her peculiar privilege; and how much better this was adapted to her husband's taste, how much more adapted to uphold the comfort of his daily life, than a blue-stocking loquacity, or even a legitimate talent for discussion, may be inferred from his verses, beginning—
... I will add to this abstract of her moral portrait, these few concluding traits of her appearance in a physical sense. Her figure was tolerably good. In complexion she was fair, and there was something peculiarly pleasing even in this accident of the skin, for it was accompanied by an animated expression of health, a blessing which, in fact, she possessed uninterruptedly. Her eyes, the reader may already know, were
Yet strange it is to tell that, in these eyes of vesper gentleness, there was a considerable obliquity of vision; and much beyond that slight obliquity which is often supposed to be an attractive foible in the countenance: this ought to have been displeasing or repulsive; yet, in fact, it was not. Indeed all faults, had they been ten times more and greater, would have been neutralised by that supreme expression of her features, to the unity of which every lineament in the fixed parts, and every undulation in the moving parts of her countenance, concurred, viz., a sunny benignity—a radiant graciousness—such as in this world I never saw surpassed."
It will be observed that De Quincey here speaks rather slightingly of Mrs. Wordsworth's intellect, almost in such a way as suggests a desire to "damn with faint praise." Notwithstanding the unique charm of his style and power of language, of which his extensive learning and reading had made him such a master, his pen, even when portraying his most cherished friends, seems to be slightly touched with an envious venom. That Mrs. Wordsworth's intellect was of no mean order there are in her life abundant traces. The dignified repose and simplicity of her manner, doubtless, formed a striking contrast to that of the impassioned and ardent Dorothy. But it could hardly be other than a lofty intellect that added two of the most exquisite and thoughtful lines to one of the poet's most charming of pieces. Who, having once read, does not remember the lines on the daffodils?—
The lines in italics, suggested by Mrs. Wordsworth, here form the kernel of truth, the central gem around which the lesser beauties are clustered.
What a true "inmate of the heart" the poet's wife was, and continued to be, to him, we well know. Among other tributes to her soothing and sustaining aid might be mentioned the dedication to her of the "White Doe of Rylstone," and many other pieces. Happy is the man who, after twenty years of married companionship, can thus write of his wife:—
And when many following years had passed over them, and they had together grown old, their love and devotion, which had increased with their years, retained that freshness and fervour of youth which enables aged hearts to rejoice in all things young and beautiful:—
The marriage of the poet only introduced into the circle another kindred spirit, and did not to any extent deprive him of the society of his sister, who, as before, continued to reside with him, finding a genial companion in one who had long been a cherished friend. Shall we not then say that Wordsworth was in his companionships at this period happy in a degree to which most of his brother bards have been strangers? With these two high-souled and appreciative women to encircle him with their love and minister to him, to stimulate to lofty thought and high endeavour, what wonder that his life and work attained a fulness and completion seldom reached?
On Reading Miss Wordsworth's Recollections of a Journey in Scotland, in 1803, with her Brother and Coleridge.
FOOTNOTES:
[2] For the copious description here given of Mrs. Wordsworth, and that, on a subsequent page, of Miss Wordsworth, I am indebted to the contributions of De Quincey to "Tait's Edinburgh Magazine," which afterwards formed part of his collected works.
CHAPTER IX.
TOUR IN SCOTLAND.
It was in the months of August and September, in the year following that of his marriage, that Wordsworth and his sister made their memorable six week's tour in Scotland. The character of this tour, as well as the remarkable memorial of it given to the world after a lapse of seventy years, render it, in this place, deserving of more than a mere passing notice. Of the daily incidents of this journey, and the impressions and reflections caused by it, Miss Wordsworth kept a minute journal. Although not intended as a literary production, and written only for the perusal and information of friends, the style is not only pleasing but elegant; and it is a matter for congratulation that the family of the writer at length consented to its publication. This was done in 1874, under the able editorship of Principal Shairp, of St. Andrews, and the work rapidly passed through several editions. Not only is it of much value to those taking an interest in the lives of the poet and his sister; but, containing as it does descriptions at once graceful and graphic of the scenes through which they passed, it cannot fail to afford pleasure to the general reader. The Editor, in his preface, says of it, that he does not remember any other book "more capable of training heart and eye to look with profit on the face of Nature, as it manifests itself in our northern land."
Mrs. Wordsworth was not of the party, being detained at home by maternal duties. For the first fortnight the Wordsworths were accompanied by Coleridge, who does not, however, on this occasion, seem to have been the desirable companion of old. Wordsworth has said of him that he was at the time "in bad spirits, and somewhat too much in love with his own dejection."
The manner of their travelling was altogether in keeping with the humble character of their lives. The Irish car, and the ancient steed—which, from his various wayward freaks, and the difficulty with which he was on certain occasions managed by the poets, must have been somewhat of a screw—were not calculated to afford much luxury or ease. But the object of the tourists was not to make a fashionable holiday. The very love of Nature drew them to her wildest solitudes, and to woo her in her varied moods, as well when frowning and repellant as when smiling and inviting. As they were harvesting for future memories the deep experiences and lingering harmonies which are reaped and garnered by a loving companionship with Nature, it mattered little to them that these were frequently obtained at the cost of weariness and discomfort.
It need not be repeated that for the in-gathering of Nature's most beneficent gifts the poet could not have had a more fitting companion than his sister. Not only did she idolise him from the depth of the warm and tender heart of young womanhood, but she was possessed of a mind singularly sympathetic with his own, and with a kindred enthusiasm as to the objects in view. Her splendid health, also, at this time, and strength of limb, made her such a comrade that this tour became to them an enduring joy, to be remembered for all life: She was
In giving a short account of this tour, it will be permissible to take the liberty of a reviewer of quoting a few extracts. What strikes a reader the most in Miss Wordsworth's record is her quickness of observation. Nothing seemed to escape her notice. It was not only the general aspect of Nature in both storm and sunshine, and the diversity of scenes, that spoke to them; but Miss Wordsworth's eye took in objects the most minute, she was alive to those subtle influences, which serve so much to impart an interest to any journey or circumstance it would not otherwise possess. She took with her her warm loving heart, so full, for all with whom she came into contact, of the milk of human kindness—grateful for little attentions given or favours bestowed, and touched by those traits of humanity which make the whole world kin. There is the constant loving remembrance of small events, to which association sometimes lends such a charm. It was a very simple thing for Miss Wordsworth, writing to her sister-in-law at Grasmere, at an inn by no means remarkable for comfort, to mention that she wrote on the same window-ledge on which her brother had written to her two years before; but it reveals a loving heart.
On the second day of their journey we find the following entry in Miss Wordsworth's diary: "Passed Rose Castle upon the Caldew, an ancient building of red stone with sloping gardens, an ivied gateway, velvet lawns, old garden walls, trim flower-borders, with stately and luxuriant flowers. We walked up to the house and stood some minutes watching the swallows that flew about restlessly, and flung their shadows upon the sunbright walls of the old building; the shadows glanced and twinkled, interchanged and crossed each other, expanded and shrunk up, appeared and disappeared every instant; as I observed to William and Coleridge, seeming more like living things than the birds themselves."
Going by way of Carlisle, the small party entered Scotland near Gretna, and proceeded by Dumfries and the Vale of Nith. At Dumfries, the grave and house of Burns had a melancholy interest for them, Miss Wordsworth stating that "there is no thought surviving in Burns's daily life that is not heart depressing."
On leaving the Nith, Miss Wordsworth thus describes the scenery: "We now felt indeed that we were in Scotland; there was a natural peculiarity in this place. In the scenes of the Nith it had not been the same as England, but yet not simple, naked Scotland. The road led us down the hill, and now there was no room in the vale but for the river and the road; we had sometimes the stream to the right, sometimes to the left. The hills were pastoral, but we did not see many sheep; green smooth turf on the left, no ferns. On the right the heath plant grew in abundance, of the most exquisite colour; it covered a whole hill-side, or it was in streams and patches. We travelled along the vale, without appearing to ascend, for some miles; all the reaches were beautiful, in exquisite proportion, the hills seeming very high from being so near to us. It might have seemed a valley which Nature had kept to herself for pensive thoughts and tender feelings, but that we were reminded at every turn of the road of something beyond by the coal-carts which were travelling towards us. Though these carts broke in upon the tranquility of the glen, they added much to the picturesque effect of the different views, which indeed wanted nothing, though perfectly bare, houseless, and treeless.
"After some time our road took us upwards towards the end of the valley. Now the steeps were heathy all around. Just as we began to climb the hill we saw three boys who came down the cleft of a brow on our left; one carried a fishing-rod, and the hats of all were braided with honeysuckles; they ran after one another as wanton as the wind. I cannot express what a character of beauty those few honeysuckles in the hats of the three boys gave to the place; what bower could they have come from? We walked up the hill, met two well-dressed travellers, the woman barefoot. Our little lads, before they had gone far, were joined by some half-dozen of their companions, all without shoes and stockings. They told us they lived at Wanlockhead, the village above, pointing to the top of the hill; they went to school and learned Latin, Virgil, and some of them Greek, Homer; but when Coleridge began to inquire further, off they ran, poor things! I suppose afraid of being examined."
The following anecdote is related of Coleridge, when at the falls of Cora Linn: "We sat upon a bench, placed for the sake of one of the views, whence we looked down upon the waterfall, and over the open country, and saw a ruined tower, called Wallace's Tower, which stands at a very little distance from the fall, and is an interesting object. A lady and gentleman, more expeditious tourists than ourselves, came to the spot; they left us at the seat, and we found them again at another station above the Falls. Coleridge, who is always good natured enough to enter into conversation with anybody whom he meets in his way, began to talk with the gentleman, who observed that it was a majestic waterfall. Coleridge was delighted with the accuracy of the epithet, particularly as he had been settling in his own mind the precise meaning of the words grand, majestic, sublime, &c., and had discussed the subject at some length with William the day before. 'Yes, sir,' says Coleridge, 'it is a majestic waterfall.' 'Sublime and beautiful,' replied his friend. Poor Coleridge could make no answer, and, not very desirous to continue the conversation, came to us and related the story, laughing heartily."
Of the falls of the Clyde, Miss Wordsworth observes: "We had been told that the Cartland Crags were better worth going to see than the falls of the Clyde. I do not think so; but I have seen rocky dells resembling these before, with clear water instead of that muddy stream, and never saw anything like the falls of the Clyde. It would be a delicious spot to have near one's house; one would linger out many a day in the cool shadow of the caverns, and the stream would soothe one by its murmuring; still, being an old friend, one would not love it the less for its homely face. Even we, as we passed along, could not help stopping for a long while to admire the beauty of the lazy foam, for ever in motion, and never moved away, in a still place of the water, covering the whole surface of it with streaks and lines and ever-varying circles."
The Highlands were entered at Loch Lomond, of which Miss Wordsworth writes:—"On a splendid evening, with the light of the sun diffused over the whole islands, distant hills, and the broad expanse of the lake, with its creeks, bays, and little slips of water among the islands, it must be a glorious sight." ... "We had not climbed far before we were stopped by a sudden burst of prospect, so singular and beautiful, that it was like a flash of images from another world. We stood with our backs to the hill of the island, which we were ascending, and which shut out Ben Lomond entirely, and all the upper part of the lake, and we looked towards the foot of the lake, scattered over with islands without beginning and without end. The sun shone, and the distant hills were visible, some through sunny mists, others in gloom with patches of sunshine; the lake was lost under the low and distant hills, and the islands lost in the lake, which was all in motion with travelling fields of light, or dark shadows under rainy clouds. There are many hills, but no commanding eminence at a distance to confine the prospect, so that the land seemed endless as the water."
In her description of their adventures at Loch Katrine and the Trossachs, Miss Wordsworth is very happy. Writing of the view from one point she says:—"We saw Benvenue opposite to us—a high mountain but clouds concealed its top; its side, rising directly from the lake, is covered with birch trees to a great height, and seamed with innumerable channels of torrents; but now there was no water in them, nothing to break in upon the stillness and repose of the scene; nor do I recollect hearing the sound of water from any side, the wind being fallen and the lake perfectly still; the place was all eye, and completely satisfied the sense and heart. Above and below us, to the right and to the left, were rocks, knolls, and hills, which, wherever anything could grow—and that was everywhere between the rocks—were covered with trees and heather; the trees did not in any place grow so thick as an ordinary wood; yet I think there was never a bare space of twenty yards, it was more like a natural forest, where the trees grow in groups or singly, not hiding the surface of the ground, which, instead of being green and mossy, was of the richest purple. The heather was indeed the most luxuriant I ever saw; it was so tall that a child of ten years old struggling through it would often have been buried head and shoulders, and the exquisite beauty of the colour, near or at a distance, seen under the trees, is not to be conceived. But if I were to go on describing for evermore, I should give but a faint, and very often a false idea of the different objects and the various combinations of them in this most intricate and delicious place; besides, I tired myself out with describing at Loch Lomond, so I will hasten to the end of my tale. This reminds me of a sentence in a little pamphlet written by the minister of Callander, descriptive of the environs of that place. After having taken up at least six closely-printed pages with the Trossachs, he concludes thus:—'In a word, the Trossachs beggar all description,' a conclusion in which everybody who has been there will agree with him. I believe the word 'Trossachs' signifies 'many hills'; it is a name given to all the eminences at the foot of Loch Ketterine, and about half a mile beyond."
As an illustration of the expedients to which they were obliged to resort, and the scanty accommodation afforded to them, may be quoted the following:—"Our companion from the Trossachs, who, it appeared, was an Edinburgh drawing-master, going, during a vacation, on a pedestrian tour to John o'Groat's house, was to sleep in the barn with William and Coleridge, where the man said he had plenty of dry hay. I do not believe that the hay of the Highlands is often very dry; but this year it had a better chance than usual. Wet or dry, however, the next morning they said they had slept comfortably. When I went to bed the mistress, desiring me to 'go ben,' attended me with a candle, and assured me that the bed was dry, though not 'sic as I had been used to.' It was of chaff; there were two others in the room, a cupboard, and two chests, on one of which stood the milk in wooden vessels, covered over. I should have thought that milk so kept could not have been sweet; but the cheese and butter were good. The walls of the whole house were of stone unplastered. It consisted of three apartments—the cow-house at one end; the kitchen, or house, in the middle; and the spence at the other end. The rooms were divided, not up to the rigging, but only to the beginning of the roof, so that there was a free passage for light and smoke from one end of the house to the other.
"I went to bed sometime before the family. The door was shut between us, and they had a bright fire, which I could not see; but the light it sent up among the varnished rafters and beams, which crossed each other in almost as intricate and fantastic a manner, as I have seen the under-boughs of a large beech-tree, withered by the depth of the shade above, produced the most beautiful effect that can be conceived. It was like what I should suppose an underground cave or temple to be, with a dripping or moist roof, and the moonlight entering in upon it by some means or other and yet the colours were more like melted gems. I lay looking up till the light of the fire faded away, and the man and his wife and child had crept into their bed at the other end of the room. I did not sleep much, but passed a comfortable night—for my bed, though hard, was warm and clean; the unusualness of my situation prevented me from sleeping. I could hear the waves beat against the shore of the lake; a little 'syke' close to the door made a much louder noise; and when I sat up in my bed I could see the lake through an open window-place at the bed's-head. Add to this, it rained all night. I was less occupied by remembrance of the Trossachs, beautiful as they were, than the vision of the Highland hut which I could not get out of my head. I thought of the Fairyland of Spenser, and what I had read in romance at other times, and then what a feast would it be for a London pantomime-maker, could he but transplant it to Drury Lane, with all its beautiful colours!"
Extracts from this admirable and fascinating book might be multiplied; but I must resist the temptation. It is a book which must be read to be enjoyed. The tourists received impressions not only from the natural scenery, but also from the simple-minded and hospitable Highlanders, with whom they from time to time met. They were so delighted with two Highland girls, in their fresh, youthful beauty, whom they met at the ferry at Inversneyde, that Wordsworth made them the subject of a pleasant poem. Miss Wordsworth, after describing her pleasurable meeting with these girls, says:—"At this day the innocent merriment of the girls, with their kindness to us, and the beautiful figure and face of the elder, come to my mind whenever I think of the ferry-house and waterfall of Loch Lomond; and I never think of the two girls but the whole image of that romantic spot is before me—a living image, as it will be, to my dying day."
The poem of her brother, which cannot be much more poetic than the graceful prose of the sister, is as follows:—
In a somewhat primitive way, and having to contend with bad roads, accidents to their car, and sometimes hard lodging and scanty fare, they managed to traverse a great part of the country which has since become so familiar to tourists, taking on their way Inverary, Glen Coe, Loch Tay, the Pass of Killicrankie, Dunkeld, Callander, back by the Trossachs to Loch Lomond, and eventually to Edinburgh. Approaching Loch Lomond for the second time, Miss Wordsworth remarks that she felt it much more interesting to visit a place where they had been before than it could possibly be for the first time. By the lake they met two women, without hats but neatly dressed, who seemed to have been taking their Sunday evening's walk. One of them said, in a soft, friendly voice, "What! you are stepping westward?" She adds: "I cannot describe how affecting this simple expression was in that remote place, with the western sky in front, yet glowing with the departed sun." Wordsworth himself some time afterwards, in remembrance of the incident, wrote the following poem:—
With Edinburgh Miss Wordsworth was delighted. She says; "It was impossible to think of anything that was little or mean, the goings on of trade, the strife of men, or every-day city business; the impression was one, and it was visionary; like the conceptions of our childhood of Bagdad or Balsora, when we have been reading the 'Arabian Nights' Entertainments.'"
Not the least memorable part of their tour was a visit to Sir—then Mr.—Walter Scott, who was then unknown to fame as a novelist, but who, as Sheriff of Selkirk, and considered a very clever and amiable man, was universally respected. With him they visited Melrose and other places of interest. Miss Wordsworth writes: "Walked up to Ferniehurst—an old hall, in a secluded situation, now inhabited by farmers; the neighbouring ground had the wildness of a forest, being irregularly scattered over with fine old trees. The wind was tossing their branches, and sunshine dancing among the leaves, and I happened to exclaim, 'What a life there is in trees!' on which Mr. Scott observed that the words reminded him of a young lady who had been born and educated on an island of the Orcades, and came to spend a summer at Kelso, and in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh. She used to say that in the new world into which she was come nothing had disappointed her so much as trees and woods; she complained that they were lifeless, silent, and, compared with the grandeur of the ever-changing ocean, even insipid. At first I was surprised, but the next moment I felt that the impression was natural. Mr. Scott said that she was a very sensible young woman, and had read much. She talked with endless rapture and feeling of the power and greatness of the ocean; and, with the same passionate attachment, returned to her native island without any probability of quitting it again. The Valley of the Jed is very solitary immediately under Ferniehurst; we walked down the river, wading almost up to the knees in fern, which in many parts overspread the forest-ground. It made me think of our walks at Alfoxden, and of our own park—though at Ferniehurst is no park at present—and the slim fawns that we used to startle from their couching-places, among the fern at the top of the hill."
The journal contains many short passages which might be quoted to show its poetic character. The following are selected almost at random: "I can always walk over a moor with a light foot; I seem to be drawn more closely to Nature in such places than anywhere else; or, rather, I feel more strongly the power of Nature over me, and am better satisfied with myself, for being able to find enjoyment in what, unfortunately to many persons, is either dismal or insipid." "The opposite bank of the river is left in its natural wildness, and nothing was to be seen higher up but the deep dell, its steep banks being covered with fine trees, a beautiful relief or contrast to the garden, which is one of the most elaborate old things ever seen—a little hanging garden of Babylon." Again, she writes: "The greatest charm of a brook or river is in the liberty to pursue it through its windings; you can then take it in whatever mood you like—silent or noisy, sportive or quiet. The beauties of the brook or river must be sought, and the pleasure is in going in search of them; those of the lake or of the sea come to you of themselves." "The sky was grey and heavy—floating mists on the hillsides, which softened the objects, and where we lost sight of the lake it appeared so near to the sky that they almost touched one another, giving a visionary beauty to the prospect." From the reflection of the crimson clouds the water appeared of a deep red, like melted rubies, yet with a mixture of a grey or blackish hue; the gorgeous light of the sky, with the singular colour of the lake, made the scene exceedingly romantic; yet it was more melancholy than cheerful. With all the power of light from the clouds there was an overcasting of the gloom of evening—a twilight upon the hills."
This tour was rich in its results, not only in the sister's journal but also in the poems of the brother, to which it gave birth. Alluding to these a contributor to Blackwood, so long ago as 1835, says: "Wordsworth in Scotland as in England and Switzerland, and Italy and the Tyrol, is still Wordsworth. Here, too, he reaps:—
His thoughts, and feelings, and visions, and dreams, and fancies, and imaginations, are all his own, by some divine right which no other mortal shares along with him; and, true as they all are to nature, are all distinguished by some indefinable, but delightful charm peculiar to his own being, which assuredly is the most purely spiritual that ever was enshrined in human dust. Safe in his originality he fears not to travel the same ground that has been travelled by thousands—and beaten, and barren, and naked as it may seem to be—he is sure to detect some loveliest family of wild flowers that had lurked unseen in some unsuspected crevices—to soothe his ears with a transient murmur, the spirit of the wilderness awakens—the bee that had dropped on the moss as if benumbed by frost—the small moorland bird revivified by sunshine, sent from heaven for the poet's sake, goes twittering in circles in the air above his head, nor is afraid that its nest will be trodden by his harmless feet; and should a sudden summer shower affront the sunshine, it is that a rainbow may come and go for his delight, and leave its transitory splendours in some immortal song. On the great features of Nature—lochs and mountains, among which he has lived his days—he looks with a serene but sovereign eye, as if he held them all in fee, and they stood there to administer to the delight—we must not say the pride—of him, 'Sole king of rocky Cumberland;' and true it is that from the assemblage of their summits, in the sunset, impulses of deeper mood have come to him in solitude than ever visited the heart of any other poet.... The true Highland spirit is there; but another spirit, too, which Wordsworth carries with him wherever he goes in the sanctuary of his own genius, and which colours all it breathes on—lending lovelier light to the fair, and more awful gloom to the great, and ensouling what else were but cold death."
CHAPTER X.
LIFE AT GRASMERE. CAPTAIN WORDSWORTH.
A visit paid by Coleridge to Grasmere, shortly after the Scottish tour, is thus alluded to in a letter written by him to his friend, Mr. Thomas Wedgewood, in January, 1804. He says:—"I left my home December 20th, 1803, intending to stay a day and a half at Grasmere and then walk to Kendal, whither I had sent all my clothes and viatica, from thence to go to London, and to see whether or no I could arrange my pecuniary matters, so as, leaving Mrs. Coleridge all that was necessary to her comforts, to go myself to Madeira, having a persuasion strong as the life within me, that one winter spent in a really warm, genial climate, would completely restore me.... I stayed at Grasmere (Mr. Wordsworth's) a month; three-fourths of the time bedridden; and deeply do I feel the enthusiastic kindness of Wordsworth's wife and sister, who sat up by me, the one or the other, in order to awaken me at the first symptoms of distressful feeling; and even when they went to rest continued often and often to weep and watch for me even in their dreams."
The death of her brother, Captain John Wordsworth, in the early part of 1805, was a great sorrow to Miss Wordsworth, as well as to the other members of the family. Captain Wordsworth was a younger brother of the poet, and a great favourite with him and his sister. In consequence of their early orphaned condition, and subsequent separation, they had not enjoyed much of each other's society until the time of Wordsworth's residence at Grasmere. Previously to this, and since the two brothers had been at school together at Hawkshead, they had only occasionally seen each other.
After the settlement of Wordsworth and his sister at Grasmere, this brother, who was in the service of the East India Company, had paid them a prolonged visit, extending over eight months. The fraternal ties were then renewed and strengthened, cemented as they became by mature sympathies. A kinship of thought and feeling, added to warm natural affections, bound together these three poetic souls in mutual love more than usually devoted. Captain Wordsworth recognised his brother's genius and greatness of soul, and felt assured that the time would arrive when they would be widely acknowledged. Writing of him to Miss Wordsworth, Coleridge says:—"Your brother John is one of you—a man who hath solitary usings of his own intellect, deep in feeling, with a subtle tact, and swift instinct of true beauty." Himself so thoroughly in harmony with his brother's pursuits, and an ardent lover of the beautiful in Nature, as well as in life, he became, as Wordsworth says, "a silent poet," and was known among those of his own craft as "The Philosopher." Captain Wordsworth had so identified himself in heart with his brother's pursuits, and had become so enamoured of the life led by him and their sister in this quiet and beautiful vale, "far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife," that he had formed the idea, if prospered during a few voyages, of settling at Grasmere, and adding his worldly store to theirs, in the hope of thus enabling Wordsworth to devote his attention to his muse, unfettered by anxious thoughts of a monetary character. With this loving object before him, he had made a voyage in the year 1801 without success. Again, in the spring of 1803, he sailed with the same hope in his heart, but only on this occasion also to return, without having in any degree been able to further its realisation.
In the meantime, money which had been long withheld from the Wordsworths by the former Earl of Lonsdale, had been honourably paid by his successor. Although the main object which Captain Wordsworth had in view in his former expeditions thus no longer existed, he decided once more to brave the fortunes of the deep. Being, in the year 1804, appointed to the command of the East Indiaman, Abergavenny, bound for the East, he sailed from Portsmouth, in the early part of 1805, upon a voyage on which many hopes were built. We are informed that on this occasion the value of the cargo (including specie) was £270,000, and that there were on board 402 persons. Not only did Captain Wordsworth take with him the share which had come to him of the money paid by the Earl of Lonsdale, but also £1,200 belonging to his brother William and his sister. The bright hopes were, however, doomed to end in the saddest of disaster. Owing to the incompetence of a pilot, the ship struck off the Bill of Portland on the 5th February, 1805. Captain Wordsworth died, as he had lived, cheerfully doing his duty. Though he might have saved his own life, he bravely remained at his post to the last, and perished with most of the crew.
Writing of the sad occurrence to Sir George Beaumont shortly after, Wordsworth says:—"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 everything but words." In a postscript he adds:—"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 from 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."
The friendship between the Wordsworths and Charles and Mary Lamb, formed during the Nether Stowey period, had continued, and they had been regular correspondents. Shortly after the sad death of her brother Miss Wordsworth had, in the fulness of her heart, written to Miss Lamb. Although the response to the communication is well known it should find a place here. Miss Lamb's reply shows how well qualified she was to sympathise in her friend's sufferings. She had, indeed, been taught in the same school. She says:—"I thank you, my kind friend, for your most comfortable letter; till I saw your own handwriting I could not persuade myself that I should do well to write to you, though I have often attempted it; but I always left off dissatisfied with what I had written, and feeling that I was doing an improper thing to intrude upon your sorrow. I wished to tell you that you would one day feel the kind of peaceful state of mind, and sweet memory of the dead, which you so happily describe as now almost begun; but I felt that it was improper and most grating to the feelings of the afflicted to say to them that the memory of their affliction would in time become a constant part, not only of their dream, but of their most wakeful sense of happiness. That you would see every object with and through your lost brother, and that that would at last become a real and everlasting source of comfort to you I felt, and well knew from my own experience in sorrow; but till you yourself began to feel this I didn't dare tell you so; but I send you some poor lines, which I wrote under this conviction of mind, and before I heard Coleridge was returning home. I will transcribe them now before I finish my letter, lest a false shame prevent me then, for I know they are much worse than they ought to be, written as they were with strong feeling and on such a subject; every line seems to me to be borrowed; but I had no better way of expressing my thoughts, and I never have the power of altering or amending anything I have once laid aside with dissatisfaction:—