Then we have the sedate and scholarly Southey, the brother-in-law of Coleridge, and both of whom, up to 1810, when Coleridge left the district, resided at Greta Hall, near Keswick. Charles and Mary Lamb, also, although they could seldom be lured from their beloved London, were, as we have seen, among the earliest friends of the Wordsworths, and their home generally the abode of Miss Wordsworth during her occasional visits to the metropolis. Charles Lloyd, of Brathay—the dreamy Quaker, and bosom friend of Lamb—also became a neighbour, and an esteemed friend. Later, we have seen De Quincey, the intellectual opium eater, whose growth seems to have been almost entirely in the direction of brain (and of whom Southey said he wished he was not so very little, and did not always forget his great coat!) received into the charmed circle; Crabb Robinson, also, who, though not a writer himself, counted amongst his friends some of the most eminent literary men of the day. Professor Wilson, of Elleray, the physical and mental giant, who resided within, what was to the Wordsworths and himself, fair walking distance; afterwards Hartley Coleridge, loving and lovable, who inherited no small portion of the poetic genius of his more illustrious father; and Dr. Arnold, of Rugby fame, who settled almost within a stone's-throw of Rydal Mount, added to the coterie of men of genius, among whom, Wordsworth, from time to time, if not at the same time, moved as a revered master, added to the interest of this warm centre of intellectual activity.
Among many other sons of genius who should be ranked as friends of Wordsworth was Haydon, the painter. He painted Wordsworth on several occasions, and introduced him into his famous picture of "Christ's Entry into Jerusalem." Of this Hazlitt said it was the "most like his drooping weight of thought and expression." Of this picture Haydon, in his autobiography, says: "During the progress of the picture of Jerusalem, I resolved to put into it (1816), in a side group, Voltaire, as a sneerer, and Newton, as a believer. I now (1817) put Hazlitt's head into my picture, looking at Christ as an investigator. It had a good effect. I then put in Keats into the background, and resolved to introduce Wordsworth, bowing with reverence and awe.... The Centurion, the Samaritan Woman, Jairus and his daughter, St. Peter, St. John, Newton, Voltaire, the anxious mother of the penitent girl, and the girl blushing and hiding her face, many heads behind; in fact the leading groups were accomplished, when down came my health again, eyes and all." This painting, so enthusiastically received in England, was, unfortunately, sent to America, whence it has never returned. Haydon writes, under date September 23, 1831: "My 'Jerusalem' is purchased, and is going to America. Went to see it before it was embarked. It was melancholy to look, for the last time, at a work which had excited so great a sensation in England and Scotland. It was now leaving my native country for ever."
In speaking of the friends of the Wordsworths, some allusion should be made to others, who, if they were less widely known, were not less warmly appreciative of their worth, or less closely identified with them. Sir George Beaumont, of Coleorton Hall, Leicestershire, was for many years a close friend and admirer; and from time to time we find Miss Wordsworth visiting there.
Among the ladies who, in after years, became closely intimate with the inmates of Rydal Mount were Mrs. Fletcher, herself a lady of some literary distinction, and her daughter Mary, afterwards Lady Richardson. For the sake chiefly of the society of the Arnolds and Wordsworths, Mrs. Fletcher—who speaks of a tea-party at Rydal Mount as "perhaps the highest point in man's civilised life, in all its bearings"—became the purchaser of the little mountain farm of Lancrigg before-mentioned, so nearly identified with Miss Wordsworth's Easedale rambles, and which she converted into the charming retreat it is at the present time. Miss Fenwick also, to whom the world owes the valuable notes upon the poems, dictated to her, at her urgent request, by the poet, after having, for very love of the Wordsworths, resided for some time in the neighbourhood, became, and was for many years, a resident at the Mount. From the recently-published autobiography of Sir Henry Taylor, we learn that this amiable lady, many years before she became an inmate at Rydal Mount, had stated she would be content to be a servant in that house, that she might hear the poet's wisdom. Of the life of Miss Fenwick herself, Sir Henry says, it was "a life of love and beneficence, as nearly divine as any life upon earth that I have known, or heard of, or been capable of conceiving."
From the time of taking up her abode at Rydal Mount, the outward life of Miss Wordsworth was passed without much change. After the trials which had preceded, life in this ideal home appears to have been for many years unbroken by any sorrow. It is needless to say that Miss Wordsworth's close interest in her brother and his career, and in all the incidents of his life, never waned. A letter of Miss Wordsworth, which has recently been given to the world, written when "The White Doe of Rylstone" was about to be published (in 1815), shows that he and his work were still the first objects of her thought and affection. She writes: "My brother was very much pleased with your frankness in telling us that you did not perfectly like his poem. He wishes to know what your feelings were—whether the tale itself did not interest you, or whether you could not enter into the conception of Emily's character, or take delight in that visionary union which is supposed to have existed between her and the doe. Do not fear to give him pain. He is far too much accustomed to be abused to receive pain from it (at least, so far as he himself is concerned). My reason for asking you these questions is, that some of your friends, who are equally admirers of the 'White Doe,' and of my brother's published poems, think that this poem will sell on account of the story; that is, that the story will bear up those points which are above the level of the public taste; whereas the two last volumes—except by a few solitary individuals, who are passionately devoted to my brother's works—are abused by wholesale.
"Now, as his sole object in publishing this poem at present would be for the sake of the money, he would not publish it if he did not think, from the several judgments of his friends, that it would be likely to have a sale. He has no pleasure in publishing—he even detests it; and if it were not that he is not over wealthy he would leave all his works to be published after his death. William himself is sure that the 'White Doe' will not sell or be admired, except by a very few at first, and only yields to Mary's entreaties and mine. We are determined, however, if we are deceived this time to let him have his own way in future."
The year 1820 was signalised by a lengthened tour on the Continent, including France, the Rhine, Italy, and Switzerland, in which Miss Wordsworth accompanied her brother and Mrs. Wordsworth, and their kinspeople—Mr. and Mrs. Monkhouse. Mr. Crabb Robinson was also of the party, and his diary contains some pleasant reminiscences of the tour. It is interesting to note such an entry as the following: "On the 5th September the Wordsworths went back to the Lake of Como, in order to gratify Miss Wordsworth, who wished to see every spot which her brother saw in his first journey—a journey made when he was young." "The women wear black caps, fitting the head closely, with prodigious black gauze wings. Miss Wordsworth calls it the 'butterfly cap.'"
The "Memorials of a Tour on the Continent," published by Wordsworth, in 1822, did not constitute the only literary result of the tour. Mrs. and Miss Wordsworth kept a journal of events and impressions, which it is to be greatly regretted has not been published, notwithstanding the expressed desire of the poet to the contrary. As a charming memorial of this interesting journey, it could not fail to prove of great interest.
Shortly after the publication of these poems we find the following letter written by Miss Wordsworth to Mr. Crabb Robinson:—
"3rd March, 1822.
"My brother will, I hope, write to Charles Lamb in the course of a few days. He has long talked of doing it; but you know how the mastery of his own thoughts (when engaged in composition, as he has lately been) often prevents him from fulfilling his best intentions; and since the weakness of his eyes has returned, he has been obliged to fill up all spaces of leisure by going into the open air for refreshment and relief to his eyes. We are very thankful that the inflammation, chiefly in the lids, is now much abated. It concerns us very much to hear so indifferent an account of Lamb and his sister; the death of their brother no doubt has afflicted them much more than the death of any brother, with whom there had, in near neighbourhood, been so little personal or family communication, would afflict any other minds. We deeply lamented their loss, and wished to write to them as soon as we heard of it; but it not being the particular duty of any one of us, and a painful task, we put it off, for which we are now sorry, and very much blame ourselves. They are too good and too confiding to take it unkindly, and that thought makes us feel it more.... With respect to the tour poems, I am afraid you will think my brother's notes not sufficiently copious; prefaces he has none, except to the poem on Goddard's death. Your suggestion as to the bridge at Lucerne set his mind to work; and if a happy mood comes on he is determined even yet, though the work is printed, to add a poem on that subject. You can have no idea with what earnest pleasure he seized the idea, yet before he began to write at all, when he was pondering over his recollections, and asking me for hints and thoughts, I mentioned that very subject, and he then thought he could make nothing of it. You certainly have the gift of setting him on fire. When I named (before your letter was read to him) your scheme for next autumn his countenance flushed with pleasure, and he exclaimed: 'I'll go with him.' Presently, however, the conversation took a sober turn, and he concluded that the journey would be impossible; 'and then,' said he, 'if you or Mary, or both, were not with me, I should not half enjoy it; and that is impossible.' ... We have had a long and interesting letter from Mrs. Clarkson. Notwithstanding bad times, she writes in cheerful spirits, and talks of coming into the North this summer, and we really hope it will not end in talk, as Mr. Clarkson joins with her; and, if he once determines, a trifle will not stop him. Pray read a paper in the London Magazine by Hartley Coleridge on the uses of the 'Heathen Mythology in Poetry.' It has pleased us very much. The style is wonderful for so young a man—so little of effort and no affectation....
"Dorothy Wordsworth."
The following extract from a letter written by Mr. Robinson, in June, 1825, shortly after Lamb's retirement from the East India Office, will be of interest. He writes: "I have not seen the Lambs so often as I used to do, owing to a variety of circumstances. Nor can I give you the report you naturally looked for of his conduct at so great a change in his life.... The expression of his delight has been child-like (in the good sense of that word). You have read the 'Superannuated Man.' I do not doubt, I do not fear, that he will be unable to sustain 'the weight of chance desires.' Could he—but I fear he cannot—occupy himself in some great work requiring continued and persevering attention and labour, the benefit would be equally his and the world's. Mary Lamb has remained so well, that one might almost advise, or rather permit, a journey to them. But Lamb has no desire to travel. If he had, few things would give me so much pleasure as to accompany him. I should be proud of taking care of him. But he has a passion for solitude, he says, and hitherto he finds that his retirement from business has not brought leisure."
Before alluding to the affliction which for many years darkened the later life of Miss Wordsworth, and gathering together some of the remaining threads of her history, it is fitting that something further should be said in relation to her sustained influence upon her brother and her devotion to him, although it is with a feeling of how impossible it is adequately to do this, or that the fruit of her dominant presence should ever be fully known.
Those who know Wordsworth, and who, recognising his commanding place in literature, have had their sympathies enlarged, their eyes opened to discern in Nature and Providence their boundless sources of satisfaction and delight—whose hearts have been expanded by his high and holy teaching—will be ready to recognise all the spiritual aids by which he was himself inspired. It would be unjust to others, who held high sway over his heart, to say that everything was due to his sister. At the same time it is manifest that she bore no insignificant part, and during his early life the largely predominant part in that work, and thus was to a great extent instrumental in introducing the new evangel of song by which the century's literature has been uplifted. The elevating presence of such a woman, in the delightful and close relationship of sister, was to a man of Wordsworth's character, itself an inspiration. If it be good to learn to look on Nature with a reverential eye, seeing therein the Creation of God brought near, then to this poet, as Nature's high priest and interpreter is due the gratitude of generations.
As the close companion and stimulator of this great poet during the years of preparation and discipline, who "first couched his eye to the sense of beauty," we owe it indirectly to Miss Wordsworth that Nature has become to us so much more than she was to our forefathers, has been revealed in a clearer and brighter light; that she speaks to us in a new language, calling us away from the lower cares of life, and uplifting us to a higher soul-inbreathing and restoring atmosphere of repose; thus begetting a dignity of soul and making us capable of higher good, of nobler endeavour, of capacities for enjoyment before unknown—keener, more satisfying, and enduring.
Probably few natures are capable of receiving the more subtle impressions of beauty in such a way as was that of Wordsworth, and fewer still meet with the responsive soul able to touch them to the finest issues. His boyhood's mind had been impregnated with thought, and his young heart bounded with delight amid the beauties of earth. His sister came, and together they seemed to possess the earth. His powers of perception were intensified and rarified. The solitudes of Nature became their home, their hearts grew still amidst its loveliness: the solemn night breathed a benediction. They loved
Shall we not say that, viewed in this way, the earth becomes almost as an ante-chamber of Heaven, subduing, and awe-inspiring, leading us to
"What a life there is in trees," said Miss Wordsworth; and her own life was one not only helping to reveal the living speech of the mute world, not only finding life where it is by the duller eye unseen, and by the dull sense unfelt, but helping to show what a noble thing all life may be made.
It must not be supposed that in what may seem to have been a complete abandonment to the worship of her brother and of Nature Miss Wordsworth had no heart for others, no room for human sympathy. She was, on the contrary, during their early years at Grasmere especially, widely known and beloved; her ready ear was always open to the tale of sorrow, and her helping hand ready to aid. It was after the commencement of her long and tedious illness that Wordsworth said of her he did not believe her tenderness of heart was ever exceeded by any of God's creatures, that her loving kindness had no bounds. The following lines written by Mrs. Fletcher, when 82 years of age, after reading Miss Wordsworth's Grasmere journal, are very appropriate:—
It has been well said that with a masculine power of mind Miss Wordsworth "had every womanly virtue, and presented with those splendid gifts such a rare combination, that even the enthusiastic strains in which her brother sang her praises borrowed no aid from his poetic imagination. It was she who in childhood moderated the sternness of his moody temper, and she carried on the work which she had begun. His chief delight had been in scenes which were distinguished by terror and grandeur, and she taught him the beauty of the simplest products and mildest graces of Nature; while she was softening his mind she was elevating herself; and out of this interchange of gifts grew an absolute harmony of thought and feeling." What was originally harsh in Wordsworth was toned by the womanly sweetness of his sister, and his spirit softened by her habitual delicacy of thought and act. Not only so, but with a devotion (I will not say self-sacrifice, for it was none) as rare as it is noble, she simply dedicated to him her life and service, living in and for him. She read for him, saw for him, and heard for him; found subjects for his reflection, and was always at hand—his willing scribe. Rejecting for herself all thoughts of love and marriage, she gave to him and his her mature life as willingly and cheerfully as when he was alone and unfriended, she had done her bright girlhood. With a mental capacity and literary skill, which would have enabled her to carve out for herself an independent reputation and position of no mean order, she preferred to sink herself, and her future, in that of her brother, with whom she has thus become, for all time, so indelibly associated. And he was grateful, and returned her devotedness with a love, tender, and almost reverential. One other allusion to her in his poems should be given. It may be thought that his praise of her is exaggerated; but none so well as he himself knew the extent of his obligation to her—and he was not one to bestow praise for the sake only of poetic effect. Writing in the "Prelude," he says:—
It has, by some, been stated, in the way of objection, that Wordsworth was not a Christian poet, that he looked too exclusively to Nature as his inspirer and guide, and sought from her the consolation which Christianity alone can afford. His friend and admirer, Professor Wilson, states that all his poetry, published previously to the "Excursion," is but the "Religion of the Woods"; and that though in that poem there is a high religion brought forward, it is not the religion of Christianity. But it must be admitted that although a large proportion of the poetry of Wordsworth does not contain any specific Christian teaching, yet it breathes the spirit of devotion and of Christian charity. Some of the earlier poems, especially the lines composed at Tintern Abbey, have been referred to as evidence, that at the shrine of Nature alone Wordsworth, in his earlier, and presumably wiser, years worshipped. As this subject has been more than once exhaustively dealt with, it is not now necessary to do more than mention it. It should be remembered, that the same pen which wrote what have been styled the pantheistic poems, also wrote the Ecclesiastical Sonnets, the Ninth Evening Voluntary, and the Thanksgiving Odes. What is much more needed by the heart of mankind than specific Christian doctrine, is the high and holy teaching with which the works of Wordsworth abound. His work was most conscientious, ever done under the "eye that hath kept watch o'er man's mortality." If lessons of endurance and fortitude under the ills and privations of life, and faith in the future, are needed, we have them taught us in such poems as that containing the story of the poor leech gatherer; if storms of passion and suffering are to be allayed, we are reminded of "the sure relief of prayer," and the advice given to the Solitary to aid in the restoration of a lost trust and hope:
If Wordsworth and his sister in their early life seem to have too exclusively glorified Nature, it cannot with any shadow of reason be said that they were at any period devoid of that faith and trust in the Creator through which we receive Nature's most beneficent lessons. It is, indeed, noticeable that during their Scottish tour no difference seems to have been made in the days of the week—that their Sundays were spent in travel. Such a thing is certainly to be regretted, which in after years probably no one would have been more ready than they to acknowledge. Thus the last entry in that journal—one made after an interval of many years—we find as follows: October 4th, 1832.—"I find that this tour was both begun and ended on a Sunday. I am sorry that it should have been so, though I hope and trust that our thoughts and feelings were not seldom as pious and serious as if we had duly attended a place devoted to public worship. My sentiments have undergone a great change since 1803 respecting the absolute necessity of keeping the Sabbath by a regular attendance at church.—D. W." It cannot be doubted that the feeling which dictated those words marks a distinct advance. I doubt not that Miss Wordsworth was able to worship the Creator as devoutly on the green slope of a sun-crowned mountain or in the solemn woods, murmuring their eternal mysterious secrets, as in the public assembly of saints. And such would be in accord with the glow of youthful life with which she bounded to greet Nature's subtle influences. But a longer experience brought its inevitable sobering tendencies, accompanied by the longing for a closer approach towards the Infinite which is felt by all searching and great souls. Wordsworth could truly say, in view of his work, that it was a consolation to him to feel that he had never written a line which he could wish to blot. To this happy and rare result his sister contributed. Remembering the exalted character of that work, there is no other conclusion than that she had no mean part in a work, the issues of which were beneficial not only for time—adding to the sweet influences and graces of life—but will be far-reaching as eternity.
In illustration of Miss Wordsworth's own literary style, I take the liberty to insert in later chapters a few poems which have been deemed worthy to have a place with those of her brother, as well as a journal of a tour on Ullswater. What most in her journals arrests the attention is her unusual quickness and minuteness of observation, combined with a graceful and poetic diction. With her ardent love of Nature, nothing seems to have escaped her notice; and all the varying shades of beauty in earth and sky, which, to the observant eye and loving heart, invest with such a glory this old world, were duly appreciated. Describing a birch tree, she says: "As we went along we were stopped at once, at a distance of, perhaps, fifty yards from our favourite birch tree. It was yielding to a gust of wind, with all its tender twigs; the sun shone upon it, and it glanced in the wind like a flying sunshiny shower. It was a tree in shape, with stem and branches; but it was like a spirit of water." Noticing a number of daffodils near Ullswater, she writes: "When we were in the woods below Gowbarrow Park we saw a few daffodils close to the water side. As we went along there were more and yet more; and at last, under the boughs of the trees, we saw there was a long belt of them along the shore. I never saw daffodils so beautiful. They grew among the mossy stones about them. Some rested their heads on these stones as on a pillow; the rest tossed, and reeled, and danced, and seemed as if they verily laughed with the wind, they looked so gay and glancing." These daffodils suggested to her brother one of the most beautiful of his short poems, that which has been previously quoted, commencing
Of this description of Miss Wordsworth Mr. Lockhart says: "Few poets ever lived who could have written a description so simple and original, so vivid and picturesque. Her words are scenes, and something more."
Miss Wordsworth was for many years a great correspondent, and it is to be regretted that more of her letters have not been given to the world. From those quoted in this volume it will be seen that they exhibit the same fluent, graceful, and animated style which characterised all her productions.
Lamb.
Reference must now be made, however reluctantly, to the sad illness with which Miss Wordsworth was more or less afflicted for over twenty years. At this distance of time particulars as to the commencement and progress of this affliction are not easily procurable. It appears, however, to have been about the year 1826 that her splendid physical energies began to show signs of decay. In October of that year Mr. Crabb Robinson, after mentioning a visit to Southey at Keswick, wrote in his diary: "Miss D. Wordsworth's illness prevented me going to Rydal Mount." From this illness it is, however, evident she successfully rallied. I am indebted to Notes and Queries for the following extract from a letter by Miss Dora Wordsworth, dated 1st February, 1827: "Aunt Wordsworth has not yet walked herself to death, which I often tell her she will do, though she still continues the same tremendous pedestrian." Here we have the key to the cause of her subsequent prostration. From her ardent and impassioned nature her career had been what may be termed singularly intense. De Quincey, who knew her well, speaks of there being clearly observable in her "a self-consuming style of thought." Both as regards her mental and physical nature, she appears to have run a race with time. As her brother's companion, she had indeed been so exclusively and passionately devoted to him as to identify herself not only with his mental pursuits, but also, probably more than wisely, with his long pedestrian and mountain rambles. If it were not that the great work of her life was so signally achieved, and her satisfaction therein abundant, we should be inclined to regret that she thus drew an over-draft on the fountains of her life. It could not be expected that her frailer frame could sustain, without any mischievous effects, the physical fatigues and labours of her more robust brother; for with him she was ever ready to explore the mountain force, to climb the rocky heights, or walk over moor and fell apparently almost regardless of distance. Within due limits, no doubt all this is as healthful as it is delightful. But Nature's powers are limited; and Nature in Miss Wordsworth eventually gave way. And her spirits suffered in sympathy with her physical nature.
As an illustration of Miss Wordsworth's home rambles and adventures, I may here mention a reminiscence which is given by Mr. Justice Coleridge, of an excursion made with Wordsworth into Easedale. The poet, pointing to a precipitous and rocky mountain above the tarn, told of an incident which befell him and his sister on one occasion on their coming over the mountains from Langdale. From some cause they had become a little parted, when a heavy fog came on and Miss Wordsworth became bewildered. After wandering about for some time she sat down and waited. When the fog cleared away and she could see the valley before her, she found that she had stopped very providentially, as she was standing almost on the verge of the precipice.
It is not, however, to be supposed that Miss Wordsworth accompanied her brother over the 200,000 miles which De Quincey calculated the poet must have walked, nor is it stated by what means the figures are arrived at! A twenty or thirty miles walk was not an uncommon thing. As an instance, I find it stated that one summer afternoon, as the Keswick coach was approaching Grasmere, it met Wordsworth, and stopped. A lady, who was going on a visit to the poet, put out her head to speak to him, whereupon he said to her: "How d'ye do? Mrs. Wordsworth will be delighted to see you. I shall be back in the evening. I'm only going to tea with Southey," who, it will be remembered, lived at a distance of about fifteen miles, and the road by no means a good one.
It is stated by Principal Shairp, in the introduction to the "Tour in Scotland," that in the year 1829 Miss Wordsworth "was seized with a severe illness, which so prostrated her, body and mind, that she never recovered from it." This can, however, hardly be the fact, as is evidenced by the following letter to Mr. Crabb Robinson, which certainly shows no indication of mental prostration, and contains no allusion to a physical one:—
"Friday, December 1st, 1831.
"Had a rumour of your arrival in England reached us before your letter of yesterday's post you would ere this have received a welcome from me, in the name of each member of this family; and, further, would have been reminded of your promise to come to Rydal as soon as possible after again setting foot on English ground. When Dora heard of your return, and of my intention to write, she exclaimed after a charge that I would recall to your mind your written promise: 'He must come and spend Christmas with us. I wish he would!' Thus you see, notwithstanding your petty jarrings, Dora was always, and now is, a loving friend of yours. I am sure I need not add that if you can come at the time mentioned, so much the more agreeable to us all, for it is fast approaching; but that whenever it suits you (for you may have Christmas engagements with your own family) to travel so far northward, we shall be rejoiced to see you; and whatever other visitors we may chance to have, we shall always be able to find a corner for you. We are thankful that you are returned with health unimpaired—I may say, indeed, amended—for you were not perfectly well when you left England. You do not mention rheumatic pains, so I trust they have entirely left you. As to your being grown older—if you mean feebler in mind—my brother says, 'No such thing; your judgment has only attained autumnal ripeness.' Indeed, my dear friend, I wonder not at your alarms, or those of any good man, whatever may have been his politics from youth to middle age, and onward to the decline of life. But I will not enter upon this sad and perplexing subject. I find it much more easy to look with patience on the approach of pestilence, or any affliction which it may please God to cast upon us without the intervention of man, than on the dreadful results of sudden and rash changes, whether arising from ambition, or ignorance, or brute force. I am, however, getting into the subject without intending it, so will conclude with a prayer that God may enlighten the heads and hearts of our men of power, whether Whigs or Tories, and that the madness of the deluded people may settle. This last effect can only be produced, I fear, by exactly and severely executing the law, seeking out and punishing the guilty, and letting all persons see that we do not willingly oppress the poor. One possible blessing seems already to be coming upon us through the alarm of the cholera. Every rich man is now obliged to look into the bye-lanes and corners inhabited by the poor, and many crying abuses are (even in our little town of Ambleside) about to be remedied.
"But to return to pleasant Rydal Mount, still cheerful and peaceful—if it were not for the newspapers we should know nothing of the turbulence of our great towns and cities; yet my poor brother is often heart-sick and almost desponding—and no wonder, for, until this point at which we are arrived, he has been a true prophet as to the course of events, dating from the 'Great Days of July' and the appearance of 'the Bill, the whole Bill, and nothing but the Bill.' It remains for us to hope that now Parliament may meet in a different temper from that in which they parted, and that the late dreadful events may make each man seek only to promote the peace and prosperity of the country. You will see that my brother looks older. He is certainly thinner, and has lost some of his teeth; but his bodily activity is not at all diminished, and if it were not for public affairs, his spirits would be as cheerful as ever. He and Dora visited Sir Walter Scott just before his departure, and made a little tour in the Western Highlands; and such was his leaning to old pedestrian habits, that he often walked from fifteen to twenty miles in a day, following or keeping by the side of the little carriage, of which his daughter was the charioteer. They both very much enjoyed the tour, and my brother actually brought home a set of poems, the product of that journey...."
It was not, however, long after the date of this letter, which shows that Miss Wordsworth was still in possession of her vigorous and clear intellect, that she was seized with a more severe illness. Her growing weakness was, in the year 1832, accompanied by an alarming attack of brain fever, from the effects of which she never altogether recovered. Mr. Myers states that the illness "kept her for many months in a state of great prostration, and left her, when the physical symptoms abated, with her intellect painfully impaired, and her bright nature permanently overclouded."
In June, 1833, Mr. Crabb Robinson again writes in his diary: "Strolled up to Rydal Mount, where I met with a cordial reception from my kind friends; but Miss Wordsworth I did not see. I spent a few hours very delightfully, and enjoyed the improved walk in Mr. Wordsworth's garden, from which the views are admirable, and had most agreeable conversation, with no other drawback than Miss Wordsworth's absence from the state of her health."
Wordsworth himself felt very keenly the affliction of his sister. Writing to his brother, the Rev. Dr. Wordsworth, on April 1, 1832, he says: "Our dear sister makes no progress towards recovery of strength. She is very feeble, never quits her room, and passes most of the day in, or upon, the bed. She does not suffer much pain, and is very cheerful, and nothing troubles her but public affairs and the sense of requiring so much attention. Whatever may be the close of this illness, it will be a profound consolation to you, my dear brother, and to us all, that it is borne with perfect resignation; and that her thoughts are such as the good and pious would wish. She reads much, both religious and miscellaneous works." On June 25 of the same year, writing to Professor Hamilton, after referring to Coleridge, he says: "He and my beloved sister are the two beings to whom my intellect is most indebted, and they are now proceeding, as it were, pari passu, along the path of sickness, I will not say towards the grave; but I trust towards a blessed immortality."
It does not, however, appear that all hope was abandoned of Miss Wordsworth's recovery until the year 1836. In a note of his life dictated by the poet, after referring to the deaths of his two young children in 1812, he says: "We lived with no further sorrow till 1836, when my sister became a confirmed invalid."
The outward life of Miss Wordsworth was now at an end. Her condition became such that those who loved her so dearly could only hope to relieve her pain and cheer her lonely hours. The buoyancy of spirit and activity of limb which had so distinguished her young and mature life ceased—had gradually given way to a decay of her physical energies, which was accompanied at times, and especially during her later years by a consequent natural depression of spirit, or loss of mental elasticity. As years passed, what may be called the symptoms of mental decay became intensified. I am, however, inclined to think that by some writers too much prominence has been given to the deterioration of her intellect. Principal Shairp says: "It is sad to think that when the world at last knew him (Wordsworth) for what he was, the great original poet of the century, she who had helped to make him so was almost past rejoicing in it." Mr. Howitt, writing while Miss Wordsworth was still living, said: "The mind of that beloved sister has for many years gone, as it were, before her, and she lives on in a second infancy, gratefully cherished in the poet's home."
The condition into which Miss Wordsworth had declined is not, however, an unusual one when a severe and protracted illness lays hold upon one advancing in years. The "nervous depression" or "nervous irritation" which clouded her later years, apart from the prostration of the body, was most manifest in the lapse of memory, which is frequently the case with those who have not, indeed, suffered the affliction of Miss Wordsworth. Her physical frame having succumbed to the overtaxing of her energies, as an almost natural consequence her mind lost its youthful buoyancy and brightness, and suffered in sympathy. An aged inhabitant of the district, who knew her from youth to age, a little time ago informed me that she could not be called low-spirited, but that she became "a bit dull," adding that she always knew people, and was able to converse with them.
Meanwhile, in the poet's home and circle, the inevitable flight of time was bringing about other changes which tended to sadden the age of its inhabitants. Intimate friends were departing. Coleridge, the friend of his youth, who had, as before mentioned, left the district, and been resident in London, died in 1834, to be followed to the grave only a month later by the friend of both, the genial-hearted Charles Lamb. In 1835, also, to add to the sorrow caused by the confirmed affliction of Miss Wordsworth, the beloved sister of Mrs. Wordsworth, Miss Sarah Hutchinson, who had for many years alternately resided with them and her brother at Brinsop Court, Hereford, was added to the number of the loved and lost.
The year 1841 was brightened by the marriage of Miss Dora Wordsworth, the only surviving daughter of the poet. The event was not, however, to him one of unalloyed happiness. This daughter, having, for now some years, grown up to bright and happy womanhood, was his cherished companion, and in her his heart seemed to be bound up. She occupied in his later poems, to some extent, the same position that his sister did in his earlier. Mr. Edward Quillinan, who became the poet's son in-law, was a gentleman of much literary culture and attainment. He was the author of several poems, reviews, and other works, and had the reputation of being the most accomplished Portuguese scholar in this country. He was an officer in the Dragoon Guards, and had married for his first wife a daughter of Sir Egerton Brydges, Bart. Long an admirer of Wordsworth, he had become personally acquainted with him while his regiment was stationed in Penrith in 1820. Quitting the service in 1821 he settled at the village of Rydal, chiefly for the sake of the poet's society. Here he had in the following year the misfortune to lose his wife. Notwithstanding the close friendship which existed between them, Wordsworth did not like the idea of losing the companionship of his daughter. Sir Henry Taylor, in reference to this, says: "His love for his only daughter was passionately jealous, and the marriage which was indispensable to her peace and happiness was intolerable to his feelings. The emotions—I may say the throes and agonies of emotion—he underwent were such as an old man could not have endured without suffering in health, had he not been a very strong old man. But he was like nobody else—old or young. He would pass the night, or most part of it, in struggles and storms, to the moment of coming down to breakfast; and then, if strangers were present, be as easy and delightful in conversation as if nothing was the matter. But if his own health did not suffer, his daughter's did, and this consequence of his resistance, mainly aided, I believe, by the temperate but persistent pressure exercised by Miss Fenwick, brought him at length, though far too tardily, to consent to the marriage."
The marriage took place in Bath, in May, 1841; and afterwards Mr. and Mrs. Wordsworth and Miss Fenwick made a short tour to Alfoxden and other places so closely associated with the early life of Wordsworth and his sister. Writing to Sir H. Taylor, Miss Fenwick says:—"We had two perfect days for our visit to Wells, Alfoxden, &c. They were worthy of a page or two in the poet's life. Forty-two years, perhaps, never passed over any human head with more gain and less loss than over his. There he was again, after that long period, in the full vigour of his intellect, and with all the fervent feelings which have accompanied him through life; his bodily strength little impaired, he, grey-headed, with an old wife and not a young daughter. The thought of what his sister, who had been his companion here, was then, and now is, seemed the only painful feeling that moved in his mind. He was delighted to see again those scenes (and they were beautiful in their kind) where he had been so happy—where he had felt and thought so much. He pointed out the spots where he had written so many of his early poems, and told us how they had been suggested."
It was on the death of Southey, in 1843, that Wordsworth, then in his seventy-fourth year, was offered, and, after some hesitation, on account of his age, accepted the appointment of Poet Laureate—an office which has not been filled by a worthier man or greater poet.
But other trials were in store for his advancing years. The health of his daughter had for some years been delicate, and continued to be so after her marriage. In 1845 Mr. and Mrs. Quillinan sought the more genial clime of Spain and Portugal, where they remained until the summer of the following year. Of this tour Mrs. Quillinan published a journal, of which it has been said that it showed she "inherited no trivial measure of her aunt's tastes and talents." It was hoped that by this means her health had been restored; but the hope proved to be short-lived. She gradually faded, and, to the great grief of all who knew her, died in 1847. The effect on the poet was most saddening. Sir Henry Taylor, referring to his cultivation of the muse in later years, says: "At his daughter's death, a silence, as of death, fell upon him; and though during the interval between her death and his own his genius was not at all times incapable of its old animation, I believe it never broke again into song."
To return to Miss Wordsworth. Mr. Crabb Robinson, in a reminiscence of the year 1835, writes: "Already her health had broken down. In her youth and middle age she had stood in somewhat the same relation to her brother William as poor Mary Lamb to her brother Charles. In her long illness she was fond of repeating the favourite small poems of her brother, as well as a few of her own. And this she did in so sweet a tone as to be quite pathetic. The temporary obscurations of a noble mind can never obliterate the recollections of its inherent and essential worth."
In December, 1843, Mr. Quillinan, writing to Mrs. Clarkson, refers to the pleasure with which they at Rydal had read Miss Martineau's "Life in a Sick Room," and adds: "When I said all the Rydalites, I should have excepted poor, dear Miss Wordsworth, who could not bear sustained attention to any book, but who would be quite capable of appreciating a little at a time." In a still later letter—one from Mr. Robinson to Miss Fenwick, in 1849—referring to a visit paid to his friends at Rydal, he says: "Poor Miss Wordsworth I found sunk still further in insensibility. By the bye, Mrs. Wordsworth says that almost the only enjoyment Wordsworth seems to feel is in his attendance on her, and that her death would be to him a sad calamity." Lady Richardson has given the following pathetic reminiscence: "There is," she says, "always something very touching in his way of speaking of his sister. The tones of his voice become very gentle and solemn, and he ceases to have that flow of expression, which is so remarkable in him in all other subjects. It is as if the sadness connected with her present condition was too much for him to dwell upon in connection with the past, although habit and the omnipotence of circumstances have made its daily presence less oppressive to his spirits. He said that his sister spoke constantly of their early days, but more of the years they spent together in other parts of England than those at Grasmere."
To Miss Wordsworth the "sorrow's crown of sorrow" came with the death in April, 1850, of the brother for whom she had lived and for whom she had done so much. Having attained his eightieth year, he caught a cold, which resulted in a bronchial attack. After lying for a few weeks in a state of exhaustion, the great soul passed to its everlasting rest, to swell the song of the eternal world.
Although cared for and dearly beloved by the survivors, the death of her brother seemed to snap the strong tie by which she was bound to life. In consequence of being herself confined to her room, she was not able to witness the progress and end of her brother's illness. To the very last they had been so completely devoted to each other that when his death was communicated to her she was at first unable to realise it. When the truth at length dawned upon her, she gave utterance to the pathetic exclamation, that there was nothing left worth living for.
Miss Wordsworth, however, survived her brother by nearly five years. It is a satisfaction to know that even her latest years were not without gleams of brightness. Although, compared with her early mental vigour, there was visible a melancholy wreck of mind, it was chiefly the result of an uncertain and vanishing memory. She had, indeed, to the very last perfectly lucid intervals during which she was remarkably clear and quite herself. As a not uncommon result of loss of memory in aged people, she forgot near events, and was what might be termed somewhat childish. She could remember quite well what took place in her girlhood, while if asked what she had been doing or talking about an hour previously she would have no recollection of it.
During her latest years Miss Wordsworth was unable to read much, but would frequently amuse herself by reciting poetry and other scraps, which, learnt in previous years, she remembered wonderfully well. A casual observer, who might see the placid old lady, of fourscore years, wheeled on the terrace at Rydal Mount, her unwrinkled though somewhat pensive face framed by a full-bordered cap, would have no suggestion of the often vacant mind.
Although sometimes considerably depressed in spirits, her tedious affliction was, on the whole, borne with exemplary Christian fortitude. It has been said that "her loving-kindness in health had known no bounds, and the sympathy she had ever felt for the sorrows of others was now rivalled by the patience with which she bore her own."
When the end at length came it was calm and tolerably painless. Taking cold early in the year 1855, her condition was aggravated by an attack of bronchitis, and her spirit left the worn-out frame on the 25th of January, in her eighty-third year.
Her remains were deposited in the peaceful churchyard of Grasmere, by the murmuring waters of a mountain stream, the same sacred spot of earth which contained those of her beloved brother, overshadowed by the same yew trees.
It was from her own choice—a choice decided and happy—that Miss Wordsworth was never married. De Quincey (who seems, by the way, to have had a pretty universal knowledge) informs us that she had several offers of marriage, and amongst them, to his knowledge, one from Hazlitt, all of which she decisively rejected. Although he speaks so confidently, it is probable that, with regard to Hazlitt, he was mistaken. With the exception of a visit to Nether Stowey, and a short stay in the Lake district some few years later, it does not appear that Hazlitt was brought into contact with the Wordsworths, or that the relations between them were at all familiar; and Hazlitt's grandson and biographer does not attach much importance to the statement. Miss Wordsworth had a far higher vocation. Her sacrifice, if it can be so called, to her brother was complete; but her lot was not, therefore, less happy. Doubtless the duties of marriage and maternity, had the poet's prophecy concerning her been fulfilled, would have filled her life, in its maturity and decline, with cares and interests which would have contributed to the keeping of her mind in a condition of more continuous mental vigour and equipoise. But the one great object of her life had been accomplished. She had lived to know all slander and rancour, the effect of all spiteful reviews, lived down; and—if not able fully to appreciate and rejoice in the fact—to see her brother, whom she had helped so much to perfect, universally acknowledged as a master of English song, occupying a foremost niche in the Temple of Fame—the greatest poet since Milton.
And, although her old age was somewhat overclouded, it cannot be considered altogether sad; and it is not with thoughts of sadness that our reflections on such a beneficent career as hers should be closed.
If the latter portion of her life was overshadowed with gloom and sickness; if the brightness of the morning and the serenity of noonday too early gave place to a long twilight upon which the shadows fell heavily, her bright and lucid intervals give abundant hope that gleams of gladness revisited the mind which, for so long, had been a "mansion for all lovely forms" treasured and garnered in her early years.
It is more befitting that we should turn away our thoughts from the intervening period of age and decay; and that Dorothy Wordsworth should live in our minds as she was in her eager-spirited and ardent youth, when in company with her beloved companion, she bounded over the familiar hills and roamed by the mountain streams, or by the household fire scanned the classic page—a youth of beauty, and buoyancy, and joy, because so full of love and goodness, of generous sympathy and unselfish devotion—a youth which she has since renewed, unclouded by any shade, in the same old society, and with the familiar love re-linked—in Paradiso.
A few words only are desirable to be added in reference to the surviving inmate of the home of which Miss Wordsworth was so long a cherished member. The poet's aged widow survived her husband and sister-in-law for some years. She was not solitary in her widowhood, but tenderly loved by devoted friends. Miss Joanna Baillie, writing to Mrs. Fletcher in the June succeeding the death of Wordsworth, says: "Many thanks to you for sending to us a copy of these lines" (the lines upon the companionship of Wordsworth and his sister, before mentioned), "and for letting us know how his excellent wife, Mrs. Wordsworth, bears up under her severe affliction. She was a mate worthy of him or any man, and his sister too, such a devoted noble being as scarcely any other man ever possessed."
Mrs. Fletcher's diary, under date, Sunday, the 7th May, 1854, contains the following entry: "Yesterday, Mrs. Davy brought Mrs. Wordsworth to dinner. It is always a pleasure to see the placid old age of dear Mrs. Wordsworth. Hers has been a life of duty, and it is now an old age of repose, while her affections are kept in constant exercise by the tender interest she takes in her grand-children."
During the last three years of her life Mrs. Wordsworth was blind; and it is deeply pathetic to read how, in her last days, when her sightless eyes could no longer peruse the sacred page, she loved to feel with her trembling fingers a cross which she kept in her room, and which seemed to remind her of the Christian's hope. Her life of calm devotion and disinterested love, succeeded by an old age of resignation and peace, was brought to a serene close on the 17th of January, 1859.
Among the quiet resting-places of the dead, few, if any, are of deeper interest than the peaceful churchyard of Grasmere. Under the shadow of the everlasting hills "girded with joy," and by the banks of the murmuring stream singing in its onward course of hopes beyond the grave, it is a spot which affection would choose for its most tenderly loved. As "the Churchyard among the mountains," many of the annals of which are recorded in that grand philosophic poem, "The Excursion," it could not fail to draw thither the footsteps of the thoughtful. But there is one corner on approaching which we seem to feel more solemnised, to breathe more gently—where the footstep falls lighter and lingers longer. To us it is as sacred a nook as the shadowy corner of the famous Abbey where are laid England's greatest sons. The group of graves gathered there are not glorified by the "religious light" of storied windows, but they are warmed by summer suns, and covered with a garment of purity by winter snows, and over-shadowed by aged yews, which gently shower around them their peaceful and slumberous undersong.
In the south-east corner of this quiet God's Acre is to be found this cluster of graves, surrounded by an iron palisade, to each of which a history of more than common interest is attached. Behind the principal group are three short graves, two of which, being the first formed of the group, attract attention. These are the graves of little Catherine and Thomas Wordsworth, the children of the poet, whose early and sudden deaths have been mentioned. The stone indicating the resting-place of the "loving, and tractable, though wild," Catherine bears the inscription, "Suffer little children to come unto Me." That of her brother contains a few memorial lines recording at once his age and loving disposition:—