Part 8
“Your brother John is one of you; a man who hath solitary usings of his own intellect, deep in feelings, with a subtle tact, a swift instinct of truth and beauty; he interests me much.
“You can feel what I cannot express for myself, how deeply I have been impressed by a world of scenery, absolutely new to me. At Rydal and Grasmere I received, I think, the deepest delight; yet Hawes-water, through many a varying view, kept my eyes dim with tears; and the evening approaching, Derwent-water, in diversity of harmonious features, in the majesty of its beauties, and in the beauty of its majesty ... and the black crags close under the snowy mountains, whose snows were pinkish with the setting sun, and the reflections from the rich clouds that floated over some, and rested over others!--it was to me a vision of a fair country: why were you not with us?”
It was in this tour that Wordsworth resolved to settle at Grasmere. First he thought of building a house by the lake side, and to enable him to do this, his brother John offered to give him £40 to buy the land. There was a small house to let, however, at Grasmere, which, after much deliberation with his sister, he finally hired, and the two inseparables entered upon it on St. Thomas’s Day, 1799.
One of the very finest of all Wordsworth’s letters--written to Coleridge four days after the settlement at Grasmere--details, with a graphic and truly poetic power, the wanderings of the sister and brother from Sockburn to their new home. It is too long, however, to quote here, and for a perusal of it the reader is referred to the Memoirs.[H]
The poet lived at Grasmere with his sister for eight years.[I] “The cottage,” says Dr. Wordsworth, in which Wordsworth and his sister took up their abode, and which still retains the form it wore then, stands on the right hand, by the side of what was then the coach road, from Ambleside to Keswick, as it enters Grasmere, or, as that part of the village is called, “Town End.” The front of it faces the lake; behind is a small plot of orchard and garden-ground, in which there is a spring, and rocks; the enclosure shelves upward towards the woody sides of the mountain above it.--Many of his poems, as the reader will remember, are associated with this fair spot:
“This spot of orchard ground is ours; My trees they are, my sister’s flowers.”
In the first book of the “Recluse,” still unpublished, he thus expresses his feelings in settling in this house at Grasmere, and in looking down from the hills which embosom the lake.
“On Nature’s invitation do I come, By reason sanctioned. Can the choice mislead, That made the calmest, fairest spot on earth, With all its unappropriated good, My own, and not mine only, for with me Entrenched--say rather peacefully embowered-- Under yon orchard, in yon humble cot, A younger orphan of a home extinct The only daughter of my parents, dwells; Aye, think on that, my heart, and cease to stir; Pause upon that, and let the breathing frame No longer breathe, but all be satisfied. O, if such silence be not thanks to God For what hath been bestowed, then where, where then, Shall gratitude find rest? Mine eyes did ne’er Fix on a lovely object, nor my mind Take pleasure in the midst of happy thoughts, But either she, whom now I have, who now Divides with me that loved abode was there, Or not far off. Where’er my footsteps turned, Her voice was like a hidden bird that sung; The thought of her was like a flash of light Or an unseen companionship, a breath Or fragrance independent of the wind. In all my goings, in the new and old Of all my meditations, and in this Favourite of all, in this the most of all.... Embrace me then, ye hills, and close me in. Now in the clear and open day I feel Your guardianship; I take it to my heart; ’Tis like the solemn shelter of the night, But I would call thee beautiful; for mild, And soft, and gay, and beautiful thou art, Dear valley, having in thy face a smile, Though peaceful, full of gladness. Thou art pleased, Pleased with thy crags, and woody steeps, thy lake Its one green island, and its winding shores, The multitude of little rocky hills, Thy church, and cottages of mountain stone Clustered like stars, some few, but single most, And lurking dimly in their shy retreats, Or glancing at each other cheerful looks, Like separated stars with clouds between.”
All this is a burst of quiet, yet beautiful, and almost ecstatic, enthusiasm--the like of which is not to be met with elsewhere, I think, in poetry. Surely, Wordsworth was worthy of his sweet cottage, and sweeter and dearer sister, and his glorious lake, with its one green island,--his mountains, and woods, and dales,--his church, and the cottages, “clustered like stars,” around it; for he had the great heart, and large brain, which Nature makes the condition for all those who would share her communion. And, then, his tastes were so simple, natural, and unaffected; he lived so close to Nature, and knew so many of her secrets, and loved her too, with the passion of a first and only love. Yes, surely, he was worthy of all he enjoyed.
During the three years which elapsed, between the poet’s entering upon the cottage at Grasmere, and his marriage, he was very industriously, and even laboriously, employed in cultivating his art; for he had resolved that poetry should be the business and not the pastime of his life. We find Coleridge urging him to continue the “Recluse,”--by which he meant, as Dr. Wordsworth informs us, the “Prelude;”--in the summer of 1799, and again in October of the same year, he says he will hear of nothing else but the “Recluse;” for in the mood he was in at that time, he was wholly against the publication of any small poems. He desired that his friend should build, what my friend J. H. Stirling calls an “Opus;” but Wordsworth, though still at work upon the foundations of his _opus_, cannot rest without making little oratories--holy cells--in the pauses of his labour. Hence a new volume of poems was soon ready for publication; and as the 12mo. edition of the “Lyrical Ballads,” was by this time exhausted, Wordsworth determined to reprint them, and add this new volume to the work, calling the two conjointly “Lyrical Ballads, in two Volumes.” The pieces now presented to the public, included some of his finest lyrical effusions. Amongst others, “Lucy Gray,” “Nutting,” “The Brothers,” “Ruth,” “Poor Susan,” “The Waterfall, and the Eglantine.” This new edition was published, in 1800, by Messrs. Longmans, who offered the poet £100 for two editions of the two volumes.
In 1801, Wordsworth presented a copy of the “Lyrical Ballads” to the Right Hon. C. J. Fox, accompanied by a characteristic letter; in reply to which, Mr. Fox expresses his high admiration of many of the poems, particularly of “Harry Gill,” “We are Seven,” “The Mad Mother,” and “The Idiot Boy.” Mr. Fox, however, takes exception to blank verse, as a vehicle for subjects which are to be treated with simplicity.
Other poems of deep interest succeeded these new lyrics; and I will name “The Leech Gatherer,” and the “Ode to Immortality,” because these poems have always been great favourites with me; and, further, because I wish to add here the notes which the poet has furnished respecting them. And first of all “The Leech Gatherer:”--speaking of this poem to his friends he says,--
“I will explain to you in prose, my feelings in writing that poem. I describe myself as having been exalted to the highest pitch of delight by the joyousness and beauty of Nature; and then as depressed, even in the midst of these beautiful objects, to the lowest dejection and despair. A young poet in the midst of the happiness of Nature is described as overwhelmed by the thoughts of the miserable reverses which have befallen the happiest of all men--viz., poets. I think of this till I am so deeply impressed with it, that I consider the manner in which I was rescued from my dejection and despair almost as an interposition of Providence. A person reading the poem with feelings like mine, will have been awed and controlled, expecting something spiritual or supernatural. What is brought forward? A lonely place, ‘a pond by which an old man _was_, far from all house and home;’ not _stood_, nor _sat_, but _was_. The figure presented in the most naked simplicity possible. This feeling of spirituality or supernaturalness is again referred to as being strong in my mind in this passage. How came he here? thought I, or what can he be doing? I then describe him, whether ill or well is not for me to judge with perfect confidence; but this I _can_ confidently affirm, that though I believe God has given me a strong imagination, I cannot conceive a figure more impressive than that of an _old_ man like this, the survivor of a wife and children, travelling alone among the mountains, and all lonely places, carrying with him his own fortitude in the necessities which an unjust state of society has laid upon him. You speak of his speech as tedious. Everything is tedious when one does not read with the feelings of the author. The ‘Thorn’ is tedious to hundreds; and so is the ‘Idiot Boy.’ It is in the character of the old man to tell his story, which an impatient reader must feel tedious. But, good heavens! should he ever meet such a figure in such a place; a pious, self-respecting, miserably infirm old man telling such a tale!”
Having thus shown the feelings of the poet in writing “The Thorn,” I will quote, secondly and lastly, the note to the celebrated “Ode.” “This,” he says, “was composed during my residence at Town End, Grasmere. Two years at least passed between the writing of the first four stanzas and the remaining part. To the attentive and competent reader the whole sufficiently explains itself; but there may be no harm in adverting here to particular feelings or _experiences_ of my own mind on which the structure of the poem partly rests. Nothing was more difficult for me in childhood than to admit the notion of death as a state applicable to my own being. I have said elsewhere--
“A simple child That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death?”
But it was not so much from the source of animal vivacity that my difficulties came, as from a source of the indomitableness of the spirit within me. I used to brood over the stories of Enoch and Elijah, and almost to persuade myself that, whatever might become of others, I should be translated in something of the same way to heaven. With a feeling congenial to this, I was often unable to think of external things as having externally existence, and I communed with all that I saw as something not apart from, but inherent in my own immaterial nature. Many times, when going to school, have I grasped at a wall or tree to recall myself from this abyss of idealism to the reality. At that time I was afraid of such processes. In later periods of life I have deplored, as we have all reason to do, a subjugation of an opposite character, and have rejoiced over the remembrances, as is expressed in the lines “Obstinate Questionings,” &c. To that dream-like vividness of splendour which invests objects of sight in childhood, every one, I believe, if he would look back, could bear testimony, and I need not dwell upon it here; but having in the poem regarded it as presumptive evidence of a prior state of existence, I think it right to protest against such a conclusion which has given pain to some good and pious persons, that I meant to inculcate such a belief. It is far too shadowy a notion to be recommended to faith as more than an element in our instincts of immortality. But let us bear in mind that, though the idea is not advanced in revelation, there is nothing there to contradict it, and the fall of man presents an analogy in its favour. Accordingly, a pre-existent state has entered into the popular creeds of many nations, and among all persons acquainted with classic literature is known as an ingredient in Platonic philosophy. Archimedes said that he could move the world if he had a point whereon to rest his machine. Who has not felt the same aspirations as regards the world of his own mind? Having to wield some of its elements when I was impelled to write this poem on the ‘Immortality of the Soul,’ I took hold of the notion of pre-existence, as having sufficient foundation in humanity for authorising me to make for my purpose the best use of it I could as a poet.”
Now, in this note, and in the “Ode” which it illustrates, will be found the key to all Wordsworth’s philosophy, and to the secret of his mind as a poet. The mystic spiritualism which imbues all his writings, is the great distinguishing feature which marks and separates him from merely didactic and descriptive poets; and, were this element wanting in him, we should have a fine reporter of Nature’s doings--a fine painter of objective effects--but no creator--no idealist, and therefore, properly speaking, no _poet_, in the high signification of that term. Luckily, however, for Wordsworth and for the world, he possessed the spiritual faculty, and kept it always active; so that his eye, even in the presence of the meanest objects, was open to the ideal things of which the symbols they were. The _infinite_ was ever present to his mind, and he saw all objects through that medium of light and relationship. But the great band of critics outside the fine region in which Wordsworth dwelt, could not of course understand this “Ode,” or the general tone of Wordsworth’s poetry, and therefore they denounced it, as incomprehensible, mystic, and absurd. But because they had no faculty with which to appreciate spiritual representation, or even to believe in spirituality as a fact belonging to the nature of man, that was no reason in the estimation of our poet, that he should cease to sing his wonted strains in his wonted manner. In alluding to this depreciation of his poems, he very sorrowfully says, somewhere in his letters or notes, that it is a fact that “nineteen out of every twenty persons are unable to appreciate poetry;” and we are bound to confess that this hard judgment is truth. Even the better sort of “Reviews,” in which we should have expected at least a recognition of the genius and noble aims of the poet, stood out dead against him; and Jeffrey’s “_This will never do_,” in speaking of “The Excursion,” shows how blindly bigotted and intolerant were such critics in those days. As a sample of the abuse, and utter want of judgment which characterised Wordsworth’s critics, take the following anecdotes, which are recorded by the writer on “Wordsworth,” (Chamber’s Tracts) as a good joke, or I will hope, as a picture of the folly of the time.
“A writer in Blackwood for November, 1829, gives an amusing sketch of a party where the ‘Intimations of Immortality,’ revered by the initiated as _the_ ‘Revelation,’ was read aloud by a true disciple, in a kind of unimaginable chant then peculiar to the sect. There were one or two believers present, with a few neophytes, and one or two absolute and wicked sceptics! No sooner had the recitation fairly commenced, than one of the sceptics, of laughing propensities, crammed his handkerchief half-way down his throat; the others looked keen and composed: the disciples groaned, and the neophytes shook their heads in deep conviction.’ The reciter proceeded with deeper unction, till on being asked by a neophyte to give an explanation, which he was unable to give, he got angry, and ‘roundly declared, that things so out of the common way, so sublime, and so abstruse, could be conveyed in no language but their own. When the reciter came to the words, ‘Callings from us,’ the neophyte again timidly requested an explanation, and was informed by one of the sceptics, that they meant the child’s transitory gleams of a glorious pre-existence, that fall away and vanish almost as soon as they appear. The obstinate neophyte only replied, in a tone of melancholy, ‘When I think of my childhood, I have only visions of traps and balls, and whippings. I never remember being “haunted by the eternal mind.” To be sure I did ask a great many questions, and was tolerably obstinate, but I fear these are not the “obstinate questionings” of which Mr. Wordsworth speaks.’ This is but a small sample of the Wordsworthian scenes and disputations then of every-day occurrence. In 1816 a kind of shadow of Horace Smith again took the field. It seems that Hogg intended to publish an anthology of the living British bards, and had written to some of them for specimens. A wag, who had heard of the project, immediately issued an anthology, purporting to be this, but containing merely the coinage of his own brain. As may be imagined, Wordsworth occupied a prominent corner; and indeed some of the imitations--for most were imitations rather than parodies--did him no discredit. ‘The Flying Tailor,’ however, was not an infelicitous burlesque of the poet’s blank verse:--
“Ere he was put By his mother into breeches, Nature strung The muscular part of his anatomy To an unusual strength; and he could leap, All unimpeded by his petticoats, Over the stool on which his mother sat, More than six inches--o’er the astonished stool!”
Enough, however, has been said about these critics, for the present, at least. Wordsworth’s was a struggle to get for poetry, once more, a true utterance; to annihilate the old dead, mechanical form which it had for the most part assumed, from the time of Pope downwards to him; for although Burns and Cowper had sounded the first trumpet in this morning of the resurrection, it was reserved for Wordsworth to awake the dead, and infuse into them a new and living soul.
During the residence of the poet at Grasmere, his sister kept a diary of the proceedings of their little household, which, with Wordsworth’s letters, are the chief biographical records of this period, respecting the poet himself. The following extracts will give some idea of the calm and beautiful life which they led together:--
“As we were going along, we were stopped at once, at the distance, perhaps of fifty yards from our favourite birch-tree; it was yielding to the 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 a stem and branches, but it was like a spirit of water....
When we were in the woods before 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.”
The poet was frequently indebted to this beautiful sister for the _material_ of his poems; and many of the minor pieces are a musical transformation of her descriptions of natural scenery, and the feelings with which she beheld it. The poem of “The Beggars” is an instance of this; and if the reader will peruse “The Daffodils,” and compare it with Miss Wordsworth’s description of these fair flowers, as quoted above, he will perhaps discover how much the poet is indebted to her, in this instance also. Here is the poem.
“I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o’er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of _golden daffodils_, Beside the lake, beneath the trees, _Fluttering and dancing in the breeze_.
Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretch’d in never ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they Outdid the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but feel gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed--and gazed--but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought.
For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant, or in passive mood, _They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude_; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.”
In writing to his friends the Wranghams, November 4, 1802, Wordsworth, after thanking them for their good opinion of this poem, alludes to “Butler, Montague’s friend,” as having said of it (the poem,) “Aye, a fine morsel this for the reviewers,”--and adds, “When this was told me (for I was not present) I observed that there were _two lines_ in that little poem, which, if thoroughly felt, would annihilate nine-tenths of the reviews of the kingdom, as they would find no readers. The lines I alluded to were these--
‘They flash upon that inward eye, Which is the bliss of solitude.’”
And, now, I will make a few quotations from Miss Wordsworth’s journal:--
“1802. Wednesday, April 28.--Copied the ‘Prioress’ Tale.’ W. in the orchard tired. I happened to say, that when a child, I would not have pulled a strawberry blossom; left him, and wrote out the ‘Manciples’ Tale.’ At dinner he came in with the poem on children gathering flowers [the poem entitled ‘Foresight’].
“April 20.--We went into the orchard after breakfast, and sat there. The lake calm; sky cloudy. W. began poem on the “Celandine.”
“May 1.--Sowed flower seeds; W. helped me. We sat in the orchard. W. wrote the ‘Celandine.’ Planned an arbour,--the sun too hot for us.
“May 7.--W. wrote ‘The Leech Gatherer.’
“May 21.--W. wrote two sonnets, ‘On Buonaparte,’ after I had read Milton’s sonnets to him.
“May 29.--W. wrote his poem “On going to M. H.” I wrote it out.
“June 8.--W. wrote the poem ‘The sun has long been set.’
“June 17.--W. added to the ‘Ode’ he is writing [‘On the Immortality of the Soul’].
“June 19.--Read Churchill’s ‘Rosciad.’
“July 9.--W. and I set forth to Keswick, on our road to Gallow Hill (to the Hutchinsons’, near Malton, York). On Monday, the 11th, went to Eusemere (the Clarksons’). 13th, walked to Emont Bridge, thence by Greta Bridge. The sun shone cheerfully, and a glorious ride we had over the moors; every building bathed in golden light; we saw round us miles beyond miles, Darlington spire, &c. Thence to Thirsk; on foot to the Hamilton Hills--Rivaux. I went down to look at the ruins; thrushes singing, cattle feeding amongst the ruins of the abbey; green hillocks about the ruins--these hillocks scattered over with grovelets of wild roses, and covered with wild flowers: could have staid in this green quiet spot till evening, without a thought of moving, but W. was waiting for me....
July 30.--Left London between five and six o’clock of the morning, outside the Dover coach. A beautiful morning. The city, St. Paul’s, with the river--a multitude of little boats--made a beautiful sight, as we crossed Westminster Bridge [Wordsworth’s sonnet “On Westminster Bridge” was written on the roof of the Dover coach]; the houses, not overhung by their clouds of smoke, were spread out endlessly; yet the sun shone so brightly, with such a pure light, that there was something like the purity of one of Nature’s own grand spectacles.... Arrived at Calais at four in the morning of July 31st.
Delightful walks in the evening; seeing far off in the west the coast of England, like a cloud, crested with Dover Castle, the evening star, and the glory of the sky: the reflections in the water were more beautiful than the sky itself; purple waves, brighter than precious stones, for ever melting away on the sands.