Wordsworth 
 
i 
 
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 DOROTHY WORDSWORTH. 
 



Dorothy Wordsworth 
 
 THE STORY OF A SISTERS LOVE . 
 
 EDMUND LEE. 
 
 NEW AND REVISED EDITION. WITH PORTRAIT. 
 
 ILotttJon : 
 
 JAMES CLARKE & CO., 13 & 14, FLEET STREET. 
 

 P Rs'g-z^ 
 
 . U Hr7 / 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 W. SPEAIGHT AND SONS, PRINTERS, 
 FETTER LANE. 
 
 bbkton college library 
 chestnut hill, m - 
 
 284794 
 
TO 
 
 MISS QUILLINAN, 
 
 A STRONG LINK 
 
 BETWEEN THE PAST AND PRESENT GENERATIONS 
 OF THE FAMILY OF WHICH 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth 
 
 WAS SUCH A DISTINGUISHED ORNAMENT, 
 THIS LITTLE WORK WAS (BY PERMISSION) 
 GRATEFULLY INSCRIBED. 
 
 Jemima Katherine Quillinan, 
 Died January 28 , 1891 . 
 

PREFACE TO NEW EDITION. 
 
 NEW Edition of this little work having been 
 
 jljl called for, I have endeavoured by availing 
 myself of further information which has come to my 
 knowledge to make it more complete and worthy of 
 its subject. Some of the chapters have been almost 
 re-written. 
 
 I have to acknowledge the great kindness with 
 which my inquiries have been received by members of 
 the Wordsworth family and others. Especially I am 
 indebted to the late Rev. Dr. Sadler for the means 
 of access to the letters of Dorothy Wordsworth to 
 Henry Crabb Robinson, and to Mr. F. L. Hutchins 
 for permission to use the letters to John Kenyon. 
 
 I ought also to record my grateful appreciation of 
 the manner in which the first edition was received by 
 the Press. Both in this country and in America its 
 reception was remarkably cordial, and, as regards my 
 own part in it, far in excess of its merits. 
 
 Since the publication of that edition, the exhaustive 
 “ Life of Wordsworth,” by Professor Knight, has been 
 issued. For obvious reasons not much use of that 
 Avork can now be made ; but readers who have access 
 to it will there find copious extract from the journals 
 of Dorothy Wordsworth during many years, not other- 
 wise available. 
 
viii Preface to New Edition. 
 
 The portrait affixed to this edition is from an old, 
 and now rare, print in my possession. I believe it 
 represents Miss Wordsworth at about 60 years of 
 age. 
 
 EDMUND LEE. 
 
 Rydal Bank, 
 
 Heaton, Bradford, 
 April , 1894. 
 
PREFACE TO FIRST EDITION. 
 
 HIS little book owes its origin to the fact that. 
 
 -L with the exception of Professor Shairp’s Sketch 
 contained in the preface to the “ Tour in Scotland,” no 
 biography or memoir of the subject of it has hitherto 
 been written. Seeing what an important part Miss 
 Wordsworth occupied in influencing the revival of 
 English poetry at the close of the last century, this has 
 frequently been to me a matter of surprise. To the 
 best of my knowledge, she does not even occupy any 
 place in the numerous sketches of famous women which 
 have from time to time appeared. At the same time, 
 the references to her in the biographies of her brother 
 and in the reviews of his works are many. 
 
 My main object in the present work has been, so far 
 as permissible, to gather together into the form of a 
 Memoir of her life various allusions to Miss Words- 
 worth, together with such further particulars as might 
 be procurable, and with some reflections to which such 
 a life gives rise. My task has, therefore, been one of a 
 compiler rather than an author. 
 
 I acknowledge my great indebtedness to all sources 
 from whence information has been obtained. In 
 addition to the authorities after mentioned, I desire 
 especially to mention the kindness of Dr. Sadler for his 
 permission to reprint the letters of Miss Wordsworth to 
 
X 
 
 Preface to First Edition. 
 
 the late Mr. Henry Crabb Robinson, published in his 
 “ Diary and Reminiscences ” ; and of Mr. F. W. H. 
 Myers for the like permission to make use of some 
 letters which for the first time appeared in his “ Words- 
 worth.” 
 
 However far I have failed in my original design, and 
 however imperfectly I may have performed my self- 
 appointed task of love, it cannot be doubted that no 
 name can more fittingly have a place in female 
 biography than that of Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 Bradford, 1886. 
 
CONTENTS, 
 
 PAGE 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 •Childhood and Early Life . . . . . 1 
 
 The Hope Realised— 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 -Racedown and Alfoxden . . 15 
 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Residence at Alfoxden — Removal to Grasmere . . 27 
 
 The Lake District- 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 43 
 
 Life at Grasmere 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 56 
 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 E urther Communion — Life at Grasmere . . .67 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Some Memorial Nooks — Lancrigg Wood — Emma’s Dell — 
 William’s Peak — Point Rash Judgment — Rock of 
 Names ....... 77 
 
 The Circle Widened- 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 —Mrs. Wordsworth . . .87 
 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Tour in Scotland — Miss Wordsworth’s Journal . . 97 
 
xii Contents. 
 
 CHAPTER X. page 
 
 Capt. Wordsworth — De Quincey — His Description of 
 
 Miss W ordsworth . 116 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Miss Wordsworth at Coleorton — Allan Bank — The Par- 
 sonage — Death of Two of Wordsworth’s Children . 129 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Rydal Mount — Dora Wordsworth .... 142 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Friendships — Tour on Continent — Correspondence . 149 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Correspondence with Henry Crabb Robinson . . 167 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Illness — Further Correspondence— Later Incidents . 191 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 The Shadows Thicken — The Long Twilight . . 205 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Concluding Remarks— A Quiet Resting-place . . 219 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Miss Wordsworth’s Poems ..... 231 
 
 APPENDIX I. 240 
 
 APPENDIX II 241 
 
" Only a sister’s part — yes, that was all ; 
 
 And yet her life was bright, and full, and free. 
 
 She did not feel, f I give up all for him ; 9 
 She only knew, f ’Tis mine his friend to be/ 
 
 “ So what she saw and felt the poet sang — 
 
 She did not seek the world should know her share ; 
 Her one great hunger was for * William’s ’ fame. 
 
 To give his thoughts a voice her life-long prayer. 
 
 “ And when with wife and child his days were crowned 
 She did not feel that she was left alone. 
 
 Glad in their joy, she shared their every care, 
 
 And only thought of baby as f our own/ 
 
 “ His f dear, dear sister/ that was all she asked. 
 
 Her gentle ministry, her only fame ; 
 
 But when we read his page with grateful heart. 
 Between the lines we’ll spell out Dora’s name.” 
 
 — Anon, in The Spectator. 
 

On Reading Miss Wordsworth’s Recollections of a Journey in 
 Scotland , in 1803, with her Brother and Coleridge. 
 
 “ I close the book, I shut my eyes, 
 
 1 see the Three before me rise, — 
 
 Loving sister, famous brother, 
 
 Each one mirrored in the other ; 
 
 Brooding William, artless Dora, 
 
 Who was to her very core a 
 Lover of dear Nature's face. 
 
 In its perfect loveliness, — ■ 
 
 Lover of her glens and flowers. 
 
 Of her sunlit clouds and showers. 
 
 Of her hills and of her streams. 
 
 Of her moonlight — when she dreams ; 
 
 Of her tears and of her smiles. 
 
 Of her quaint delicious wiles ; 
 
 Telling what best pleasures lie 
 In the loving, unspoiled eye. 
 
 In the reverential heart. 
 
 That in great Nature sees God's art. 
 
 44 And him — the man 4 of large discourse,' 
 
 Of pregnant thought, of critic force. 
 
 That grey-eyed sage, who was not wise 
 In wisdom that in doing lies. 
 
 But who had 4 thoughts that wander through 
 Eternity,' — the old and new. 
 
 Who, when he rises on our sight. 
 
 Spite of his failings, shines all bright. 
 
 With something of an angel-light. 
 
 44 We close the book with thankful heart. 
 
 Father of Lights, to Thee, who art 
 Of every good and perfect gift 
 The Giver, — unto Thee we lift 
 Our souls in prayer, that all may see 
 Thy hand. Thy heart, in all they see.'' 
 
 — Anon, in The Spectator. 
 

DOROTHY WORDSWORTH. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Childhood and Early Life. 
 
 D orothy wordsworth was the only 
 
 daughter and third child of John and Anne 
 Wordsworth. She was born on Christmas Day, 1771, 
 at Cockermouth, in Cumberland, being a year and nine 
 months younger than her famous brother, the poet. 
 John Wordsworth, the father, was an attorney-at-law, 
 who had attained considerable success in his profession, 
 and was the legal agent of the then Earl of Lonsdale, 
 in an old manor house belonging to whose family he 
 resided. Mrs. Wordsworth was, on the maternal side, 
 descended from an old and distinguished family. She 
 was the only daughter of William Cookson, of Penrith, 
 who had married Dorothy Crackenthorp, whose family, 
 we are informed, had, since the early part of the 
 fourteenth century, resided at ISTewbiggen Hall, West- 
 moreland. The Wordsworths themselves traced their 
 descent from a Yorkshire family of that name who had 
 settled in the county about the time of the Horman 
 Conquest. 
 
 Dorothy had the misfortune to lose her excellent 
 
 1 
 
9 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 mother when she was a little more than six years old. 
 After this great loss her father’s health declined, and 
 having on one occasion lost his way on the moor 
 between Broughton and Cockermouth, and being 
 obliged to remain out all night, he caught a cold, from 
 the effects of which he was cut off in what ought to 
 have been the strength of his manhood. Dorothy was 
 thus left an orphan at the early age of twelve. 
 
 We cannot doubt that for the qualities of mind and 
 heart which distinguished her she was, in common with 
 the other members of her family — her four brothers, 
 who all won for themselves successful careers— indebted 
 to her parenthood, and especially to her mother, of 
 whom the poet says : — 
 
 “ She was the heart 
 
 And hinge of all our learning and our loves.” 
 
 The beauty and gentleness of disposition by which, in 
 after years, Dorothy Wordsworth developed into such a 
 perfect woman were not absent in her early childhood. 
 Although we know so little of this period, we have 
 abundant testimony that as a child she was fittingly 
 named, and that the life of ministry of this Gift of God 
 to her brother then began. We can well imagine how 
 the little dark-eyed brunette, sparkling and impulsive 
 damsel as she was, and the only girl in the family, be- 
 came the darling of the circle. In after years, when 
 her favourite and famous brother had entered on the 
 career which she helped so much to stimulate and to 
 perfect, we find in his poems many allusions to her, as 
 well in her prattling childhood as in her mature years. 
 
Childhood and Early Life. 
 
 3 
 
 Behind the house in which they were born, and in 
 which their early childhood was passed, is a large, old- 
 fashioned garden, just below which flows the river 
 Derwent, of which the poet says : — 
 
 “ One, the fairest of all rivers, loved 
 To blend his murmurs with my nurse’s song, 
 
 And from his fords and shallows sent a voice 
 That flowed along my dreams.” 
 
 This garden, and the pleasant terrace walk at the 
 bottom, we cannot doubt were the scene of many a 
 ramble and childish game and confidence in those early 
 days. Many years after, wdien the poet had attained to 
 the full maturity of his powers, the sight of a butterfly 
 calls to his mind the plea sures of the early home when he 
 and his little playmate “ together chased the butterfly.” 
 The kindness of her child heart is told in a few expressive 
 words. He says : — 
 
 “ Stay near me — do not take thy flight ! 
 
 A little longer stay in sight ! 
 
 Much converse do I find in thee, 
 
 Historian of my infancy ! 
 
 Float near me ; do not yet depart ! 
 
 Dead times revive in thee ; 
 
 Thou brings’t, gay creature as thou art ! 
 
 A solemn image to my heart, 
 
 My Father’s family ! 
 
 “ Oh ! pleasant, pleasant were the days, 
 
 The time, when, in our childish plays, 
 
4 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 My sister Emmeline and I 
 Together chased the butterfly ! 
 
 A very hunter did I rush 
 Upon the prey : — with leaps and springs 
 I followed on from brake to bush ; 
 
 But she — God love her ! — -feared to brush 
 The dust from off its wings” 
 
 The sight of a sparrow’s nest, in after days, also 
 served to bring to the poet’s remembrance his father’s 
 home and his sister’s love. The “ bright blue eggs ” 
 appeared to him “a vision of delight.” In them he 
 saw another sparrow’s nest, in the years gone by daily 
 visited in company with his little sister. 
 
 “ Behold, within that leafy shade, 
 
 Those bright blue eggs together laid ! 
 
 On me the chance-discovered sight 
 Gleamed like a vision of delight. 
 
 I started, seeming to espy 
 The home and sheltered bed, 
 
 The Sparrow’s dwelling, which, hard by 
 My Father’s house, in wet or dry, 
 
 My sister Emmeline and I 
 Together visited. 
 
 She looked at it and seemed to fear it, 
 Dreading, though wishing, to be near it : 
 
 Such heart was in her, being then 
 A little Prattler among men. 
 
 The Blessing of my later years 
 Was with me when a boy : 
 
Childhood and Early Life. 
 
 5 
 
 She gave me eyes, she gave me ears ; 
 
 And humble cares, and delicate fears ; 
 
 A heart, the fountain of sweet tears, 
 
 And love, and thought, and joy.” 
 
 It is to her early thoughtfulness that the poet 
 alludes in another poem having reference to the same 
 period. In this poem he represents his sister and her 
 young playfellows gathering spring flowers, and thus 
 records her prudent “ Foresight ” : — 
 
 “ Here are daisies, take your fill ; 
 
 Pansies, and the cuckoo-flower : 
 
 Of the lofty daffodil 
 
 Make your bed or make your bower ; 
 
 Fill your lap and fill your bosom ; 
 
 Only spare the strawberry-blossom ! 
 
 # # # # * 
 
 G-od has given a kindlier power 
 
 To the favoured strawberry-flower. 
 
 Hither soon as spring is fled 
 
 You and Charles and I will walk ; 
 
 Lurking berries, ripe and red, 
 
 Then will hang on every stalk, 
 
 Each within the leafy bower ; 
 
 And for that promise spare the flower ! ” 
 
 An incident showing the tender sensibility of 
 Dorothy’s nature when a child is also deserving of 
 special mention. In a note to the “ Second Evening 
 Voluntary,” Wordsworth says : “My sister, when she 
 first heard the voice of the sea from this point (the 
 
6 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 high ground on the coast of Cumberland overlooking 
 Whitehaven and the sea beyond it) and beheld the 
 sea spread before her, burst into tears. Our family 
 then lived at Cockermouth, and this fact was often 
 mentioned among us as indicating the sensibility for 
 which she was so remarkable.” 
 
 The death of their mother in 1778 was, however, the 
 signal for separation. Her brother William was sent to 
 school at Hawkshead, in North Lancashire, when only in 
 his ninth year. Dorothy had been commended by her 
 dying mother to the care of a cousin, Miss Thelkeld, who 
 afterwards became Mrs. Eawson, of Mill House, Halifax ; 
 but for some years she resided chiefly with her maternal 
 grandparents at Penrith. This life of Dorothy at 
 Penrith, extending over a period of about ten years, 
 does not seem to have been in any sense a happy time. 
 She was there dependent upon the care of unsym- 
 pathetic and uncongenial relatives, who would willingly 
 have been spared the trouble imposed upon them. The 
 sensitive and impassioned child felt keenly the loss of 
 her parents and home. She was, of course, sent to 
 school for some years ; but even her education does not 
 seem to have been sufficiently cared for ; and when in 
 her early teens, she was expected to work in the shop 
 kept by her grandparents. These matters were fre- 
 quently referred to by Dorothy in letters to her early 
 friend, Miss Pollard, afterwards Mrs. Marshall. 
 Writing in 1787, she mentions the difficulties under 
 which she was studying French and English, and says 
 it was only by working particularly hard for one hour 
 that she could manage “ to read the next without being 
 
Childhood and Early Life. 
 
 7 
 
 discovered.” That she was fully alive to the improve- 
 ment of her mind is quite evident. In the same letter, 
 after mentioning several books sent her by her brothers, 
 she says : “ I rise pretty early in the morning, so I hope 
 in time to have perused them all. I am at present at the 
 Iliad, and like it very much ... I wear my hair curled 
 about my face in light curls frizzled at the bottom.” 
 
 This period of Dorothy’s life was, however, varied 
 and lightened by lengthened visits to Mill House, 
 where she afterwards for a further period took up her 
 abode. Her brother William left Hawkshead and 
 went to Cambridge in 1787. We gather from a refer- 
 ence in the Prelude to one of his midsummer Yacations 
 (presumably that of 1788) that Dorothy was then still 
 at Penrith : — 
 
 “ In summer, making quest for works of art, 
 
 Or scenes renowned for beauty, I explored 
 That streamlet whose blue current works its way 
 Between romantic Dovedale’s spiry rocks ; 
 
 Pried into Yorkshire dales, or hidden tracts 
 
 Of my own native region, and was blest 
 
 Between these sundry wanderings with a joy 
 
 Above all joys, that seemed another morn 
 
 Risen on mid noon ; blest with the presence, Friend, 
 
 Of that sole Sister 
 
 Now, after separation desolate, 
 
 Restored to me — such absence that she seemed 
 A gift then first bestowed.” 
 
 It is here we also have a first glimpse of one after- 
 wards destined to hold such a large share in the hearts 
 
8 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 of both William and Dorothy — for Mary Hutchinson, 
 who afterwards became the poet’s wife, was also 
 Dorothy’s early friend : — 
 
 “ Another maid there was, who also shed 
 A gladness o’er that season, then to me, 
 
 By her exulting outside look of youth 
 And placid under-countenance first endeared ; 
 
 That other spirit, Coleridge ! who is now 
 So near to us, that meek, confiding heart, 
 
 So reverenced by us both.” 
 
 Shortly after this, however, we find Dorothy residing 
 at Forncett, near Norfolk, with an uncle, Dr. Cookson, 
 Canon of Windsor. At this change in her life she was, 
 as she expresses it, “ almost mad with joy.” Here her 
 life was bright, happy, and useful. Although her 
 friends would gladly have exempted her from any kind 
 :>f work, she preferred, from her activity of mind and 
 independence of spirit, to be doing something for her- 
 self. She accordingly started, and for some time kept, 
 a little school, her uncle allowing her to receive her 
 pupils at his house. 
 
 During the last of his college vacations — that of the 
 year 1790, so remarkable in French history — Words- 
 worth made a three months’ tour on the Continent with 
 a friend, Mr. Robert Jones. Writing to his sister, then 
 budding into womanhood, from the Lake of Constance, 
 a fine description of the scenery through which they 
 were passing, he says : “I have thought of you per- 
 petually ; and never have my eyes rested upon a scene 
 of great loveliness, but I have almost instantly wished 
 
Childhood and Early Life. 
 
 9 
 
 that you could for a moment be transported to the 
 place where I stood to enjoy it. I have been more 
 particularly induced to form those wishes, because the 
 scenes of Switzerland have no resemblance to any I 
 have found in England ; consequently it may probably 
 never be in your power to form an idea of them.” And 
 he concludes by saying: “ I must now bid you adieu, with 
 assuring you that you are perpetually in my thoughts.” 
 
 Wordsworth took his degree, and left Cambridge in 
 1791. Being undecided as to his future occupation, he 
 spent the succeeding twelve months in France. His 
 life for some time was of a wandering and uncertain 
 character. He has himself stated that he was once told 
 by an intimate friend of his mother’s that she had said 
 the only one of her five children about whose future 
 life she was anxious was William ; and he, she said, 
 would be remarkable either for good or for evil. 
 
 Wordsworth’s experience of the French Revolution 
 was far from being happy. His expectations were ruth- 
 lessly disappointed. With his ardent spirit he could 
 not be an unconcerned observer of the stirring events 
 which then agitated that ill-fated country. He had 
 bright hopes of great results from the Revolution — of 
 signal benefits to mankind. How bitterly he was disap- 
 pointed we learn something from “ The Prelude.” The 
 awful scenes of the time of blood and terror which fol- 
 lowed were so deeply imaged on his mind, that for years 
 afterwards they haunted his dreams, and he seemed 
 
 “ To hear a voice that cried 
 ’ To the whole city, sleep no more.” 
 
10 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 Fortunately for him, he was obliged to return home, 
 led, as he afterwards acknowledged, “ by the gracious 
 Providence of heaven.” 
 
 It was now quite time that Wordsworth should 
 determine upon his future career ; and this important 
 subject seems to have occasioned some anxiety amongst 
 his friends. His father, having been taken away in the 
 prime of life, had not been able to make much provision 
 for his children, especially as a considerable sum which 
 had been due to him from the Earl of Lonsdale re- 
 mained unpaid. It had been intended that, after leaving 
 the University, Wordsworth should enter the Church. 
 To this, however, he had conscientious objections. 
 On other grounds the profession of the law was equally 
 distasteful to him. His three brothers had chosen their 
 pursuits, in which they all lived to distinguish them- 
 selves ; but the one who was destined to be the greatest 
 of them all, we find at the age of twenty-three still 
 undetermined as to his future course of life. He had, 
 indeed, at an early age, begun to write some of his 
 earlier poems, to which, it is worthy of remark, he was 
 incited and encouraged by his sister. Among other 
 pieces, his “ Evening Walk,” addressed to his sister, had 
 been composed when, at school and during his college 
 vacations, he had been “ far from that dearest friend.” 
 
 However much Wordsworth’s relatives and friends 
 generally may have been disappointed in his want of 
 decision, Dorothy’s confidence in him and her love to 
 him never wavered. In a letter written to Miss 
 Pollard, the dear friend of her early days, dated 
 February, 1792, she says, speaking of her brothers 
 
Childhood and Early Life. 
 
 11 
 
 Christopher and William : “ Christopher is steady and 
 sincere in his attachments. William has both these 
 virtues in an eminent degree, and a sort of violence of 
 affection — if I may so term it — which demonstrates, 
 itself every moment of the day, when the objects of his 
 affection are present with him, in a thousand almost im- 
 perceptible attentions to their wishes, in a sort of rest- 
 less watchfulness which I know not how to describe, a, 
 tenderness that never sleeps, and, at the same time, 
 such a delicacy of manner as I have observed in few 
 men.” Again, writing in June, 1792, to the same friend, 
 she says : “ I have strolled into a neighbouring meadow, 
 where I am enjoying the melody of birds and the busy 
 sounds of a fine summer’s evening. But, oh ! how 
 imperfect is my pleasure whilst I am alone ! Why are 
 you not seated with me ? And my dear William — why is 
 he not here also ? I could almost fancy that I see you 
 both near me. I hear you point out a spot, where, if 
 we could erect a little cottage and call it our own, we 
 should be the happiest of human beings. I see my 
 brother fired with the idea of leading his sister to such 
 a retreat. Our parlour is in a moment furnished ; our 
 garden is adorned by magic ; the roses and honey- 
 suckles spring at our command ; the wood behind the 
 house lifts its head, and furnishes us with a winter’s 
 shelter and a summer’s noonday shade. My dear friend, 
 I trust that ere long you will be, without the aid of 
 imagination, the companion of my walks, and my dear 
 William may be of our party. . . . He is now going 
 
 upon a tour in the West of England with a gentleman 
 who was formerly a schoolfellow — a man of fortune. 
 
12 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 who is to bear all the expenses of the journey, and only 
 requests the favour of William’s company. He is 
 perfectly at liberty to quit this companion as soon as 
 anything more advantageous offers. But it is enough 
 to say that I am likely to have the happiness of intro- 
 ducing you to my beloved brother. You must forgive 
 me for talking so much of him. My affection hurries 
 me on, and makes me forget that you cannot be so 
 much interested in the subject as I am. You do not 
 know him ; you do not know how amiable he is. 
 Perhaps you may reply : 4 But I know how blinded you 
 are.’ Well, my dearest, I plead guilty at once ; I must 
 be blind; he cannot be so pleasing as my fondness 
 makes him. I am willing to allow that half the virtues 
 with which I fancy him endowed are the creation of my 
 love ; but surely I may be excused ! He was never 
 afraid of comforting his sister; he never left her in 
 anger; he always met her with joy; he preferred her 
 society to every other pleasure — or, rather, when we 
 were so happy as to be within each other’s reach, he 
 had no pleasure when we were compelled to be divided. 
 Do not, then, expect too much from this brother, of 
 whom I have delighted so to talk to you. In the first 
 place, you must be with him more than once before he 
 will be perfectly easy in conversation. In the second 
 place, his person is not in his favour — at least, I should 
 think not — but I soon ceased to discover this ; nay, I 
 almost thought that the opinion I had formed was 
 erroneous. He is, however, certainly rather plain, 
 though otherwise has an extremely thoughtful counten- 
 ance ; but when he speaks, it is often lighted up by a 
 
Childhood and Early Life. 
 
 IB 
 
 smile which I think very pleasing. But enough, he is 
 my brother ; why should I describe him ? I shall be 
 launching again into panegyric.” Again she says : 
 “ William writes to me regularly, and is a most 
 affectionate brother.” 
 
 It is gratifying to know that this warm attachment of 
 Miss Wordsworth to her brother was at all times 
 returned. In the year 1793, when they were discussing 
 the means of realising their cherished idea of retiring to 
 their little cottage, Wordsworth writes: “How much do 
 I wish that each emotion of pleasure or pain within me, 
 by that sympathy which will almost identify us when 
 we have stolen to our little cottage. ... I will write 
 to my uncle, and tell him I cannot think of going any- 
 where before I have been with you. Whatever answer 
 he gives me, I certainly will make a point of once more 
 mingling my transports with yours. Alas ! my dear 
 sister, how soon must this happiness expire ; yet there 
 are moments worth ages.” Again he says : “ Oh, my 
 dear, dear sister, with what transport shall I again meet 
 you ! with what rapture shall I again wear out the day 
 in your sight ! . . . I see you in a moment running, 
 
 or rather flying to my arms.” 
 
 In the early part of 1794, having still no fixed 
 residence, we find Wordsworth staying at Halifax, as 
 well as his sister. Writing in February of that year to 
 a friend, he says : “ My sister is under the same roof 
 with me ; indeed, it was to see her that I came into the 
 country. I have been doing nothing, and still continue 
 to do nothing. What is to become of me I know not.” 
 About this time the brother and sister together made a 
 
14 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 tour in the Lake District. She writes : “ After having 
 enjoyed the company of my brother William at Halifax, 
 we set forward by coach towards Whitehaven, and 
 thence to Kendal. I walked, with my brother at my 
 side, from Kendal to Grasmere, eighteen miles, and 
 afterwards from Grasmere to Keswick, fifteen miles, 
 through the most delightful country that was ever seen. 
 We are now at a farmhouse about half a mile from 
 Keswick. When I came I intended to stay only a few 
 days ; but the country is so delightful, and, above all, I 
 have so full an enjoyment of my brother’s company, 
 that I have determined to stay a few weeks longer.” 
 
 In his uncertainty of mind Wordsworth projected the 
 publishing of a periodical, and afterwards contributing 
 to the London Newspaper Press. That the latter 
 scheme was not put into practice was owing to the fact 
 that just at this time an incident occurred which had a 
 large influence upon, if it did not indeed determine, the 
 future course of the lives of both brother and sister. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 The Hope Realised — Racedown and Alfoxden. 
 0 all lovers of Wordsworth it is well known how, 
 
 A while he was yet undecided as to his future call- 
 ing, he went to nurse a young friend named Raisley 
 Calvert, who was afflicted with a malady which threatened 
 to prove fatal, and by whose side he felt it his duty to 
 remain. After a protracted illness his friend died, and 
 bequeathed him a legacy of c£900. It is probable that 
 in this generous act, to which Wordsworth has more 
 than once recorded his indebtedness, Mr. Calvert was 
 actuated by mixed motives : that it was to be regarded 
 not only as an expression of gratitude, but that he also 
 perceived in his friend talents which others were slow 
 to recognise, and desired thus to provide him with the 
 means of devoting himself, at any rate for a time, to 
 the pursuit of poetry. However this may be, the 
 incident cannot but be regarded as a link in the chain 
 of providential circumstances which combined to 
 prepare the poet for his future high calling. Having 
 thus obtained the means of livelihood for a few years, 
 one of their cherished hopes was realised. His child- 
 hood’s playmate became his constant and lifelong com- 
 panion, devoting herself to him and his interests and 
 aims as only a noble woman could have done. 
 
16 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 At what a critical time Dorothy Wordsworth thus 
 entered more closely into the life of her brother we 
 learn from his biography, as well as from his works. 
 Dejected and despondent by reason of the scenes of 
 which he had been an eyewitness in France, and the 
 dark days which followed, Wordsworth was at this time 
 greatly in danger of becoming misanthropic, and of giv- 
 ing way to a melancholy which might have coloured all 
 his life, and deprived his works of the healthful and 
 educating influence which they breathe. All disappoint- 
 ment and sorrow may become the precursor of blessing, 
 the mother of a great hope. It is the bruised herb 
 that exudes its fragrance ; the broken heart that, when 
 bound, pulsates most truly. It was a saying of G-oethe 
 that he never had an affliction which did not turn into 
 a poem. But disappointment may also be the parent 
 of gloom, and pave the way to a spirit of morose indiffer- 
 ence. At such junctures a life may, by the skilful 
 leading of a wise affection, be saved for beauty and 
 happiness, for greater good and more exalted attainment 
 and enjoyment, by reason of the very sorrow which, 
 unhallowed, would have plunged it into bitterness. 
 
 However much Wordsworth’s goodness of heart and 
 ardent love of Nature helped to protect him, it was at 
 this critical period that he was chiefly indebted to the 
 soothing and cheering power of his sister for uplifting 
 him from the gloom which had gathered around him, 
 and for restoring and maintaining that equable frame of 
 mind which from thenceforth unvaryingly characterised 
 him. Her clear insight and womanly instinct at this 
 time saw deeper into the sources of real satisfaction ; 
 
The Hope Realised. 
 
 17 
 
 and her helpful and healing sympathy came to his aid. 
 By her all-absorbing and controlling influence she led 
 him from the distracting cares of political agitation to 
 those more elevating and satisfying influences which an 
 ardent and contemplative love of Nature and poetry 
 cultivate, and which sweet and kindred human affections 
 strengthen and develop. It remained for Dorothy, if 
 not to awaken, to draw out and stimulate her brother’s 
 better nature, to deaden what was unworthy, and to 
 encourage, by tender care and patient endeavour, that 
 higher life towards which his k mind and soul were 
 turned. She became, and for many years continued to 
 be, the loadstar of his existence, and affords one of the 
 most pleasing instances of sisterly devotion and fidelity 
 on record. In her brother was verified the poet’s 
 prophecy : — 
 
 “ True heart and shining star shall guide thee right.” 
 
 Well was it for Wordsworth, and for us, that he had 
 a sister, and that it was to this brother — one after her 
 own heart — she at this juncture devoted herself. In 
 this we may see another of the providential circum- 
 stances that beset the career of Wordsworth. As 
 Spenser says : — 
 
 “ It chanced — - 
 
 Eternal God that chance did guide.” 
 
 Writing of Dorothy at this time, her nephew, the 
 late Bishop of Lincoln, says : “ She was endowed with 
 tender sensibility, with an exquisite perception of 
 beauty, with a retentive recollection of what she saw, 
 with a felicitous tact in discerning and admirable skill 
 in delineating natural objects with graphic accuracy 
 
 2 
 
18 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 and vivid gracefulness. She weaned him from contem- 
 porary politics, and won him to beauty and truth.” 
 
 As has been well said : # “ Depressed and bewil- 
 dered, he turned to abstract science, and was beginning 
 to torment his mind with fresh problems, when, after 
 his long voyage through unknown seas in search of 
 Utopia, with sails full set and without compass or 
 rudder, his sister came to his aid, and conducted 
 him back to the quiet harbour from which he started. 
 His visits to her had latterly been short and far 
 between, until his brightening fortunes enabled them 
 to indulge the wish of their hearts to live together, 
 and then she convinced him that he was born to be 
 a poet, and had no call to lose himself in the end- 
 less labyrinth of theoretical puzzles. The calm of a 
 home would alone have done much towards sobering 
 his mind. While he roamed restlessly about the world 
 he was drawn in by every eddy, and obeyed the influ- 
 ence of every wind ; but when once he had escaped from 
 the turmoil, into the pure and peaceful pleasures of 
 domestic existence, he felt the vanity and vexation of 
 his previous course.” 
 
 Wordsworth himself, afterwards writing of this same 
 period of his life, says : — 
 
 “ Depressed, bewildered thus, I did not walk 
 With scoffers, seeking light and gay revenge 
 From indiscriminate laughter, nor sit down 
 In reconcilement with an utter waste 
 Of intellect. 
 
 # & # * # # 
 
 * Quarterly Review . 
 
The Hope Realised. 
 
 19 
 
 Then it was — 
 
 Thanks to the bounteous Griver of all good! — 
 
 That the beloved sister in whose sight 
 Those days were passed, now speaking in a voice 
 Of sudden admonition — like a brook 
 That did but cross a lonely road, now 
 Is seen, heard, felt, and caught at every turn, 
 Companion never lost through many a league — 
 Maintain’d for me a saving intercourse 
 With my true self ; for, though bedimmed and 
 changed 
 
 Much, as it seemed, I was no further changed 
 Than as a clouded, and a waning moon ; 
 
 She whispered still that brightness would return. 
 
 She in the midst of all preserved me still 
 A poet ; made me seek beneath that name, 
 
 And that alone, my office upon earth.” 
 
 This “ office upon earth ” having now been re- 
 cognised, Wordsworth and his sister, in the autumn 
 of 1795, settled for a time at Racedown Lodge 
 in Dorsetshire. From this time forth, amid all the 
 changes of fortune and condition, they were close and 
 life-long companions. 
 
 However great may have been her influence upon 
 him previously, it now became a moulding and 
 educating power. They were both in the strength 
 of their youth — that time of radiant enjoyment — 
 bound not only by that most endearing of natural 
 ties, but by tastes, aims, and hopes most singularly 
 mutual. The close association of daily intercourse and 
 
20 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 community of thought, together with a thorough sym- 
 pathy, seemed now, as only an ardent enthusiasm and 
 devoted love of kindred objects can do, to cement their 
 lives. In this their first home, the only one which they 
 had really known since childhood, and to which they 
 had so longingly looked forward, they were all in all to 
 each other. Separation from the busy world, and from 
 society, was no hardship to them, so long as they were 
 uninterrupted in the society of each other, and in the 
 pursuits they loved. Though in a part of the country 
 then so remote that they had only a post once a week, 
 they went into raptures over their lot. The house 
 which they temporarily occupied was, we are informed, 
 pretty well stocked with books, and they were indus- 
 trious in both indoor and outdoor occupations. They 
 read, and thought, and talked together, rambling 
 through the lovely combs, and by the ever-changing 
 sea. “ My brother,” she says, “ handles the spade 
 with great dexterity,” while she herself was engaged in 
 reading Italian authors. 
 
 A writer in Blackwood* a few years ago, referring to 
 Dorothy at this time, says : “ She had been separated 
 from her brother since their childhood, and now at the 
 first moment when their re-union was possible, seems 
 to have rushed to him with all the impetuosity of 
 her nature. Without taking his sister into con- 
 sideration, no just estimate can be formed of Words- 
 worth. He was, as it were, henceforward, the spokes- 
 man to the world of two souls. It was not that she 
 visibly or consciously aided and stimulated him, but 
 * Mrs. Oliphant. 
 
The Hope Realised. 
 
 21 
 
 that she was him — a second pair of eyes to see, a second 
 and more delicate intuition to discern, a second heart 
 to enter into all that came before their mutual observa- 
 tion. This union was so close, that in many instances 
 it becomes difficult to discern which is the brother and 
 which the sister. She was part not only of his life, but 
 of his imagination. He saw by her, felt through her, at 
 her touch the strings of the instrument began to thrill, 
 the great melodies awoke. Her journals are Words- 
 worth in prose, just as his poems are Dorothy in verse. 
 The one soul kindled at the other. The brother and 
 sister met with all the enthusiasm of youthful affection 
 strengthened and concentrated by long separation, and 
 the delightful sense that here at last was the possi- 
 bility of making for themselves a home.” After refer- 
 ring to their pecuniary means, the writer adds : “ And 
 with this, in their innocent frugality and courage, they 
 faced the world like a new pair of babes in the wood. 
 Their aspirations in one way were infinite, but in 
 another modest as any cottager’s. Daily bread sufficed 
 them, and the pleasure to be derived from Nature, who 
 is cheap, and gives herself lavishly without thought or 
 hope of reward.” 
 
 It was in reference to an incident which occurred 
 between the brother and sister while resident at Race- 
 down that the following poem was written at a period 
 a little later : — 
 
 “ Among all lovely things my Love had been, 
 
 Had noted well the stars, all flowers that grew 
 
 About her home ; but she had never seen 
 A Glow-worm, never one, and this I knew. 
 
22 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 While riding near her home one stormy night 
 A single Glow-worm did I chance to espy ; 
 
 I gave a fervent welcome to the sight, 
 
 And from my horse I leapt ; great joy had I. 
 
 Upon a leaf the Glow-worm did I lay, 
 
 To bear it with me through the stormy night : 
 
 And, as before, it shone without dismay ; 
 
 Albeit putting forth a fainter light. 
 
 When to the dwelling of my Love I came, 
 
 I went into the Orchard quietly ; 
 
 And left the Glow-worm, blessing it by name, 
 
 Laid safely by itself beneath a tree. 
 
 The whole next day, I hoped, and hoped with fear ; 
 
 At night the Glow-worm shone beneath the tree ; 
 
 I led my Lucy to the spot — ‘ Look here ! ’ 
 
 Oh ! joy it was for her, and joy for me! ” 
 
 Although at this remote place friends and visitors 
 were few, it was here the Wordsworths first made the 
 acquaintance of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, who, in con- 
 junction with Southey, had already begun to make a 
 name. This acquaintance ripened into a friendship 
 both for Dorothy and her brother of a close and 
 intimate character seldom equalled. It was here, also, 
 that Wordsworth composed his tragedy, The Borderers, 
 and “The Euined Cottage,” which latter poem after- 
 wards formed the first part of the “ Excursion.” The 
 ardour with which the young poets entered into each 
 other’s plans, and the enthusiasm of the sister, who was 
 in such perfect sympathy with them, is gathered from 
 her statement that the “ first thing that was read when 
 
The Hope Realised. 
 
 23 
 
 he (Coleridge) came was William’s new poem, ‘The 
 Ruined Cottage/ with which he was much delighted ; 
 and after tea he repeated to us two acts and a-half of 
 his tragedy Osorio. The next morning William read 
 his tragedy The Borderers .” 
 
 The following description of Coleridge, from the pen 
 of Miss Wordsworth, cannot fail to be of interest. 
 Writing to a friend, she says : “ You had a great loss in 
 not seeing Coleridge. He is a wonderful man. His 
 conversation teems with soul, mind, and spirit. Then 
 he is so benevolent, so good-tempered and cheerful, 
 and, like William, excites himself so much about every 
 little trifle. At first I thought him very plain — that is, 
 for about three minutes. He is pale, thin, has a wide 
 mouth, thick lips, and not very good teeth ; longish, 
 loose-growing, half-curling, rough, black hair. But if 
 you hear him speak for five minutes, you think no more 
 about them. His eye is large and full, and not very 
 dark, but grey — such an eye as would receive from a 
 heavy soul the dullest expression ; but it speaks every 
 emotion of his animated mind. It has more of the ‘ poet’s 
 eye in fine frenzy rolling ’ than I ever witnessed. He 
 has fine dark eyebrows and an overhanging forehead.” 
 
 By the side of this striking picture of Coleridge 
 may be fittingly placed his first impressions of Miss 
 Wordsworth. Writing to Mr. Cottle from Nether 
 Stowey, in Somersetshire, where he was then residing, 
 he says : “ Wordsworth and his exquisite sister are with 
 me. She is a woman, indeed! — in mind, I mean, and 
 heart ; for her person is such that, if you expected to 
 see a pretty woman, you would think her ordinary ; if 
 
24 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 you expected to see an ordinary woman, you would 
 think her pretty ; but her manners are simple, ardent, 
 impressive. In every motion her most innocent soul 
 outbeams so brightly that who saw her would say: 
 
 ‘ G-uilt was a thing impossible in her.’ 
 
 Her information various ; her eye watchful in minutest 
 observation of Nature ; and her taste a perfect electro- 
 meter. It bends, protrudes, and draws in at subtlest 
 beauties and most recondite faults.” 
 
 From this description of Coleridge it might appear 
 that Miss Wordsworth was one of those happy posses- 
 sors of a face and features which though in repose might 
 appear homely, became illumined by the sweet smiles of 
 love — flashed into beauty by the gleam of the soul-lit eye. 
 
 The pleasure which the friendship of Coleridge 
 afforded them induced Wordsworth and his sister to 
 change their residence in order to be near him. 
 Accordingly, in the summer of 1797, they settled at 
 Alfoxden, near Nether Stowey. Alfoxden is described 
 by Hazlitt as a “ romantic old family mansion of the 
 St. Aubins,” and he gives the additional information that 
 it was then in the possession of a friend of the poet, 
 who gave him the free use of it. De Quincey afterwards 
 stated that he understood that the Wordsworths had 
 the use of the house on condition of keeping it in repair. 
 Neither of these statements appear, however, to be quite 
 correct. The tenancy was arranged by Coleridge's 
 friend, Mr. Thomas Poole, a small rent being paid. # 
 
 Although Miss Wordsworth afterwards spoke of Face- 
 down as the dearest place of her recollections upon the 
 * See “Thomas Poole and his Friends.” Mrs. Sandford. 
 
The Hope Realised. 
 
 25 
 
 whole surface of the island, as the first home she had, 
 she was soon enamoured of her new abode, and the 
 scenery of Somersetshire. Of the neighbourhood of 
 Nether Stowey she says, in a letter to a friend, dated 
 4th July : “ There is everything there — sea, woods wild 
 ns fancy ever painted ; brooks clear and pebbly as in 
 Cumberland ; villages as romantic ; and William and I, 
 in a wander by ourselves, found out a sequestered water- 
 fall in a dell formed by steep hills, covered by full-grown 
 timber-trees. The woods are as fine as those at Lowther, 
 and the country more romantic ; it has the character of 
 the less grand parts of the neighbourhood of the lakes.” 
 
 Being settled at Alfoxden, she writes again, on 14th 
 August : “ Here we are, in a large mansion, in a large 
 park, with seventy head of deer around us. But I must 
 begin with the day of leaving Racedown to pay Cole- 
 ridge a visit. You know how much we were delighted 
 with the neighbourhood of Stowey. The evening that I 
 wrote to you, William and I had rambled as far as this 
 house, and pryed into the recesses of our little brook, 
 but without any more fixed thoughts upon it than some 
 dreams of happiness in a little cottage, and passing 
 wdshes that such a place might be found out. We spent 
 a fortnight at Coleridge’s : in the course of that time we 
 heard that this house was to let, applied for it, and took 
 it. Our principal inducement was Coleridge’s society. 
 It was a month yesterday since we came to Alfoxden. 
 
 “ The house is a large mansion, with furniture enough 
 for a dozen families like ours. There is a very excellent 
 garden, well stocked with vegetables and fruit. The 
 garden is at the end of the house, and our favourite 
 
26 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 parlour, as at Racedown, looks that way. In front is a 
 little court, with grass-plot, gravel- walk, and shrubs ; 
 the moss roses were in full beauty a month ago. The 
 front of the house is to the south ; but is screened 
 from the sun by a high hill which rises immediately 
 from it. This hill is beautiful, scattered irregularly 
 and abundantly with trees, and topped with fern, which 
 spreads a considerable way down it. The deer dwell 
 here, and sheep, so that we have a living prospect. 
 From the end of the house we have a view of the sea, 
 over a woody meadow country ; and exactly opposite 
 the window, where I now sit, is an immense wood, 
 whose round top from this point has exactly the appear- 
 ance of a mighty dome. In some parts of this wood 
 there is an under-grove of hollies, which are now very 
 beautiful. In a glen at the bottom of the wood is the 
 waterfall of which I spoke, a quarter of a mile from 
 the house. We are three miles from Stowey, and not 
 two miles from the sea. Wherever we turn we have 
 woods, smooth downs, and valleys with small brooks run- 
 ning down them, through green meadows, hardly ever 
 intersected with hedgerows, but scattered over with trees. 
 The hills that cradle these valleys are either covered 
 with fern and bilberries, or oak woods, which are cut 
 
 for charcoal Walks extend for miles over 
 
 the hill-tops ; the great beauty of which is their wild 
 simplicity; they are perfectly smooth, without rocks. 
 
 “ The Tor of Glastonbury is before our eyes during 
 more than half of our walk to Stowey ; and in the 
 park, wherever we go, keeping about fifteen yards above 
 the house, it makes a part of our prospect.” 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 Residence at Alfoxden — Removal to Grasmere. 
 HE year succeeding the time when Dorothy Words- 
 
 X worth and her brother became resident at 
 Alfoxden was one of glowing enjoyment and fruitful 
 industry. We are not without a few pleasing pictures 
 of this charmed primitive period of their livesi — iits 
 profitable intercourse, its delightful rambles. 
 
 “ Upon smooth Quantock’s airy ridge we roamed, 
 Unchecked, or loitered ’mid his sylvan combs ; 
 Thou, in bewitching words with happy heart, 
 
 Didst chant the vision of that ancient man, 
 
 The bright-eyed mariner ; and rueful woes 
 Didst utter of the Lady Christabel — 
 
 And I, associate with such labours, steeped 
 In soft forgetfulness the livelong hours, 
 Murmuring of him who, joyous hap, was found 
 After the perils of his moonlight ride, 
 
 Hear the loud waterfall ; or her who sate 
 In misery near the miserable thorn.” 
 
 We can imagine the happy meetings and rapturous 
 feelings of the two young poets in the company of the 
 bright young woman, who was gifted with a no less 
 poetic soul, wandering amid the delightful scenery of 
 
28 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 Somersetshire, revelling in the beauties of woodland and 
 ocean, and the pleasant evenings, when each read to the 
 other his growing poems ; and they together discussed 
 their ambitious schemes for the golden future, receiving 
 the approval and ever-welcome suggestions of the sym- 
 pathetic sister and friend. Wordsworth has described 
 this as a “ very pleasant and productive ” time of his 
 life. 
 
 Dorothy now began to keep a diary or journal of 
 events, thoughts, descriptions of scenery — a practice 
 she continued at intervals for many years. Writing of 
 one of their pedestrian tours in 1797, she says : “ From 
 Porlock we kept close to the shore about four miles. 
 Our road lay through wood, rising almost perpen- 
 dicularly from the sea, with views of the opposite 
 mountains of Wales ; thence we came by twilight to 
 Lynmouth in Devonshire. The next morning we were 
 guided to a valley at the top of one of those immense 
 hills which open at each end to the sea, and is from its 
 rocky appearance called the Yalley of Stones. We 
 mounted a cliff at the end of the valley, and looked from 
 it immediately on to the sea.” 
 
 It was during this tour of Wordsworth and Cole- 
 ridge, with the bright and faithful Dorothy by their 
 side, inspiring and stimulating (the expenses of which 
 tour they desired to defray by writing a poem), that 
 the story of “ The Ancient Mariner” was conceived. 
 Wordsworth has said of it in a passage oft-repeated: — 
 
 “In the autumn of 1797, Mr. Coleridge, my sister, 
 and myself, started from Alfoxden pretty late in the 
 afternoon, with a view of visiting Linton and the Yalley 
 
Kesidence at Alfoxden. 
 
 29 
 
 of Stones near it ; and as our united funds were very 
 small, we agreed to defray the expense of the tour by 
 writing a poem, to be sent to the new Monthly 
 Magazine. In the course of this walk was planned the 
 poem of 4 The Ancient Mariner/ founded on a dream, 
 as Mr. Coleridge said, of his friend, Mr. Cruik shank. 
 Much the greatest part of the story was Mr. Coleridge’s 
 invention ; but certain parts I suggested. For example,, 
 some crime to be committed, which was to bring upon 
 the Old Navigator, as Coleridge afterwards delighted to 
 call him, the spectral persecution, as a consequence 
 of that crime and his own wanderings. I had been 
 reading in 4 Shelvocke’s Voyages/ a day or two before, 
 that, while doubling Cape Horn, they frequently saw 
 albatrosses in that latitude — the largest sort of sea-fowl, 
 some extending their wings 12 or 13 feet. Suppose, said 
 I, you represent him as having killed one of these birds 
 on entering the South Sea, and that the tutelary spirits 
 of these regions take upon them to avenge the crime. The 
 incident was thought fitting for the purpose, and adopted 
 accordingly. I also suggested the navigation of the 
 ship by the dead man ; but I do not recollect that I had 
 anything more to do with the scheme of the poem.” 
 
 It was about this time that the Wordsworths made 
 the acquaintance of Hazlitt. He was then staying with 
 Coleridge, who took him over to Alfoxden. Of this 
 visit Hazlitt says : — 
 
 44 Wordsworth himself was from home ; but his sister 
 kept house, and set before us a frugal repast ; and we 
 had free access to her brother’s poems, the lyrical 
 ballads, which were still in manuscript, or in the form 
 
30 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 of sybilline leaves. I dipped into a few of these with 
 great satisfaction, and with the faith of a novice. I 
 slept that night in an old room, with blue hangings, 
 and covered with the round-faced family portraits, of 
 the age of* George I. and II., and from the woody 
 declivity of the adjoining park that overlooked my 
 window, at the dawn of day, 
 
 ‘ Heard the loud stag speak.’ 
 
 “ Next morning, as soon as breakfast was over, we 
 strolled out into the park, and, seating ourselves on the 
 trunk of an old ash-tree, that stretched along the 
 ground, Coleridge read aloud, with a sonorous and 
 musical voice, the ballad of ‘ Betty Foy.’ I was not 
 critically or sceptically inclined. I saw touches of truth 
 and nature, and took the rest for granted. But in ‘ The 
 Thorn,’ ‘ The Mad Mother,’ and ‘ The Complaint of the 
 Poor Indian Woman,’ I felt that deeper power and 
 pathos which have since been acknowledged, 
 
 ‘ In spite of pride, in erring reason’s spite,’ 
 
 as the characteristics of this author, and the sense of a 
 new style and a new spirit in poetry came over me. It 
 had to me something of the effect that arises from the 
 turning up of the fresh soil, or of the first welcome 
 breath of spring, 
 
 ‘ While yet the trembling year is unconfirmed.’ 
 
 “ Coleridge and myself walked back to Stowey that 
 evening, and his voice sounded high, 
 
 4 Of Providence, foreknowledge, will, and fate ; 
 
 Fixt fate, free will, foreknowledge absolute,’ 
 
Residence at Alfoxden. 
 
 31 
 
 as we passed through the echoing groves, by fairy 
 stream or waterfall, gleaming in the solemn moon- 
 light. ... We went over to Alfoxden again the 
 day following, and Wordsworth read us the story of 
 ■‘ Peter Bell ’ in the open air. There is a chant in the 
 recitation, both of Coleridge and Wordsworth, which 
 acts as a spell upon the hearer, and disarms the 
 judgment. Perhaps they have deceived themselves by 
 making habitual use of this ambiguous accompaniment. 
 Coleridge’s manner is more full, animated, and varied ; 
 Wordsworth’s more equable, sustained, and internal. 
 Coleridge has told me that he himself liked to 
 compose in walking over uneven ground, or breaking 
 through the straggling branches of a copsewood, 
 whereas Wordsworth always composed walking up and 
 down a straight gravel walk, or in some spot where the 
 continuity of his verse met with no collateral interrup- 
 tions. . . . Returning the same evening, I got into 
 
 a metaphysical argument with Wordsworth, while 
 Coleridge was explaining the different notes of the 
 nightingale to his sister, in which we neither of us 
 succeeded in making ourselves perfectly clear and 
 intelligible.” 
 
 This year was also celebrated by an introduction to 
 Charles Lamb (the quaint and gentle -hearted ‘‘Elia”) 
 and his excellent sister Mary. Lamb was an old school- 
 fellow, and a close friend of Coleridge. They had 
 been boys together at the Christ’s Hospital, where the 
 sympathy between them had been formed which became 
 a life-long bond. A short emancipation from the toils 
 of the East India House found Lamb and his sister 
 
32 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 spending a little time with Coleridge at Nether Stowey. 
 From the time of the commencement of the acquaint- 
 ance of Mary Lamb and Dorothy Wordsworth in this 
 manner, their friendship was constant and their 
 correspondence frequent. While, in temperament, they 
 were totally unlike each other, there was that in the 
 tenor of their lives, in the tender and helpful devotion 
 of each of them to her brother — a devotion in both 
 cases so warmly reciprocated — together with much in 
 common in their tastes and pursuits, which served to 
 cement a friendship begun under such pleasurable 
 circumstances. 
 
 The poem “To my Sister/’ written in front of 
 Alfoxden, is suggestive of the happy rural life at this 
 time enjoyed by the poet and his sister. What lover 
 of Wordsworth does not remember how on “the first 
 mild day of March,” when, to the receptive spirit of the 
 poet, each minute of the advancing balmy day appeared 
 to be lovelier than the preceding one, while, sauntering 
 on the lawn, he wrote, desiring her to hasten with her 
 household morning duties, and share his enjoyment of 
 the genial sunshine ? 
 
 “ It is the first mild day of March : 
 
 Each minute sweeter than before, 
 
 The redbreast sings from the tall larch 
 That stands beside our door. 
 
 “ There is a blessing in the air, 
 
 Which seems a sense of joy to yield 
 To the bare trees, and mountains bare. 
 
 And grass in the green field. 
 
Residence at Alfoxden. 
 
 33 
 
 “‘My Sister! (’tis a wish of mine), 
 
 Now that our morning meal is done, 
 Make haste, your morning task resign ; 
 Come forth and feel the sun. 
 
 “‘Edward will come with you — and, pray, 
 Put on with speed your woodland dress ; 
 And bring no book ; for this one day 
 We’ll give to idleness. 
 
 “ ‘ No joyless forms shall regulate 
 Our living calendar : 
 
 We from to-day, my Friend, will date 
 The opening of the year. 
 
 “ ‘ Love, now a universal birth, 
 
 From heart to heart is stealing, 
 
 From earth to man, from man to earth ; 
 
 — It is the hour of feeling. 
 
 “ ‘ One moment now may give us more 
 Than years of toiling reason : 
 
 Our minds shall drink at every pore 
 The spirit of the season. 
 
 “ ‘ Some silent laws our hearts will make. 
 Which they shall long obey ; 
 
 We for the year to come may take 
 Our temper from to-day. 
 
 “ ‘ And from the blessed power that rolls 
 About, below, above, 
 
 We’ll frame the measure of our souls : 
 They shall be tuned to love. 
 
34 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 “ ‘ Then come, my Sister ! come, I pray, 
 
 With speed put on your woodland dress ; 
 
 And bring no book : for this one day 
 We’ll give to idleness.’ ” 
 
 It was also during their residence at Alfoxden that 
 Dorothy and her brother made their tour on the 
 banks of the Wye, so signally memorialised in his famous 
 lines on Tintern Abbey, of which he says, no poem of 
 his was composed under circumstances more pleasant for 
 him to remember. Its elevating reflections and rhythmic 
 strains take captive the affections of the lover of Nature, 
 and linger in his memory like the music of youth. In 
 this place our interest in it arises from the allusions it 
 contains to his beloved companion. He refers to the 
 sweet sensations which, in hours of weariness in towns 
 and cities, he has owed to the beauteous forms of 
 Nature to which his mind has turned. He calls to 
 memory the time when he had, indeed, loved Nature 
 more passionately, and compares it with his present 
 more mature and thoughtful affection, concluding with 
 a fervid address to her who was by his side, and whose 
 presence imparted an added charm — that of double 
 vision — to every object and feeling ; a sense of blessing- 
 shared : — 
 
 “ For thou art with me here upon the banks 
 Of this fair river : thou, my dearest Friend, 
 
 My dear, dear Friend ; and in thy voice I catch 
 The language of my former heart, and read 
 My former pleasures in the shooting lights 
 Of thy wild eyes. Oh ! yet a little while 
 May I behold in thee what I was once, 
 
Residence at Alfoxden. 
 
 35 
 
 My dear, dear Sister ! And this prayer I make, 
 Knowing that Nature never did betray 
 The heart that loved her ; ’tis her privilege 
 Thro’ all the years of this our life, to lead 
 From joy to joy : for she can so inform 
 The mind that is within us, so impress 
 With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
 With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, 
 
 Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, 
 
 Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 
 The dreary intercourse of daily life, 
 
 Shall e’er prevail against us, or disturb 
 Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold 
 Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon 
 Shine on thee in thy solitary walk ; 
 
 And let the misty mountain -winds be free 
 To blow against thee ; and, in after years, 
 
 When these wild ecstasies shall be matured 
 Into a sober pleasure ; wdien thy mind 
 Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 
 
 Thy memory be as a dwelling-place 
 
 For all sweet sounds and harmonies ; oh ! then, 
 
 If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, 
 
 Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts 
 Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, 
 
 And these, my exhortations ! Nor, perchance, 
 
 If I should be where I no more can hear 
 
 Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams 
 
 Of past existence — wilt thou then forget 
 
 That on the banks of this delightful stream 
 
 We stood together 
 
36 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 Nor wilt thou then forget 
 That after many wanderings, many years 
 Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, 
 
 And this green pastoral landscape, were to me 
 More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake ! ” 
 
 Although Coleridge was at this time married, his wife 
 does not seem to have entered very warmly into his 
 pursuits — not, indeed, with the same interest that Miss 
 Wordsworth did. It cannot be out of place, since it is 
 a matter of almost common knowledge, to remark that 
 we have in Coleridge one more instance of the many 
 men of genius who have not found in their married 
 lives the perfect concord they have desired. Mrs. 
 Coleridge did not feel the sympathy in her husband’s 
 aims to enable her to take pleasure in their intellectual 
 conversations or perpetual rambles. In both of these 
 Dorothy Wordsworth delighted. De Quincey, in his 
 uncontrollable propensity to chatter, has taken occasion 
 from this fact to suggest that Mrs. Coleridge resented 
 the familiar friendship of the poetic trio. Although 
 not mentioning Dorothy by name, he refers to a young 
 lady who became a neighbour and a daily companion 
 of Coleridge’s walks, and who was “ intellectually 
 much superior to Mrs. Coleridge,” in a way that shows 
 that none other than Miss Wordsworth could be 
 alluded to. He adds : “ Mrs. Coleridge, not having the 
 same relish for long walks or rural scenery, and their 
 residence being at this time in a very sequestered 
 village, was condemned to a daily renewal of this trial. 
 Accidents of another kind embittered it still further. 
 Often it would happen that the walking party returned 
 
Eesidence at Alfoxden. 
 
 37 
 
 -drenched with rain ; in which case the young lady, with 
 a laughing gaiety, and evidently unconscious of any 
 liberty that she was taking, or any wound that she was 
 inflicting, would run up to Mrs. Coleridge’s wardrobe, 
 array herself, without leave asked, in Mrs. Coleridge’s 
 dresses, and make herself merry with her own uncere- 
 moniousness and Mrs. Coleridge’s gravity. In all this 
 she took no liberty that she would not most readily have 
 granted in return ; she confided too unthinkingly in 
 what she regarded as the natural privileges of friend- 
 ship, and as little thought that she had been receiving 
 or exacting a favour as, under an exchange of their 
 relative positions, she would have claimed to confer 
 one.” Although De Quincey states that the feelings 
 of Mrs. Coleridge were moderated by the consideration 
 of the kind-heartedness of the young lady, that she was 
 always attended by her brother, and that mere intel- 
 lectual sympathies in reference to literature and natural 
 scenery associated them, it is to be regretted that the 
 perfectly innocent friendship should have been the 
 cause of this small gossip, a thing in which De Quincey 
 rather delighted, and which sometimes mars the plea- 
 surableness of his otherwise felicitous recollections. He 
 was not at this time acquainted either with Coleridge or 
 the Wordsworths, and the information could only have 
 been derived from them during subsequent years of 
 confidential friendship, and not intended for repetition. 
 However it may have appeared to her then, Mrs. 
 Coleridge had in the future much cause to be thankful 
 for the disinterested friendship of Miss Wordsworth. 
 
 How conducive to the best interests of her brother at 
 
38 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 this time was the companionship of Miss Wordsworth „ 
 and how complete was his restoration to a healthy and 
 vigorous life after the political distractions of his Con- 
 tinental experience we gather from an allusion in the- 
 Biographia Literaria of Coleridge. Referring to his. 
 life at Nether Stowey, he says : “ I was so fortunate 
 as to acquire, shortly after my settlement there, an 
 invaluable blessing in the society of one to whom I 
 could look up with equal reverence, whether I regarded 
 him as a poet, a philosopher, or a man. His con- 
 versation extended to almost all subjects, except 
 physics and politics ; with the latter he never troubled 
 himself.” 
 
 The residence of Dorothy Wordsworth and her poet 
 brother at Alfoxden was terminated by circumstances 
 which served to illustrate at once something of the 
 political attitude of the times, and also of the mental 
 condition of their rustic neighbours in Somersetshire. 
 Coleridge tells an amusing story how he and Words- 
 worth were followed and watched in their rambles by a 
 person who was suspected to be a spy on their 
 proceedings employed by the Government of the day. 
 Whether this be well founded or not, the mere fact of 
 two men living in their midst, without any apparent 
 object, appears to have rather discomposed their neigh- 
 bours. Why should they be continually spending their 
 time in taking long and apparently purposeless rambles, 
 engaged in earnest conversation P It was inconceivable 
 that any one should walk a few miles in the light of 
 the moon merely to look at the sea ! They must be 
 engaged in smuggling, or have other nefarious designs. 
 
Residence at Alfoxden. 
 
 39 
 
 In connection with this subject, there is one good 
 story told. Some country gentleman of the neighbour- 
 hood happened to be in the company of a party who 
 were discussing the question whether Wordsworth and 
 Coleridge might be traitors, and in correspondence 
 with the French Administration, when one of them 
 answered : “ Oh ! as to that Coleridge, he is a rattle- 
 brain that will say more in a week than he will stand 
 to in a twelvemonth. But Wordsworth, he is the 
 traitor. Why, bless you! he is so close that you’ll 
 never hear him open his lips on the subject from 
 year’s end to year’s end.” The public belief in the 
 absurd theory of Wordsworth’s traitorous designs was, 
 however, sufficient to induce him not to seek to 
 prolong his residence at Stowev. 
 
 It may not be out of place to repeat here Mr. Cottle’s 
 version of the affair. He says: “ Mr. Wordsworth had 
 taken the Alfoxden house, near Stowey, for one year 
 (during the minority of the heir), and the reason why 
 he was refused a continuance by the ignorant man who 
 had the letting of it arose, as Mr. Coleridge informed 
 me, from a whimsical cause, or rather a series of causes. 
 The wiseacres of the village had, it seemed, made Mr. 
 Wordsworth the subject of their serious conversation. 
 One said that he had seen him wandering about by night 
 and look rather strange at the moon ! And then he 
 roamed over the hills like a partridge ! Another said he 
 had heard him mutter, as he walked, in some outlandish 
 brogue that nobody could understand ! Another said : 
 ‘ It is useless to talk, Thomas. I think he is what 
 people call a wise man (a conjurer).’ Another said: 
 
40 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 ‘ You are every one of you wrong. I know what he is. 
 We have all met him tramping away toward the sea. 
 Would any man in his senses take all that trouble to 
 look at a parcel of water ? I think he carries on a 
 snug business in the smuggling line, and in these 
 journeys is on the look-out for some wet cargo ! * 
 Another very significantly said : ‘ I know that he has 
 got a private still in his cellar ; for I once passed his 
 house at a little better than a hundred yards’ distance, 
 and I could smell the spirits as plain as an ashen faggot, 
 at Christmas ! ’ Another said, ‘ However that was, he 
 was surely a desperd (desperate) French Jacobin; 
 for he is so silent and dark that nobody ever heard him 
 say one word about politics ! ’ And thus these ignora- 
 muses drove from their village a greater ornament than 
 will ever again be found amongst them.” 
 
 After leaving Alfoxden, in the autumn of 1798, Miss 
 Wordsworth accompanied her brother during a resi- 
 dence of six months in G-ermany, their chief object 
 being the attainment of a knowledge of the language. 
 Although, from the absence of society at G-oslar, 
 where they were, they do not seem to have been 
 fortunately circumstanced in this respect, Words- 
 worth was very industrious, and here composed several 
 poems. 
 
 Their life in Germany was not altogether without 
 adventure. Mr. Howitt gives an account of an incident 
 related to him by the poet of his arriving late one 
 evening, accompanied by Miss Wordsworth and Cole- 
 ridge, at a hamlet in Hesse Cassel, where they were 
 unable to gain admittance to the inn, and feared having 
 
Residence at Alfoxden. 
 
 41 
 
 to pass the night in the open street. A continued 
 knocking at the inhospitable doors only brought out 
 the landlord armed with a huge cudgel, with which he 
 began to beat them. Regardless of their personal 
 danger, and thinking of their female companion, to 
 whom the prospect of an inclement night in the open 
 air was by no means cheering, Wordsworth and his 
 friend managed, after warding off the blows of the 
 cudgel, to force their way into the house, and by reason- 
 ing with the surly landlord, and appealing to his better 
 feelings, induced him to afford them a scanty lodging 
 for the night. It appears that strangers travelling in 
 these remote parts at this time received scant courtesy, 
 even from those professing to provide them with enter- 
 tainment, and that personal violence and plunder were 
 not unfrequently resorted to. 
 
 On returning to England in the spring of 1799, 
 Wordsworth, after spending some months with friends 
 ut Sockburn-on-Tees, wisely determined to have a fixed 
 place of abode for himself, and, of course, his sister. 
 After due consideration, they eventually selected that 
 spot which is more than all others associated with his 
 name and memory. To this place they accordingly 
 repaired, walking a considerable part of the way — that 
 from Wensleydale to Kendal — “ accomplishing as much 
 as twenty miles in a day over uneven roads, frozen into 
 rocks, in the teeth of a keen wind and a driving snow,” 
 amid the crisp and biting blasts of a winter day, arriv- 
 ing at G-rasmere — so long the scene of their future 
 labours and rambles — on the shortest day of the last 
 year in the last century. 
 
42 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 The Poet has thus referred to this journey to Gras- 
 mere : — 
 
 “ Bleak season was it, turbulent and wild, 
 
 When hitherward we journeyed, side by side, 
 
 Through bursts of sunshine, and through flying- 
 showers, 
 
 Paced the long vales, how long they were, and yet 
 How fast that length of way was left behind, 
 
 Wensley’s rich vale and Sedberge’s naked heights. 
 
 The frosty wind, as if to make amends 
 For its keen breath, was aiding to our steps, 
 
 And drove us onward as two ships at sea ; 
 
 Or, like two birds, companions in mid-air, 
 
 Parted and reunited by the blast. 
 
 Stern was the face of Nature : we rejoiced 
 
 In that stern countenance ; for our souls thence drew 
 
 A feeling of their strength. The naked trees, 
 
 The icy brooks, as on we passed, appeared 
 To question us, ‘ Whence come ye ? To what end ? * 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The Lake District. 
 
 HE lake and mountain district of England, which: 
 
 A has now become so famous, was happily chosen 
 by these children of Nature as their residence. Born 
 as they both were on its outskirts, they had long 
 been familiar with its beauties, and the only matter for 
 surprise is that they had not earlier turned their faces 
 to their native hills instead of spending some interven- 
 ing years elsewhere. 
 
 No region could have been more in harmony with 
 their sympathies and pursuits. The hardy inhabitants 
 of these dales, and the simplicity of their lives and 
 manners, formed fitting objects of study and reflection 
 for the single-minded poet of Nature, who came to 
 live and die amongst them. It is quite unnecessary, 
 in these days of travel and of guide-books, which have 
 done so much to make the district familiar ground, 
 to give any description of it. It may not, however, 
 be out of place to quote an extract or two from 
 Wordsworth’s own Description of the lakes. Referring 
 to the aspect of the district at different seasons of the 
 year, he says : — “ It has been said that in human 
 life there are moments worth ages. In a more sub- 
 dued tone of sympathy may we affirm that in the 
 
44 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 •climate of England there are, for the lover of Nature, 
 •days which are worth whole months — I might say 
 even years. One of these favoured days sometimes 
 occurs in spring-time, when that soft air is breathing 
 over the blossoms and new-born verdure which inspired 
 Buchanan with his beautiful ‘ Ode to the First of 
 May 9 ; the air which, in the luxuriance of his fancy, he 
 likens to that of the golden age — to that which gives 
 motion to the funereal cypresses on the banks of Lethe ; 
 to the air which is to salute beatified spirits when 
 expiatory fires shall have consumed the earth, with all 
 her habitations. But it is in autumn that days of such 
 affecting influence most frequently intervene. The 
 atmosphere becomes refined, and the sky rendered more 
 crystalline, as the vivifying heat of the year abates ; the 
 lights and shadows are more delicate ; the colouring is 
 richer and more finely harmonised ; and, in this season 
 of stillness, the ear being unoccupied, or only gently 
 excited, the sense of vision becomes more susceptible of 
 its appropriate enjoyments. A resident in a country 
 like this we are treating of will agree with me that the 
 presence of a lake is indispensable to exhibit in perfec- 
 tion the beauty of one of these days ; and he must have 
 experienced, while looking on the unruffled waters, that 
 the imagination by their aid is carried into recesses of 
 feeling otherwise impenetrable. The reason of this is 
 that the heavens are not only brought down into the 
 bosom of the earth, but that the earth is mainly looked 
 at, and thought of, through the medium of a purer 
 element. The happiest time is when the equinoctial 
 gales are departed ; but their fury may probably be 
 
The Lake District. 
 
 45 
 
 called to mind by the sight of a few shattered boughs, 
 whose leaves do not differ in colour from the faded 
 foliage of the stately oaks from which these relics of the 
 storm depend ; all else speaks of tranquillity ; not a 
 breath of air, no restlessness of insects, and not a 
 moving object perceptible, except the clouds gliding in 
 the depth of the lake, or the traveller passing along, an 
 inverted image, whose motion seems governed by the 
 quiet of a time to which its archetype, the living person, 
 is perhaps insensible ; or it may happen that the figure 
 of one of the larger birds — a raven or a heron — is crossing 
 silently among the reflected clouds, while the voice of the 
 real bird, from the element aloft, gently awakens in the 
 spectator the recollection of appetites and instincts, 
 pursuits and occupations, that deform and agitate the 
 world, yet have no power to prevent Nature from putting 
 on an aspect capable of satisfying the most intense 
 cravings for the tranquil, the lovely, and the perfect, to 
 which man, the noblest of her creatures, is subject.” 
 
 His description of the Cumbrian cottages — 
 
 “ Clustered like stars some few, but single most, 
 
 And lurking dimly in their shy retreats, 
 
 Or glancing on each other cheerful looks, 
 
 Like separated stars with clouds between — ” 
 
 is exceedingly happy. 
 
 “ The dwelling-houses and contiguous outhouses are, 
 in many instances, of the colour of the native rock, out 
 of which they have been built ; but frequently the 
 dwelling or fire-house, as it is ordinarily called, has been 
 distinguished from the barn or byre by rough-cast and 
 
46 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 whitewash, which, as the inhabitants are not hasty in 
 renewing it, in a few years acquires, by the influence of 
 weather, a tint at once sober and variegated. As these 
 houses have been, from father to son, inhabited by 
 persons engaged in the same occupations, yet neces- 
 sarily with changes in their circumstances, they have 
 received without incongruity additions and accommoda- 
 tions adapted to the needs of each successive occupant, 
 who, being for the most part proprietor, was at liberty 
 to follow his own fancy ; so that these humble dwellings 
 remind the contemplative spectator of a production of 
 Nature, and may (using a strong expression) rather be 
 said to have grown than to have been erected — to have 
 risen, by an instinct of their own, out of the native 
 rock — so little is there of formality, such is their 
 wildness and beauty. Among the numerous recesses 
 and projections in the walls, and in the different stages 
 of their roofs, are seen bold and harmonious effects of 
 contrasted sunshine and shadow. It is a favourable 
 circumstance that the strong winds which sweep down 
 the valleys induced the inhabitants, at a time when 
 the materials for building were easily procured, to 
 furnish many of these dwellings with substantial 
 porches ; and such as have not this defence are seldom 
 unprovided with a projection of two large slates over 
 their thresholds. Nor will the singular beauty of the 
 chimneys escape the eye of the attentive traveller. 
 Sometimes a low chimney, almost upon a level with 
 the roof, is overlaid with a slate, supported upon four 
 slender pillars, to prevent the wind from driving the 
 smoke down the chimney. Others are of a quadrangular 
 
The Lake District. 
 
 47 
 
 shape, rising one or two feet above the roof ; which low^ 
 square is often surmounted by a tall cylinder, giving to 
 the cottage chimney the most beautiful shape in which 
 it is ever seen. Nor will it be too fanciful or refined 
 to remark that there is a pleasing harmony between a 
 tall chimney of this circular form, and the living column 
 of smoke, ascending from it through the still air. 
 These dwellings, mostly built, as has been said, of 
 rough unhewn stone, are roofed with slates, which were 
 rudely taken from the quarry before the present art of 
 splitting them was understood ; and are, therefore, 
 rough and uneven in their surface, so that both the 
 coverings and sides of the houses have furnished places 
 of rest for the seeds of lichens, mosses, ferns, and 
 flowers. Hence buildings, which in their very form 
 call to mind the processes of Nature, do thus, clothed 
 in part with a vegetable garb, appear to be received 
 into the bosom of the living principle of things, as it 
 acts and exists among the woods and fields ; and, by 
 their colour and their shape, aftectinglv direct the 
 thoughts to that tranquil course of Nature and sim- 
 plicity, along which the humble-minded inhabitants 
 have, through so many generations been led. Add the 
 little garden with its shed for beehives, its small bed of 
 pot-herbs, and its borders and patches of flowers for 
 Sunday posies, with sometimes a choice few too much 
 prized to be plucked ; an orchard of proportioned size ; 
 a cheese-press, often supported by some tree near the 
 door ; a cluster of embowering sycamores for summer 
 shade ; with a tall fir through which the winds sing 
 when other trees are leafless ; the little rill, or house- 
 
48 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 hold spout, murmuring in all seasons ; combine these 
 incidents and images together, and you have the 
 representative idea of a mountain cottage in this 
 country so beautifully formed in itself, and so richly 
 adorned by the hand of Nature. 
 
 “Till within the last sixty years * there was no com- 
 munication between any of these vales bv carriage- 
 roads ; all bulky articles were transported on pack- 
 horses. Owing, however, to the population not being 
 concentrated in villages, but scattered, the valleys them- 
 selves were intersected, as now, by innumerable lanes 
 and pathways leading from house to house and from 
 field to field. These lanes, where they are fenced by 
 stone walls, are mostly bordered with ashes, hazels, wild 
 roses, and beds of tall fern, at their base, while the walls 
 themselves, if old, are overspread with mosses, small 
 ferns, wild strawberries, the geranium, and lichens ; 
 and if the wall happen to rest against a bank of earth, 
 it is sometimes almost wholly concealed by a rich facing 
 of stone-fern. It is a great advantage to a traveller or 
 resident, that these numerous lanes and paths, if he be 
 a zealous admirer of Nature, will lead him on into all 
 the recesses of the country, so that the hidden treasures 
 of its landscapes may, by an ever-ready guide, be laid 
 open to his eyes.” 
 
 A much more recent writer, Mrs. E. Lynn Linton, 
 in her charming work, full of graceful description and 
 exquisite poetry, thus writes of the scenery of one of 
 the lakes after a storm : — 
 
 “ The woods glittered and sparkled in the sun, each 
 * This was written in 1810 . 
 
The Lake District. 
 
 49 
 
 dripping branch a spray of golden light, and the light 
 was married to the loud music of the birds flowing out 
 in rivulets of song. Countless flies shot through the 
 air, and vibrated on the water ; and the fish leaped up 
 to catch them, dimpling the shining surface with con- 
 centric ripples, and throwing up small jets of light in 
 the smooth black bays. Every crag and stone, and line 
 of wall, and tuft of gorse, was visible on the nearer 
 hills, where the colouring was intense and untranslat- 
 able ; and on the more distant mountains we could see, 
 as through a telescope, the scars on the steeps, the 
 slaty shingles, and the straight cleavings down the 
 sides, the old grey watercourses, threaded now like a 
 silver line — those silver lines, after the storm, over all 
 the craggy faces everywhere ; we could see each green 
 knoll set like an island among the grey boulders, each 
 belt of mountain wood, each purple rift, each shadowed 
 pass, slope and gully, and ghyll and scaur — we could 
 count them all glistening in the sun, or clear and tender 
 in the shade ; while the sky was of a deep, pure blue 
 above, and the cumulus clouds were gathered into 
 masses white and dazzling as marble, and almost as 
 solid-looking. 
 
 “ And over all, and on all, and lying in the heart of 
 everything, warming, creating, fashioning the dead 
 matter into all lovely forms, and driving the sweet 
 juices like blood through the veins of the whole of 
 earth, shone the glad sun, free, boundless, loving — life 
 of the world’s life, glory of its glory, shaper and creator 
 of its brightest beauty. Silver on the lake, gold in the 
 wood, purple over the hills, white and lazuli in the 
 
 4 
 
50 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 heavens — what infinite splendour hanging through this 
 narrow valley ! What a wealth of love and beauty pour- 
 ing out for the heart of all Nature, and for the diviner 
 soul of man ! ” 
 
 If another extract from Mrs. Linton may be culled, 
 it is to the following reflections that a day spent on 
 Helvellyn gives rise : — 
 
 “ Ah ! what a world lies below ! But grand as it is 
 on the earth, it is mated by the grandeur of the sky. 
 Bor the cloud scenery is of such surpassing nobleness 
 while it lasts, and before it is drawn up into one volume 
 of intensest blue, that no kind or manner of discord 
 mars the day’s power and loveliness. Of all forms 
 and of all colours are those gracious summer clouds, 
 ranging from roseate flakes of dazzling white masses 
 and torn black remnants, like the last fragments of a 
 widow’s weeds thrust aside for her maturer bridal ; 
 from solid substances, firm and marble-like, to light 
 baby curls set like pleasant smiles about the graver 
 faces : words and pictures, in all their changes, 
 unspeakably precious to soul and sense. And when, 
 finally, they all gather themselves away, and leave the 
 sky a vault of undimmed blue, and leave the earth a 
 gorgeous picture of human industry and dwelling — 
 when field and plain, and mountain and lake, and 
 tarn and river are fashioned into the beauty of a 
 primeval earth by the purity of the air and the 
 governing strength of the sun and the fragrant sweet- 
 ness of the summer, and when the very gates of heaven 
 seem opening for our entering where the southern sun 
 stands at gaze in his golden majesty — is it wonder if 
 
The Lake District. 
 
 51 
 
 there are tears more glad than many smiles, and a 
 thrill of love more prayerful than many a litany 
 chanted in the church service? In the very passion 
 of delight that pours like wine through the veins is a 
 solemn outfall — in the very deliciousness of joy an 
 intensity that is almost pain. It is all so solemn and 
 so grand, so noble and so loving, surely we cannot be 
 less than what we live in ! 
 
 “ Let any one haunted by small cares, by fears worse 
 than cares, and by passions worse than either, go up on 
 a mountain height on such a summer’s day as this, and 
 there confront his soul with the living soul of Nature. 
 Will the stately solitude not calm him? Can the 
 nobleness of beauty not raise him to like nobleness? 
 Is there no Divine voice for him in the absolute still- 
 ness ? No loving hand guiding through the pathless 
 wilds ? No tenderness for man in the lavishness of 
 Nature? Have the clouds no lesson of strength in 
 their softness ? the sun no cheering in its glory ? Has 
 the earth no hymn in all its living murmur? the air 
 no shaping in its clearness ? the wind no healing in its 
 power? Can he stand in the midst of that great 
 majesty the sole small thing, and shall his spirit, which 
 should be the noblest thing of all, let itself be crippled 
 by self and fear, till it lies crawling on the earth when 
 its place is lifting to the heavens ? Oh ! better than 
 written sermon or spoken exhortation is one hour on 
 the lonely mountain tops, when the world seems so far 
 off, and Grod and His angels so near. Into the Temple 
 of Nature flows the light of the Shekinah, pure and 
 strong and holy, and they are wisest who pass into it 
 
52 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 oftenest, and rest within its glory longest. There was- 
 never a church more consecrated to all good ends than 
 the stone waste on Helvellyn top, where you sit beneath 
 the sun and watch the bright world lying in radiant 
 peace below, and the quiet and sacred heavens above.” 
 
 Probably there is no spot of English ground to which 
 more pilgrimages have, during the last half-century, 
 been made than the vale of Grasmere, which has for 
 all time been rendered classic by the residence therein 
 of Wordsworth and those sons of genius who loved to 
 gather around him ; and almost every prominent object 
 and scene in which has been immortalised by his pen. 
 
 To lovers of his poetry the spirit of Wordsworth 
 yet casts a spell over the landscape ; and mountain and 
 vale and lake are almost as articulate to the hearing ear 
 as are the storied stones of the world’s most enduring 
 cities. But Life’s grandest music is audible only to the 
 ready ear. It is to the “ inward eye ” of love, gather- 
 ing its treasured harvest, that the brightest halo is 
 revealed. Earth may be 
 
 “ Crammed with heaven,’’ — 
 
 “ But only he who sees takes off his shoes.” 
 
 As Nature whispers her secrets to her true lovers, so it 
 is to the searching eye that the historic pile presents a 
 vision of years, and the decaying cottage or hoary 
 mountain speak of those who consecrated the walls or 
 roamed beneath the shade. 
 
 Apart, however, from the interest which attaches to 
 this locality from its many cherished associations, it is 
 of unsurpassed beauty and loveliness. The mountains, 
 always beautiful in their ever- varying aspects — 
 
The Lake District. 
 
 53 
 
 changing even as we gaze — present studies almost as 
 interesting and varied as the human face Divine when 
 moved by the emotions of the soul. Whether in rain- 
 bow-tinted or sun-flecked splendour, they remind us 
 how the old-world Psalmist saw them “ girded with 
 joy ” ; or, when crowned with mist and cloud, we are 
 enabled to feel something of the significance of the 
 saying: “ He toucheth the hills and they smoke.” 
 
 The scenery of this favoured district, so pleasingly 
 varied as to inspire at once with gladness and awe, to 
 thrill with rapture or to charm into repose, culminates 
 in the transcendent loveliness of the mountain- guarded 
 vale of Grasmere. It takes captive the affections like 
 the features of a familiar friend. 
 
 The poet G-ray, writing concerning it more than a 
 century ago, says : “ Passed by the little chapel of 
 Wiborn [Wythburn], out of which the Sunday congre- 
 gation were then issuing. Passed by a beck near 
 Dunmail Raise, and entered Westmoreland a second 
 time ; now began to see Helm crag, distinguished from 
 its rugged neighbours, not so much by its height, as by 
 the strange, broken outline of its top, like some gigantic 
 building demolished, and the stones that composed it 
 flung across each other in wild confusion. Just beyond 
 it opens one of the sweetest landscapes that Art ever 
 attempted to imitate. The bosom of the mountains 
 here spreading into a broad basin, discovers in the 
 midst Grasmere Water; its margin is hollowed into 
 small bays, with eminences, some of rock, some of soft 
 turf, that half conceal and half vary the figure of the 
 little lake they command. From the shore a low pro- 
 
54 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 montory pushes itself into the water, and on it stands 
 a white village, with a parish church rising in the midst 
 of it, having enclosures, cornfields, and meadows, green 
 as an emerald, which, with trees, and hedges, and cattle, 
 fill up the whole space from the edge of the water, and 
 just opposite to you is a large farmhouse at the bottom 
 of a steep, smooth lawn, embosomed in old woods, 
 which climb half-way up the mountain sides, and dis- 
 cover above a broken line of crags that crown the scene. 
 Not a single red tile, no staring gentleman’s house 
 breaks in upon the repose of this unsuspected paradise ; 
 but all is peace, rusticity, and happy poverty, in its 
 sweetest, most becoming attire.” 
 
 This description must, of course, at the present day 
 be somewhat modified. The scene upon which the eyes 
 of the author of the Elegy rested is now varied by many 
 residences and signs of human contact then absent. 
 
 In an account of a visit to Grasmere at a much later 
 period, the late Nathaniel Hawthorne says : “ This 
 
 little town seems to me as pretty a place as ever I met 
 with in my life. It is quite shut in by hills that rise up 
 immediately around it, like a neighbourhood of kindly 
 giants. These hills descend steeply to the verge of the 
 level on which the village stands, and there they termi- 
 nate at once, the whole site of the little town being as 
 even as a floor. I call it a village, but it is no village at 
 all ; all the dwellings stand apart, each in its own little 
 domain, and each, I believe, with its own little lane 
 leading to it, independently of the rest. Many of these 
 are old cottages, plastered white, with antique porches, 
 and roses, and other vines, trained against them, and 
 
The Lake District. 
 
 55 
 
 shrubbery growing about them, and some are covered 
 with ivy. There are a few edifices of more pretension 
 and of modern build, but not so strikingly as to put the 
 rest out of countenance. The Post Office, when we 
 found it, proved to be an ivied cottage, with a good deal 
 of shrubbery round it, having its own pathway, like the 
 other cottages. The whole looks like a real seclusion, 
 shut out from the great world by those encircling hills, 
 on the sides of which, whenever they are not too steep, 
 you see the division lines of property and tokens of 
 cultivation — taking from them their pretensions of 
 savage majesty, but bringing them nearer to the heart 
 of man.” 
 
CHAPTER Y. 
 
 Life at Grasmere, 
 
 HE unpretentious cottage which became the first 
 
 A Grasmere home of Wordsworth and his sister 
 in those days when they were still sole companions, 
 though changed in its surroundings, is happily still 
 allowed to retain its old features. It stands on the 
 right of the highway, just on the entry into Grasmere, 
 on the road from Rydal — the old coach road — a little 
 distance beyond the “ Wishing Gate,” and at the part 
 of the village called Town End. It was formerly an 
 inn, called “The Dove and Olive Bough,” and is still 
 known by the name of Dove Cottage. It overlooks 
 from the front the beauteous lake of Grasmere, though 
 the view from the lower rooms is now considerably 
 obstructed by buildings since erected. Behind is a 
 small garden and orchard, in which is a spring of pure 
 water, round which the primroses and daffodils bloom, 
 as they did when lovingly reared by Miss Wordsworth. 
 About a dozen steps, cut in the rocky slope, lead up to a 
 little terrace walk, on a bit of mountain ground 
 enclosed in the domain, and sheltered in the rear by a 
 fir- clad wood. Altogether it was an ideal cottage- home 
 for the enthusiastic young couple. From the orchard 
 are obtained views almost unrivalled of mountain, val 
 
Life at Grasmere. 
 
 57 
 
 and lake, embracing the extensive range from Helm 
 Crag and the vales of Easedale and Wythburn, down 
 to the wooded slopes of Loughrigg. Words cannot 
 do justice to the idyllic sweetness and beauty of this 
 poet’s home as it must have been when Wordsworth 
 described his chosen retreat as the 
 
 “ Loveliest spot that man hath ever found.” 
 
 De Quincey speaks of the house as being immortal in 
 his remembrance — just two bow shots from the water — 
 “ a little white cottage, gleaming in the midst of trees, 
 with a vast and seemingly never-ending series of ascents 
 rising above it, to the height of more than three thou- 
 sand feet.” 
 
 This cottage, small and unassuming as it was, was 
 for nearly nine years succeeding this period the resi- 
 dence of the poet and his sister, and those who after- 
 wards joined the privileged hearth. It was here, and 
 in the 
 
 “ Sweet garden- orchard eminently fair,” 
 
 that much of the poet’s best work was done. 
 
 Memories, many and tender and happy, throng 
 around this sweet resting-place in the time when the 
 loving hands of the poet and his sister carefully planted 
 trees — still standing — and flowers, the successors of 
 which still adorn the “rocky well” around which they 
 cluster, and of which he says : — 
 
 “ This plot of orchard ground is ours, 
 
 My trees they are, my sister’s flowers.” 
 
 The noble thoughts of the poet cannot be studied, nor 
 his life at this period in all its interesting detail read — 
 
58 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 a life embracing many friendships and associations — 
 without our being drawn towards this favoured nook as 
 one of the spots the most full of interest of any upon 
 the face of the earth. # 
 
 We know something of Wordsworth’s satisfaction in 
 at length finding himself in this his first permanent and 
 peaceful abode in the companionship of his beloved sister. 
 
 Immediately after taking up his residence there he 
 commenced a poem which was intended to form a part 
 of the “ Recluse,” of which the Prelude and the Excur- 
 sion only were completed. Of the first part a fragment 
 only was written. Extracts from this were given in the 
 “ Memoirs of Wordsworth ” by the late Bishop of 
 Lincoln, but it was not until a few years ago (1888) 
 that this fragment was published, under the title of the 
 “ Recluse.” 
 
 In this poem the poet refers to a period when, “ a 
 roving schoolboy,” he had first visited the vale, and 
 formed the desire there to live ; and now at last the 
 beautiful thought was realised : — 
 
 “ And now ’tis mine, perchance for life, dear Yale, 
 Beloved G-rasmere (let the wandering streams 
 Take up, the cloud-capt hills repeat the name) . 
 
 One of thy lowly dwellings is my Home.” 
 
 From the following lines it will be observed that the 
 poet’s ardent attachment to his sister was in no degree 
 abated, and that he ungrudgingly bestowed upon her 
 the generous praise so much merited : — 
 
 “ On Nature’s invitation do I come, 
 
 By Reason sanctioned. Can the choice mislead, 
 
 * See Appendix, Dove Cottage.” 
 
Life at Grasmere. 
 
 59 
 
 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 hmnble 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 
 hT o longer breathe, but all be satisfied. 
 
 Oh, if such silence be not thanks to God 
 
 For what hath been bestowed, then where, where then 
 
 Shall gratitude find rest P Mine eyes did ne’er 
 
 Fix on a lovely object, nor my mind 
 
 Take pleasure in the midst of happy thought, 
 
 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 sang ; 
 
 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, on 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, 
 
60 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 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.” 
 
 Wordsworth and his sister did not purpose to live a 
 life of selfish seclusion. They had rather sought the 
 mountain home of the Westmoreland Dalesmen as 
 being favourable to a life of loving service to mankind. 
 The poet has elsewhere told how he considered himself 
 “a dedicated spirit,” and here in the Recluse he 
 says : — 
 
 “No, we are not alone, we do not stand, 
 
 My sister here, misplaced and desolate, 
 
 Loving what no one cares for but ourselves. 
 
 Joy spreads, and sorrow spreads ; and this whole vale, 
 Home of untutored Shepherds as it is, 
 
 Swarms with sensation, as with gleams of sunshine, 
 Shadows or breezes, scents or sounds.” 
 
 Much as Wordsworth loved Nature, he never forgot 
 Humanity, but rather saw 
 
 “ The mind of man become 
 A thousand times more beautiful than the earth, 
 
 On which he dwells.” 
 
Life at Grasmere. 
 
 61 
 
 The early years of their residence at Grasmere were 
 signalised by calm enjoyment, no less than by active 
 industry. Dorothy Wordsworth’s life retained its 
 characteristic unselfishness, its devoted ministry. The 
 cottage itself was furnished at a cost of about =£100 — 
 a legacy left to her by a relative, and their joint annual 
 income at that time amounted to about as much. That 
 they were still poor did not detract from their happi- 
 ness, but probably served only to promote it. We find 
 this refined, sensitive young woman (she was now 
 twenty-eight) engaged very much in domestic duties, 
 doing a considerable part of the work of the house, 
 without a thought of discontent. Her poetic enthu- 
 siasm and cultured mind did not unfit her for the 
 common duties of life, or detract from her high sense 
 of duty and service. Happily, she had learnt — as every 
 true woman does — that there is no degradation in 
 work ; that it is not in the nature of our tasks, but the 
 spirit in which they are performed, that the test of 
 fitness is to be found. Notwithstanding, however, her 
 other duties, Dorothy found time to be a true help to 
 her brother. As his amanuensis she wrote or tran- 
 scribed his poems, read to him, and accompanied him 
 in his daily walks. She had also that rare gift of the 
 perfect companion of being able to be silent with and 
 for him, recognising the apparently little-known truth 
 that a loved presence is in itself society. In one of his 
 poems, “ Personal Talk,” he says : — 
 
 “ I am not one who much or oft delight 
 To season my fireside with personal talk, — 
 
 Of friends, who live within an easy walk, 
 
62 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 Or neighbours, daily, weekly, in my sight : 
 
 And, for my chance acquaintance, ladies bright, 
 Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the stalk, 
 These all wear out of me, like forms with chalk 
 Painted on rich men’s floors, for one feast-night. 
 Better than such discourse doth silence long, 
 
 Long, barren silence, square with my desire ; 
 
 To sit without emotion, hope, or aim, 
 
 In the loved presence of my cottage-fire, 
 
 And listen to the flapping of the flame, 
 
 Or kettle whispering its faint undersong.” 
 
 In one of the MSS. notes, afterwards dictated to his 
 friend Miss Fenwick, alluding to this sonnet, Words- 
 worth has said : “ The last line but two stood at first 
 better and more characteristically thus : 
 
 “ ‘ By my half -kitchen and half -parlour fire,’ ” 
 
 And he adds : “ My sister and I were in the habit of 
 having the tea-kettle in our little sitting-room ; and we 
 toasted the bread ourselves, which reminds me of a 
 little circumstance, not unworthy of being set down 
 among these minutiae. Happening both of us to be 
 engaged a few minutes one morning, when we had a 
 young prig of a Scotch lawyer to breakfast with us, 
 my dear sister, with her usual simplicity, put the toast- 
 ing fork, with a slice of bread, into the hands of this 
 Edinburgh genius. Our little bookcase stood on one 
 side of the fire. To prevent loss of time he took down 
 a book and fell to reading, to the neglect of the toast, 
 which was burnt to a cinder. Many a time have we 
 
Life at Grasmere. 
 
 63 
 
 laughed at this circumstance and other cottage sim- 
 plicities of that day.” 
 
 In a letter, dated 10th September, 1800, Dorothy 
 thus describes their home and home-life: “We are 
 daily more delighted with Grasmere and its neighbour- 
 hood. Our walks are perpetually varied, and we are 
 more fond of the mountains as our acquaintance with 
 them increases. We have a boat upon the lake, and a 
 small orchard, and smaller garden, which, as it is the 
 work of our own hands, we regard with pride and par- 
 tiality. Our cottage is quite large enough for us, 
 though very small, and we have made it neat and com- 
 fortable within doors, and it looks very nice on the out- 
 side ; for though the roses and honeysuckles which we 
 have planted against it are only of this year’s growth, 
 jet it is covered all over with green leaves and scarlet 
 flowers ; for we have trained scarlet beans upon threads, 
 which are not only exceedingly beautiful, but very 
 useful, as their produce is immense. We have made a 
 lodging-room of the parlour below stairs, which has a 
 stone floor, therefore we have covered it all over with 
 matting. We sit in a room above stairs ; and we have 
 one lodging-room, with two single beds, a sort of 
 lumber-room, and a small, low, unceiled room, which 
 I have papered with newspapers, and in which we have 
 put a small bed. Our servant is an old woman of sixty 
 years of age, whom we took partly out of charity. She 
 was very ignorant, very foolish, and very difficult to 
 teach. But the goodness of her disposition, and the 
 great convenience we should find, if my perseverance 
 was successful, induced me to go on.” 
 
64 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 Miss Wordsworth, at this period also, as at other 
 times, kept a diary or journal which is “ full of vivid 
 descriptions of natural beauty.” The extracts from it 
 which the world has been allowed to see are of deep 
 interest, affording, as they do, a pleasing picture of their 
 daily occupations, the incidents which gave birth to 
 many of her brother’s poems, and the circumstances 
 under which they were written. For the subjects of 
 many of them he was indebted to her ever watchful and 
 observant eye, and many were composed while wander- 
 ing over woodland paths by her side. The knowledge 
 of this not only serves to remind us of the sustained 
 character of the sister’s directing and controlling 
 influence upon her brother, but gives an additional 
 interest to the poems. The following extracts from 
 Dorothy’s journal are from the poet’s memoirs before 
 mentioned. 
 
 “ Friday , October 3, 1800. — Yery rainy all the morn- 
 ing. William walked to Ambleside after dinner; I 
 went with him part of the way. 
 
 “ When William and I returned from accompanying 
 Jones, we met an old man almost double. His face was 
 interesting. He was of Scotch parents, but had been 
 born in the army. He had had a wife, 4 a good woman, 
 and it had pleased God to bless us with ten children ’ ; 
 all these were dead but one, of whom he had not heard 
 for many years — a sailor. His trade was to gather 
 leeches, but now leeches were scarce, and he had not 
 strength for it. He had been hurt in driving a cart — 
 his leg broke, his body driven over, his skull fractured ; 
 he felt no pain till he recovered from his first insensi- 
 
Life at Grasmere. 
 
 65 
 
 bility. It was then late in the evening when the light 
 was just going away. 
 
 “ November 18. — William walked to Eydal. . . . 
 
 The lake of Grasmere beautiful. The church an image 
 of peace ; he wrote some lines upon it. . . . The 
 
 mountains indistinct ; the lake calm, and partly ruffled ; 
 a sweet sound of water falling into the quiet lake. A 
 storm gathering in Easedale ; so we returned ; but the 
 moon came out, and opened to us the church and village. 
 Helm Crag in shade ; the larger mountains dappled like 
 a sky. 
 
 “ November 24. — Eead Chaucer. We walked by Gell’s 
 Cottage. 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 stem and branches, but it 
 was like a spirit of water. . . . After our return 
 
 William read Spenser to us, and then walked to John’s 
 grove. 
 
 “January 81, 1802. — We walked round the two lakes, 
 Grasmere and Eydal. . . . When I came with 
 
 William, six and a-half years ago, it was just at sunset, 
 there was a rich yellow light on the waters, and the 
 islands were reflected there; to-day it was grave and 
 soft. The sun shone out before we reached Grasmere. 
 We sat by the roadside, at the foot of the lake, close by 
 M.’s name. William cut it to make it plainer. 
 
 “February 16. — Mr. Graham called ; said he wished 
 William had been with him the other day. He was 
 
 5 
 
66 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 riding in a post-chaise ; heard a strange cry ; called to 
 the chaise driver to stop. It was a little girl crying as 
 if her heart would hurst. She had got up behind the 
 chaise, and her cloak had been caught by the wheel : 
 she was crying after it. Mr. G. took her into the chaise, 
 and the cloak was released, but it was torn to rags. It 
 had been a miserable cloak before ; but she had no 
 other, and this was the greatest sorrow that could befal 
 her. Her name was Alice Fell. At the next town Mr. 
 G. left money to buy her a new cloak.” 
 
 The following oft- quoted reference to the daffodils on 
 the margin of Ullswater, although written later, should 
 not be omitted, and may find a place here : — 
 
 “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 : — 
 
 “ I wandered lonely as a cloud.” 
 
CHAPTER YI. 
 
 Further Communion — Life at Grasmere. 
 
 B EFORE proceeding with the subsequent life of 
 Dorothy Wordsworth, 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 impossible that the fruit of her dominant 
 presence with him should ever be fully known, we have 
 happily abundant testimony afforded by himself to show 
 how complete and beneficial such influence was. 
 
 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 intro- 
 ducing the new evangel of song by which the century’s 
 literature has been -uplifted. The elevating presence of 
 
68 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 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 Dorothy Wordsworth that Nature has 
 become to us so much more than she was to our fore- 
 fathers, 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 capa- 
 cities 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 in the highest sense possessed 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 
 
Further Communion. 
 
 69 
 
 “ The silence that is in the starry sky, 
 
 The sleep that is among the lonely hills. ,, 
 
 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 Dorothy Wordsworth had no 
 heart for others, no room for human sympathy. She 
 was, on the contrary, during their early years at Gras- 
 mere 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 com- 
 mencement of her long and tedious illness that Words- 
 worth 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 Dorothy’s Grasmere journal, are very 
 appropriate : — 
 
 “ If in thine inmost soul there chance to dwell 
 Aught of the poetry of human life, 
 
 Take thou this book, and with a humble heart 
 Follow these pilgrims in their joyous walk; 
 
 And mark their high commission — not to domes 
 Of pomp baronial, or gay fashion’s haunts, 
 
 Where worldlings gather ; but to rural homes, 
 
 To cottages and hearths, where kindness dwelt, 
 They bent their way ; and not a gentle breeze 
 Inhaled in all their wanderings, not a flower, 
 Blooming by hedge-wayside, or mountain rill, 
 
 But lent its inspiration, scent, and sound, 
 Deepening the inward music of their hearts. 
 
70 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 She touched the chord, and he gave forth its tone 
 Without her he had idly gazed and dreamed, 
 
 In fancy’s region of celestial things ; 
 
 But she — by sympathy disclosed the might, 
 
 That slumbered in his soul, and drew it thence* 
 
 In richest numbers of subduing power, 
 
 To soften, harmonise, and soothe mankind ; 
 
 Nor less to elevate, and point the way 
 To truth Divine — not with polemic skill, 
 
 He sought from Nature and the human heart. 
 
 That sacred wisdom from the fount of God.” 
 
 It has been well said that with a masculine power 
 of mind Dorothy 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 child- 
 hood 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 disting- 
 uished 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 as rare as it is noble, 
 she simply dedicated to him her life and service, living 
 
Further Communion. 
 
 71 
 
 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. 
 
 The poem entitled “ Louisa, after accompanying her 
 on a mountain excursion,” written about this time, is 
 considered on excellent authority to have reference to 
 the poet’s sister : — 
 
 “ I met Louisa in the shade, 
 
 And having seen that lovely maid, 
 
 Why should I fear to say 
 That, nymph-like, she is fleet and strong, 
 
 And down the rocks can leap along 
 Like rivulets in May ? 
 
 “ And she hath smiles to earth unknown ; 
 
 Smiles, that with motion of their own 
 Do spread, and sink, and rise ; 
 
 That come and go with endless play, 
 
 And ever, as they pass away, 
 
 Are hidden in her eyes. 
 
72 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 44 She loves her fire, her cottage-home, 
 
 Yet o’er the moorland will she roam 
 In weather rough and bleak ; 
 
 And, when against the wind she strains, 
 
 Oh ! might I kiss the mountain rains 
 That sparkle on her cheek. 
 
 4 4 Take all that’s mine 4 beneath the moon,’ 
 
 If I with her but half a noon 
 May sit beneath the walls 
 Of some old cave, or mossy nook, 
 
 When up she winds along the brook 
 To hunt the waterfalls.” 
 
 The following, 44 To a Young Lady, who had been 
 reproached for taking long walks in the country,” is 
 said by the poet to have been written with the same 
 view. It will be observed that the prophecy therein 
 contained did not in all respects meet with fulfilment : — 
 
 44 Dear Child of Nature, let them rail ! 
 
 — There is a nest in a green dale, 
 
 A harbour and a hold ; 
 
 Where thou, a Wife and Friend, shalt see 
 Thy own heart- stirring days, and be 
 A light to young and old. 
 
 44 There, healthy as a shepherd-boy, 
 
 And treading among flowers of joy, 
 
 Which at no season fade, 
 
 Thou, while thy babes around thee cling, 
 
 Shalt show us how divine a thing 
 A Woman may be made. 
 
Further Communion. 
 
 73 
 
 “ Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die, 
 
 Nor leave thee, when grey hairs are nigh, 
 
 A melancholy slave ; 
 
 But an old age serene and bright, 
 
 And lovely as a Lapland night, 
 
 Shall lead thee to thy grave.” # 
 
 Reference has been made to Wordsworth’s allusions 
 to his sister in the Prelude. That poem, the record of 
 the growth of his own mind, was commenced on their 
 leaving Germany in 1799, and continued at intervals 
 during the six following years. Once more in this poem 
 he writes : — 
 
 “ I knew a maid, 
 
 ###### 
 
 Birds in the bower, and lambs in the green fields 
 -Could they have known her, would have loved ; 
 methought 
 
 Her very presence such a sweetness breathed, 
 
 That flowers, and trees, and even the silent hills, 
 
 And everything she looked on, should have had 
 An intimation how she bore herself 
 Towards them, and to all creatures. God delights 
 In such a being ; for, her common thoughts 
 Are piety, her life is gratitude.” 
 
 And once again, when drawing to a close the 
 chronicle of influences and blessings that had entered 
 into his life, we have the following unrivalled outburst 
 ‘Of praise : — 
 
 “ Child of my parents ! Sister of my soul ! 
 
 Thanks in sincerest verse have been elsewhere 
 * See Appendix 2. 
 
74 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 Poured out for all the early tenderness 
 Which I from thee imbibed : and ’tis most true 
 That later seasons owed to thee no less ; 
 
 For, spite of thy sweet influence, and the touch 
 Of kindred hands that opened out the springs 
 Of genial thought in childhood, and in spite 
 Of all that, unassisted, I had marked 
 In life, or Nature, of those charms minute, 
 
 That win their way into the heart by stealth ; 
 Still, to the very going out of youth, 
 
 I too exclusively esteemed that love, 
 
 And sought that beauty, which, as Milton sings,. 
 Hath terror in it. But thou didst soften down 
 This over- sternness ; but for thee, dear Friend ! 
 My soul, too reckless of mild grace, had stood 
 In her original self too confident, 
 
 Retained too long a countenance severe ; 
 
 A rock with torrents roaring, with the clouds 
 Familiar, and a favourite of the stars : 
 
 But thou didst plant its crevices with flowers, 
 Hang it with shrubs that twinkle in the breeze,. 
 And teach the little birds to build their nests 
 And warble in its chambers. At a time 
 When Nature, destined to remain so long 
 Foremost in my affections, had fallen back 
 Into a second place, pleased to become 
 A handmaid to a nobler than herself, 
 
 When every day brought with it some new sense- 
 Of exquisite regard for common things ; 
 
 And all the earth was budding with these gifts 
 Of more refined humanity ; thy breath, 
 
Further Communion. 
 
 75 
 
 Dear Sister! was a kind of gentler spring, 
 
 That went before my steps.” 
 
 Thus were passed, in happy converse and mutual love 
 and help, the three years which intervened between 
 Dorothy Wordsworth and her brother going to 
 Grasmere, and the marriage of the latter. A tour 
 which they together made on the Continent in 1802 
 pleasantly varied this period. A sonnet of Words- 
 worth’s, composed when, on this occasion, they were, in 
 the early morning, passing Westminster Bridge, is well 
 known. It is here repeated only that his sister’s 
 account of her impressions may be placed along with it. 
 He says : — 
 
 “ Earth hath not anything to shew more fair ; 
 
 Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 
 A sight so touching in its majesty ; 
 
 This City now doth, like a garment, wear 
 The beauty of the morning ; silent, bare, 
 
 Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie 
 Open unto the fields, and to the sky ; 
 
 All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. 
 Never did sun more beautifully steep 
 In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill ; 
 
 Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep ! 
 
 The river glideth at his own sweet will : 
 
 Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ; 
 
 And all that mighty heart is lying still ! ” 
 
 His sister in her almost equally graceful prose writes : 
 “ Left London between five and six o’clock of the 
 morning, outside the Dover coach. A beautiful 
 
76 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 morning. The city, St. Paul’s, with the river — a 
 multitude of boats — made a beautiful sight as we 
 •crossed Westminster Bridge ; the houses not overhung 
 by their clouds of smoke, and 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.” She adds : “ Arrived 
 at Calais at four in the morning of July 31st. Delight- 
 ful 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 upon the sands.” 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Some Memorial Nooks. 
 
 I T may not be inopportune to mention, in this place,. 
 
 a few of the spots in the neighbourhood of this, 
 their early home, with which the memory of Dorothy 
 Wordsworth is more especially associated. By Words- 
 worth himself, indeed, the whole of the Lake district of 
 England has been immortalised, and is more associated 
 with his name and life than is the country of the 
 Trossachs with that of Sir Walter Scott. In illustration 
 of this it is only necessary to refer to his poems on tho 
 Naming of Places and Inscriptions. This fact alone, no 
 less than the exalted teaching and beauty of many of 
 his works, will serve to preserve the memory of Words- 
 worth; and probably thousands, to whom he would 
 otherwise be only a name, will become acquainted with 
 him as a loved and trusted teacher. If the spirits of the 
 departed ever return and hover over the scenes of earth 
 which were loved and hallowed in the old-world life, it 
 needs no force of the imagination to fancy that of this 
 most spiritual of women, lingering by sunny noon 
 or shady evening near the haunts where, with her 
 kindred companion, she walked in happy converse. 
 Among such favoured nooks probably the next in in- 
 terest to their loved “ garden-orchard ” would be found 
 
78 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 the beauteous vale of Easedale. Here is a terrace walk in 
 Lancrigg wood which Wordsworth many years after said 
 he and his sister discovered three days after they took 
 up their abode at Grasmere, and which long remained 
 their favourite haunt. The late Lady Richardson, in 
 an article in “ Sharpe’s London Magazine,” referring 
 at a later period to this place, says : “It was their custom 
 to spend the fine days of summer in the open air, chiefly 
 in the valley of Easedale. The ‘ Prelude ’ was chiefly 
 composed in a green mountain terrace, on the Easedale 
 .side of Helm Crag, known by the name of Under 
 Lancrigg, a place which he used to say he knew by 
 heart. The ladies sat at their work on the hill- side, 
 while he walked to and fro, on the smooth green moun- 
 tain turf, humming out his verses to himself, and then 
 repeating them to his sympathising and ready scribes, 
 to be noted down on the spot and transcribed at 
 home.” 
 
 The winding path leading up to the tarn on the west 
 of Easedale brook, on the other side of the valley, is, 
 perhaps, still more closely identified with the subject of 
 this sketch. The first of his “ Poems on the Naming of 
 Places ” was, he has stated, suggested on the banks of 
 the brook that runs through Easedale, by the side of 
 which the poet had composed thousands of verses. The 
 •poem is as follows : — 
 
 “ It was an April morning : fresh and clear 
 The Rivulet, delighting in its strength, 
 
 Ran with a young man’s speed ; and yet the voice 
 Of waters which the winter had supplied 
 Was softened down into a vernal tone. 
 
Some Memorial Nooks. 
 
 79 
 
 The spirit of enjoyment and desire, 
 
 And hopes and wishes, from all living things 
 Went circling, like a multitude of sounds. 
 
 The budding groves seemed eager to urge on 
 The steps of June ; as if their various hues 
 Were only hindrances that stood between 
 Them and their object : but, meanwhile, prevailed 
 Such an entire contentment in the air 
 That every naked ash, and tardy tree 
 Yet leafless, shewed as if the countenance 
 With which it looked on this delightful day 
 Were native to the summer. — Up the brook 
 I roamed in the confusion of my heart, 
 
 Alive to all things, and forgetting all. 
 
 At length I to a sudden turning came 
 In this continuous glen, where down a rock 
 The Stream, so ardent in its course before, 
 
 Sent forth such sallies of glad sound that all 
 Which I till then had heard appeared the voice 
 Of common pleasure : beast and bird, the lamb, 
 
 The shepherd’s dog, the linnet and the thrush 
 Vied with this waterfall, and made a song 
 Which, while I listened, seemed like the wild growth 
 Or like some natural produce of the air, 
 
 That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here ; 
 But ’twas the foliage of the rocks — the birch, 
 
 The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn, 
 
 With hanging islands of resplendent furze : 
 
 And, on a summit, distant a short space, 
 
 By any who should look beyond the dell, 
 
 A single mountain-cottage might be seen. 
 
80 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth 
 
 I gazed and gazed, and to myself I said, 
 
 ‘ Our thoughts at least are ours ; and this wild nook. 
 My Emma, I will dedicate to thee.’ 
 
 — Soon did the spot become my other home, 
 
 My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode. 
 
 And, of the Shepherds who have seen me there, 
 
 To whom I sometimes in our idle talk 
 Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps, 
 
 Years after we are gone and in our graves, 
 
 When they have cause to speak of this wild place, 
 May call it by the name of Emma’s Dell.” 
 
 It is hardly necessary to mention that Dorothy 
 Wordsworth is more than once in the poems referred to 
 as the poet’s sister “Emma” or “Emmeline.” It is, 
 perhaps, rather difficult to determine on what precise 
 spot they stood when this poem was composed, 
 and to which the name of “ Emma’s Dell ” was 
 given. Professor Knight, in his very interesting- 
 work, “ The English Lake District, as interpreted by 
 Wordsworth,” concludes that the place is where the 
 brook takes a “ sudden turning ” a few hundred yards 
 above Goody Bridge; but there are other spots in 
 the brook a little further up the valley to which the 
 description in the poem is probably equally applicable. 
 
 Another poem of the same series may appropriately 
 here find a place, containing, as it does, a loving allusion 
 to Dorothy. This time it is Dorothy herself who gives 
 the name of William’ s Peak to the rugged summit of 
 Stone Arthur, situated between Green Head Ghyll (the 
 scene of Wordsworth’s pastoral poem “Michael”) and 
 
Some Memorial Nooks. 
 
 81 
 
 Tongue Ghyll, a short distance on the right-hand side 
 of the road leading from Grasmere to Keswick : — 
 
 “ There is an Eminence, — of these our hills 
 The last that parleys with the setting sun ; 
 
 We can behold it from our orchard seat ; 
 
 And, when at evening we pursue our walk 
 Along the public way, this Peak, so high 
 Above us, and so distant in its height, 
 
 Is visible ; and often seems to send 
 Its own deep quiet to restore our hearts. 
 
 The meteors make of it a favourite haunt : 
 
 The star of Jove, so beautiful and large, 
 
 In the mid-heavens, is never half so fair 
 As when he shines above it. ’Tis in truth 
 The loneliest place we have among the clouds. 
 
 And She who dwells with me, whom I have loved 
 With such communion, that no place on earth 
 Can ever be a solitude to me, 
 
 Hath to this lonely Summit given my Name.” 
 
 As this poem was written in the first year of their 
 residence at Grasmere, the reference in the closing lines 
 A*an be to no other person than Miss Wordsworth. 
 
 Still another poem of the series owes its origin to a 
 walk by the poet, in the company of his sister and 
 Coleridge. The path here referred to, by the side of 
 the lake has, we are informed, lost its privacy and 
 beauty, by reason of the making of the new highway 
 from Rydal to Grasmere : — 
 
 “ A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags, 
 
 A rude and natural causeway, interposed 
 
 6 
 
82 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth, 
 
 Between tlie water and a winding slope 
 Of copse and thicket, leaves the eastern shore 
 Of Grasmere safe in its own privacy : 
 
 And there, myself and two beloved Friends, 
 
 One calm September morning, ere the mist 
 Had altogether yielded to the sun, 
 
 Sauntered on this retired and difficult way. 
 
 “ — 111 suits the road with one in haste ; but we 
 Played with our time ; and, as we strolled along. 
 It was our occupation to observe 
 Such objects as the waves had tossed ashore — 
 Feather, or leaf, or weed, or withered bough, 
 Each on the other heaped, along the line 
 Of the dry wreck. And, in our vacant mood, 
 
 Not seldom did we stop to watch some tuft 
 Of dandelion seed or thistle’s beard, 
 
 That skimmed the surface of the dead calm lake,. 
 Suddenly halting now — a lifeless stand ! 
 
 And starting off again with freak as sudden ; 
 
 In all its sportive wanderings, all the while 
 Making report of an invisible breeze 
 That was its wings, its chariot, and its horse. 
 
 Its playmate, rather say, its moving soul. 
 
 “ — And often, trifling with a privilege 
 Alike indulged to all, we paused, one now, 
 
 And now the other, to point out, perchance 
 To pluck, some flower or water-weed, too fair 
 Either to be divided from the place 
 On which it grew, or to be left alone 
 To its own beauty.” 
 
Some Memorial Nooks. 
 
 83 
 
 The poem goes on to relate how they saw in the 
 distance, angling by the margin of the lake, a man 
 in the garb of a peasant, while from the fields the 
 merry noise of the reapers fell upon their ears. They 
 somewhat hastily came to the conclusion that the man 
 was an idler, who, instead of spending his time at the 
 gentle craft, might have been more profitably engaged 
 in the harvest. Upon a near approach they, however, 
 found that he was a feeble old man, wasted by sickness, 
 and too weak to labour, who was doing his best to gain 
 a scanty pittance from the lake. It concludes by 
 alluding to the self-upbraiding of the three friends, in 
 consequence of their too rashly -formed opinion : — 
 
 4 4 I will not say 
 
 What thoughts immediately were ours, nor how 
 The happy idleness of that sweet morn, 
 
 With all its lovely images, was changed 
 To serious musing and to self-reproach. 
 
 Nor did we fail to see within ourselves 
 What need there is to be reserved in speech, 
 
 And temper all our thoughts with charity. 
 
 — Therefore, unwilling to forget that day, 
 
 My Friend, Myself, and She who then received 
 The same admonishment, have called the place 
 By a memorial name, uncouth indeed, 
 
 As e’er by mariner was given to bay 
 Or foreland, on a new-discovered coast ; 
 
 And Point Pash- Judgment is the name it bears.” 
 
 Another memorial of Dorothy Wordsworth in her 
 prime is to be found in the “ Bock of Names,” which, 
 
84 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 until recently, stood on the right-hand side of the road 
 from Grasmere to Keswick, near the head of Thirlmere, 
 and about a mile beyond “ Wytheburn’s modest House 
 of Prayer.” This was a meeting-place of Wordsworth 
 and Coleridge, who was then resident at Keswick, and 
 their friends. On the surface of this “ upright mural 
 block of stone,” moss-crowned, smooth-faced, and 
 lichen-patched, are cut the following letters : — 
 
 W. W. 
 
 M. H. 
 
 D. W. 
 
 S. T. C. 
 
 J. W. 
 
 S. H. 
 
 It is hardly necessary to state that the initials are 
 those of William Wordsworth, Mary Hutchinson (after- 
 wards his wife), Dorothy Wordsworth, Samuel Taylor 
 Coleridge, John Wordsworth (the poet’s brother), and 
 Sarah Hutchinson (the sister of Mrs. Wordsworth). 
 It is greatly to be regretted that the portion of the road 
 on which this rock stood has now been submerged in the 
 reservoir of Thirlmere, formed by the Manchester Cor- 
 poration. The rock itself has, however, happily, been 
 removed, with its face towards the mountain- side, by 
 the new road which has been made in lieu of the old 
 one. The position still indicates the place of meeting ; 
 but how different ! Seldom did half-a-dozen more 
 poetic and fervent natures meet and leave a more 
 unique and attractive memorial. Although these 
 initials have withstood the storms and blasts of more 
 
Some Memorial Nooks. 
 
 85 
 
 than fourscore winters, they are yet perfectly distinct 
 and legible, and their original character is preserved. 
 Whilst there are, unfortunately, now other initials and 
 marks upon the face of the rock, it is more free from 
 them than might have been expected. Wordsworth’s 
 allusion to this rock, in a note to some editions of his. 
 poem, “ The Waggoner,” is as follows : — 
 
 Rock of Names ! 
 
 “ Light is the strain, but not unjust 
 To Thee, and thy memorial-trust 
 That once seemed only to express 
 Love that was love in idleness ; 
 
 Tokens, as year hath followed year, 
 
 How changed, alas, in character ! 
 
 For they were graven on thy smooth breast 
 By hands of those my soul loved best ; 
 
 Meek women, men as true and brave 
 As ever went to a hopeful grave : 
 
 Their hands and mine, when side by side. 
 With kindred zeal and mutual pride, 
 
 We worked until the Initials took 
 Shapes that defied a scornful look. — 
 
 Long as for us a genial feeling 
 Survives, or one in need of healing, 
 
 The power, dear Rock, around thee cast, 
 
 Thy monumental power, shall last 
 For me and mine ! O thought of pain. 
 
 That would impair it or profane ! 
 
 Take all in kindness, then, as said, 
 
 With a staid heart, but playful head ; 
 
86 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 And fail not Thou, loved Eock ! to keep 
 Thy charge when we are laid asleep.” 
 
 In this place a reference by Wordsworth to his little 
 poem, commencing “Yes, it was the mountain echo,” 
 will be of interest. “ The echo came from Hab-scar, 
 when I was walking on the opposite side of Eydal 
 Mere. I will here mention, for my dear sister’s sake, 
 that while she was sitting alone one day, high up on 
 this part of Loughrigg fell, she was so affected by the 
 voice of the cuckoo, heard from the crags at some 
 distance, that she could not suppress a wish to have a 
 stone inscribed with her name among the rocks from 
 which the sound proceeded.” 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 The Circle Widened — Mrs. Wordsworth. 
 
 HE year 1802 was a memorable one to Miss 
 
 JL Wordsworth no less than to her brother. With 
 interests so inseparable, the happiness of one was that 
 of the other. After the somewhat agitated period of 
 his early life, when he was for a time in danger of 
 shipwreck, and his noble-hearted sister came to his 
 rescue and helped to steer his course into the placid 
 waters of content and well-grounded hope, Wordsworth 
 was in all respects remarkably fortunate, and his life 
 more than usually serene and happy. Next to the 
 blessing which he possessed in his sister, Wordsworth 
 was largely indebted to his admirable wife. In October 
 of this year he had the good fortune to marry Mary 
 Hutchinson, of Penrith, of whom his sister had said, 
 writing some years before, “ She is one of the best 
 girls in the world.” As his early friend (and they had 
 in childhood attended the same dame’s school together) 
 they had strong sympathies in common, with, at the 
 same time, much of that contrast of temperament 
 which, in married life, renders one the complement of 
 the other, and contributes not a little to the completion 
 and unity of the dual life. The marriage of those 
 whom “ friendship has early paired ” can hardly be 
 
88 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 otherwise than serenely happy ; beginning their life,, 
 as they thus do, each with the same store of early 
 memories, they have a common history into which to 
 engraft their new experiences and hopes. Speaking of 
 his marriage, the poet’s nephew says : “It was full of 
 blessings to himself, as ministering to the exercise of 
 his tender affections, in the discipline and delight 
 which married life supplies. The boon bestowed upon 
 him in the marriage union was admirably adapted to 
 shed a cheering and soothing influence upon his mind.” 
 In a poem entitled “A Farewell,” Wordsworth has thus, 
 expressed the thoughts with which he left his cottage- 
 with his sister to bring home the bride and friend : — 
 
 “ Farewell, thou little Hook of mountain-ground, 
 
 Thou rocky corner in the lowest stair 
 Of that magnificent temple which doth bound 
 One side of our whole vale with grandeur rare ; 
 
 Sweet garden-orchard, eminently fair, 
 
 T3*e loveliest spot that man hath ever found, 
 
 Farewell ! — we leave thee to Heaven’s peaceful care. 
 Thee, and the Cottage which thou dost surround. 
 
 # # # # # 
 
 Fields, goods, and far-off chattels we have none : 
 
 These narrow bounds contain our private store 
 Of things earth makes, and sun doth shine upon ; 
 Here are they in our sight — we have no more. 
 
 “ Sunshine and shower be with you, bud and bell ! 
 
 For two months now in vain we shall be sought;. 
 
 We leave you here in solitude to dwell 
 With these our latest gifts of tender thought ; 
 
The Circle Widened. 
 
 89 * 
 
 Thou, like the morning, in thy saffron coat, 
 
 Bright gowan, and marsh-marigold, farewell ! 
 
 Whom from the borders of the Lake we brought. 
 
 And placed together near our rocky Well. 
 
 “ We go for One to whom ye will be dear ; 
 
 And she will prize this Bower, this Indian shed. 
 
 Our own contrivance, Building without peer ! 
 
 — A gentle Maid, whose heart is lowly bred, 
 
 Whose pleasures are in wild fields gathered, 
 
 With joyousness, and with a thoughtful cheer, 
 
 Will come to you — to you herself will wed — 
 
 And love the blessed life that we lead here. 
 
 “ Dear Spot ! which we have watched with tender heed. 
 Bringing thee chosen plants and blossoms blown 
 Among the distant mountains, flower and weed, 
 Which thou hast taken to thee as thy own, 
 
 Making all kindness registered and known ; 
 
 Thou for our sakes, though Nature’s child indeed. 
 Fair in thyself and beautiful alone, 
 
 Hast taken gifts which thou dost little need. 
 
 “ Help us to tell Her tales of years gone by, 
 
 And this sweet spring, the best beloved and best ; 
 
 J oy will be flown in its mortality ; 
 
 Something must stay to tell us of the rest. 
 
 Here, thronged with primroses, the steep rock’s breast 
 Glittered at evening like a starry sky ; 
 
 And in this bush our sparrow built her nest. 
 
 Of which I sang one song that will not die. 
 
Dorothy Wordsworth 
 
 90 
 
 “ 4 Oh happy G-arden ! whose seclusion deep 
 Hath been so friendly to industrious hours ; 
 
 And to soft slumbers, that did gently steep 
 Our spirits, carrying with them dreams of flowers, 
 And wild notes warbled among leafy bowers ; 
 
 Two burning months let summer overleap, 
 
 And, coming back with Her who will be ours, 
 
 Into thy bosom we again shall creep.” 
 
 It cannot be out of place also to quote here the 
 •exquisite picture of Mrs. Wordsworth, written after the 
 experience of two years of married life. 
 
 “ She was a Phantom of delight 
 When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 
 
 A lovely Apparition, sent 
 To be a moment’s ornament: 
 
 Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair. 
 
 Like Twilight’s, too, her dusky hair ; 
 
 But all things else about her drawn 
 Prom May-time and the cheerful Dawn ; 
 
 A dancing Shape, an Image gay, 
 
 To haunt, to startle, and way-lay. 
 
 “ I saw her upon nearer view, 
 
 A Spirit, yet a Woman too ! 
 
 Her household motions light and free, 
 
 And steps of virgin-liberty ; 
 
 A countenance in which did meet 
 Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 
 
 A Creature not too bright or good 
 For human nature’s daily food ; 
 
The Circle Widened. 
 
 91 
 
 For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 
 
 Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 
 
 “ And now I see with eve serene 
 The very pulse of the machine ; 
 
 A Being breathing thoughtful breath, 
 
 A traveller between life and death ; 
 
 The reason firm, the temperate will, 
 
 Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ; 
 
 A perfect Woman, nobly planned. 
 
 To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
 
 And yet a Spirit still, and bright 
 With something of angelic light.” 
 
 Without the exultant spirits or rare mental endow- 
 ment of Miss Wordsworth, the poet’s wife was eminently 
 fitted for his companionship, one which lasted during 
 the fifty following years. She has been described as 
 having one of the most benignant tempers that ever 
 diffused peace and cheerfulness through a home. Al- 
 though 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: — 
 
 “ 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 
 
Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 92 
 
 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 Clark- 
 son 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 of 
 her own thoughts ; and it would have been strange, in- 
 deed, if she, who enjoyed such eminent advantages from 
 training, from the daily society of her husband and his 
 sister, failed to acquire some power of judging for her- 
 self, 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 — 
 
 ‘ She was a Phantom of delight, 
 
 When first she gleamed upon my sight.’ 
 
 . . . . I will add to this abstract of her moral 
 
The Circle Widened. 
 
 93 
 
 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 wdiich, in fact, she possessed uninterruptedly. 
 Her eyes, the reader may already know, were 
 
 ‘ Like stars of Twilight fair, 
 
 Like Twilight, too, her dark brown hair, 
 
 But all things else about her drawn 
 From May- time and the cheerful Dawn.’ 
 
 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 gracious - 
 ness — such as in this world I never saw surpassed.” 
 
 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, doubt- 
 less, formed a striking contrast to that of the im- 
 passioned 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 
 
94 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 charming of pieces. Who, having once read, does not 
 remember the lines on the daffodils ? — 
 
 “ 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 stretched 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 
 Out -did the sparkling waves in glee : 
 
 A poet could not but be 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 pensive 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.” 
 
 The lines in italics, suggested by Mrs. Wordsworth^ 
 here form the kernel of truth, the central gem around 
 which the lesser beauties are clustered. 
 
The Circle Widened. 
 
 95 . 
 
 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 : — 
 
 “ Oh, dearer far than light and life are dear, 
 
 Full oft our human foresight I deplore ; 
 
 Trembling, through my unworthiness, with fear 
 That friends, by death disjoined, may meet no more L 
 
 “ Misgivings, hard to vanquish or control, 
 
 Mix with the day, and cross the hour of rest ; 
 
 While all the future, for thy purer soul, 
 
 With ‘ sober certainties 9 of love is blest, 
 
 “ That sigh of thine, not meant for human ear, 
 
 Tells that these words thy humbleness offend ; 
 
 Yet bear me up — else faltering in the rear 
 Of a steep march ; support me to the end. 
 
 “ Peace settles where the intellect is meek, 
 
 And Love is dutiful in thought and deed ; 
 
 Through Thee Communion with that Love I seek : 
 
 The faith Heaven strengthens where He moulds the 
 Creed.” 
 
 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 
 
96 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 'enables aged hearts to rejoice in all things young and 
 beautiful : — 
 
 “ Morn into noon did pass, noon into eve, 
 
 And the old day was welcome as the young, 
 
 As welcome, and as beautiful — in sooth 
 More beautiful, as being a thing more holy : 
 
 Thanks to thy virtues, to the eternal youth 
 Of all thy goodness, never melancholy ; 
 
 To thy large heart and humble mind, that cast 
 Into one vision, future, present, past.” 
 
 ,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 com- 
 panion in one who had long been a cherished friend. 
 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 is it that his life was supremely happy, and his 
 work attained a fulness and completion seldom reached P 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Tour in Scotland. 
 
 I T 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 
 weeks’ 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 im- 
 pressions and reflections caused by it, Dorothy kept a 
 minute journal. Although not intended as a literary 
 production, and written only for the perusal and infor- 
 mation of friends, the style is not only pleasing but 
 elegant. Extracts were given in the Bishop of Lincoln’s 
 memorials, but it is a matter for congratulation that the 
 family of the writer at length consented to its publica- 
 tion. This was done in 1874, under the able editorship 
 of the late Principal Shairp, of St. Andrews, and the 
 work passed through several editions. Nbt 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 
 
 7 
 
98 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 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 Cole- 
 ridge, who does not, however, on this occasion, seem 
 to have been the desirable companion of old. Words- 
 worth 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 was, on certain 
 occasions, managed by the poets with some difficulty — 
 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 companion- 
 ship 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 
 
Tour in Scotland. 
 
 99 
 
 tender heart of young womanhood, but she was pos- 
 sessed of a mind singularly sympathetic with his own, 
 and with a kindred enthusiasm as to the objects in 
 view. Her robust health and strength at this time 
 made her such a comrade that this tour became to them 
 •an enduring joy, to be remembered for all life. 
 
 In giving a short account of this tour, it will be per- 
 missible to take the liberty of a reviewer of quoting 
 ~a few extracts. What strikes the reader the most in 
 Dorothy’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 sun- 
 shine, and the diversity of scenes, that spoke to them ; 
 but her 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 remem- 
 brance 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 Gras- 
 mere, 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 the ever-loving, thoughtful heart. 
 
 On the second day of their journey we find the 
 following entry in Miss Wordsworth’s diary : “ Passed 
 
100 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 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 dis- 
 appeared 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 Yale of Nith. At Dumfries, the grave and house 
 of Burns had a melancholy interest for them, Miss 
 Wordsworth stating that “there is no thought sur- 
 viving in Burns’s daily life that is not heart depressing.” 
 
 On leaving the Nith, Miss Wordsworth thus describes 
 the scenery : 44 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, 
 
Tour in Scotland. 
 
 101 
 
 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 tranquillity 
 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 
 round. 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, Yirgil, 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 
 
102 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 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, par- 
 ticularly 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. 4 Yes, sir,’ says Coleridge, 4 it 
 is a majestic waterfall.’ 4 Sublime and beautiful,’ re- 
 plied 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 r 
 44 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 
 
Tour in Scotland. 
 
 103 
 
 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 
 
104 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 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 com- 
 binations 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 
 
Tour in Scotland. 
 
 105 
 
 ^environs of that place. After having taken up at least 
 six closely-printed pages with the Trossachs, he con- 
 cludes 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 
 4 Trossachs 9 signifies 4 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 vaca- 
 tion, 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 4 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 cowhouse at one 
 end ; the kitchen, or house, in the middle ; and the 
 spence at the other end. The rooms were divided, not 
 
106 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 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 some time 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. 1 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- 
 
Totjr in Scotland. 
 
 107 
 
 but translate it to Drury Lane, with all its beautiful 
 colours ! ” 
 
 After staying a night at Glengyle, Miss Wordsworth 
 writes : — 
 
 “ It was ten o’clock when we departed. We had 
 learned that there was a ferry-boat three miles further,, 
 and if the man was at home he would row us down the 
 lake to the Trossachs. Our walk was mostly through 
 coppice-woods along a horse-road where narrow carts 
 might travel. Passed a white house which had looked 
 at us with such a friendly face when we were on the 
 other side ; it stood on the slope of a hill with green 
 pastures ; below it plots of corn and coppice-wood, and 
 behind a rocky steep covered with wood. It was a very 
 pretty place, but the morning being cold and dull, the 
 opposite shore appeared dreary. Near the white house, 
 we passed another of those little pinfold squares, which 
 we knew to be a burying-place. It was in a sloping- 
 green field among woods, and within the sound of the 
 beating of the water against the shore, if there were but 
 a gentle breeze to stir it. I thought if I lived in that 
 house, and my ancestors and kindred were buried there, 
 I should sit for many an hour under the walls of this 
 plot of earth where all the household would be gathered 
 together. We found the ferryman at work in the field 
 above his hut, and he was at liberty to go with us, but, 
 being wet and hungry, we begged that he would let us 
 sit by his fire till we had refreshed ourselves. This was 
 the first genuine Highland hut we had been in; we 
 entered by the cow-house, the house-door being within, 
 at right-angles to the outer door. The woman was 
 
108 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 exceedingly distressed that she had a bad fire, but she 
 heaped up some dry peats and heather, and, blowing it 
 with her breath, in a short time raised a blaze that 
 scorched us into uncomfortable feelings. A small part of 
 the smoke found its way out of the hole of the chimney, 
 the rest through the open window-places, one of which 
 was within the recess of the fireplace, and made a frame 
 to a little picture of the restless lake and the opposite 
 shore, seen when the outer door was open. The 
 woman of the house was very kind : whenever we 
 asked her for anything it seemed a fresh pleasure to 
 her that she had it for us ; she always answered with 
 •a softening down of the Scotch exclamation, ‘ hoot 9 : 
 * Ho ! yes, ye’ll get that,’ and hied to the cupboard in 
 the spence.” 
 
 Extracts from this admirable and fascinating journal 
 might be multiplied ; but the temptation must be 
 resisted. It is one which must be read to be en- 
 joyed. 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 High- 
 land 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 Words- 
 worth, 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 
 
Tour in Scotland. 
 
 109 
 
 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 : — 
 
 “ Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower 
 Of beauty is thy earthly dower ! 
 
 Twice seven consenting years have shed 
 Their utmost beauty on thy head : 
 
 And these grey rocks ; that household lawn 
 Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn ; 
 
 This fall of water that doth make 
 A murmur near the silent Lake ; 
 
 This little Bay, a quiet road 
 That holds in shelter thy abode ; 
 
 In truth, together do ye seem 
 Like something fashioned in a dream ; 
 
 Such Forms as from their covert peep 
 When earthly cares are laid asleep ! 
 
 But, O fair Creature ! in the light 
 Of common day, so heavenly bright, 
 
 I bless thee, Vision as thou art, 
 
 I bless thee with a human heart : 
 
 God shield thee to thy latest years ! 
 
 Thee neither know I, nor thy peers ; 
 
 And yet my eyes are filled with tears. 
 
 “ With earnest feeling I shall pray 
 For thee when I am far away : 
 
 For never saw I mien or face, 
 
 In which more plainly I could trace 
 
110 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 Benignity and home-bred sense 
 Ripening in perfect innocence. 
 
 Here, scattered like a random seed, 
 Remote from men, Thou dost not need 
 Th’ embarrass’d look of shy distress, 
 And maidenly shamefacedness ; 
 
 Thou wear’st upon thy forehead clear 
 The freedom of a Mountaineer ; 
 
 A face with gladness overspread ! 
 
 Soft smiles, by human kindness bred ! 
 And seemliness complete, that sways 
 Thy courtesies, about thee plays ; 
 
 With no restraint but such as springs 
 From quick and eager visitings 
 Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach 
 Of thy few words of English speech : 
 
 A bondage sweetly brook’d, a strife 
 That gives thy gestures grace and life ! 
 So have I, not unmoved in mind, 
 
 Seen birds of tempest-loving kind — 
 Thus beating up against the wind. 
 What hand but would a garland cull 
 For thee, who art so beautiful ? 
 
 O, happy pleasure ! here to dwell 
 Beside thee in some heathy dell ; 
 
 Adopt your homely ways, and dress, 
 
 A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess ! 
 
 But I could frame a wish for thee 
 More like a grave reality : 
 
 Thou art to me but as a wave 
 Of the wild sea : and I would have 
 
Tour in Scotland. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Some claim upon thee if I could. 
 
 Though but of common neighbourhood. 
 
 What joy to hear thee, and to see ! 
 
 Thy elder Brother I would be, 
 
 Thy Father — anything to thee. 
 
 “ Now thanks to Heaven ! that of its grace 
 Hath led me to this lonely place ! 
 
 Joy have I had ; and going hence 
 I bear away my recompence. 
 
 In spots like these it is we prize 
 Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes ; 
 
 Then, why should I be loth to stir ? 
 
 I feel this place was made for her ; 
 
 To give new pleasure like the past, 
 
 Continued long as life shall last. 
 
 Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart, 
 
 Sweet Highland Grirl, from thee to part ; 
 
 For I, methinks, till I grow old, 
 
 As fair before me shall behold, 
 
 As I do now, the Cabin small, 
 
 The Lake, the Bay, the Waterfall, 
 
 And Thee, the Spirit of them all.” 
 
 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, Grlen 
 Coe, Loch Tay, the Pass of Killicrankie, Dunkeld, 
 Callander, back by the Trossachs to Loch Lomond, 
 and eventually to Edinburgh. Approaching Loch 
 
112 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 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, 44 What ! 
 you are stepping westward ? ” She adds : 44 I 
 
 cannot describe how affecting this simple expres- 
 sion was in that remote place, with the western 
 sky in front, yet glowing with the departed sun.” 
 Wordsworth himself, some time afterwards, in re- 
 membrance of the incident, wrote the following- 
 poem : — 
 
 44 4 What ! you are stepping westward ? 9 6 Yea 9 
 
 — ’T would be a wildish destiny, 
 
 If we, who thus together roam 
 
 In a strange Land, and far from home, 
 
 Were in this place the guests of Chance; 
 
 Yet who would stop or fear to advance, 
 
 Though home or shelter he had none, 
 
 With such a sky to lead him on ? 
 
 44 The dewy ground was dark and cold, 
 
 Behind all gloomy to behold, 
 
 And stepping westward seem’d to be 
 A kind of heavenly destiny ; 
 
 I liked the greeting ; ’twas a sound 
 Of something without place or bound ; 
 
 And seemed to give me spiritual right 
 To travel through that region bright. 
 
Tour in Scotland, 
 
 113 
 
 “ The voice was soft ; and she who spake 
 Was walking by her native lake ; 
 
 The salutation was to me 
 The very sound of courtesy ; 
 
 Its power was felt, and while my eye 
 Was fix’d upon the glowing Sky, 
 
 The echo of the voice enwrought 
 A human sweetness, with the thought 
 Of travelling through the world that lay 
 Before me in my endless way.” 
 
 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 4 Arabian Nights’ Entertainments.’ ” 
 Not the least memorable part of their tour was a 
 visit to Sir — then Mr. — Walter Scott. 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 sun- 
 shine 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, 
 
 8 
 
114 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 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 Yalley of the Jed is very solitary imme- 
 diately 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, 
 
Tour in Scotland. 
 
 115 
 
 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, 
 jet 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.” 
 
CHAPTEE 5. 
 
 Captain Wordsworth — De Quincey — His 
 Description of Miss Wordsworth. 
 
 HE death of her brother, Captain John Words- 
 
 A worth, 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 poetic souls in mutual love more than 
 usually devoted. Captain Wordsworth recognised his 
 brother’s genius and greatness of soul, and felt assured 
 
Captain Wordsworth and De Quincey. 117 
 
 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 Words- 
 worth 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 all anxious thoughts. 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 a large sum of 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, 
 
118 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 appointed to the command of the East Indiaman,. 
 Abergavenny, bound for the East, he sailed from Ports- 
 mouth, 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 his friend 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 
 
Captain Wordsworth and D e Quincey. 119 
 
 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. W e 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 corre- 
 spondents. Shortly after the sad death of her brother, 
 Dorothy had, in the fulness of her heart, written to 
 Miss Lamb. Although the response to the communica- 
 tion 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 dissatis- 
 fied 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 
 
120 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 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 : — 
 
 “ ‘ Why is he wandering on the sea ? 
 
 Coleridge should now with Wordsworth be. 
 
 By slow degrees he’d steal away 
 Their woe and gently bring a ray 
 (So happily he’d time relief) 
 
 Of comfort from their very grief. 
 
 He’d tell them that their brother dead. 
 
 When years have passed o’er their head, 
 
 Will be remembered with such holy. 
 
 True, and perfect melancholy, 4 
 
 That ever this lost brother John' 
 
 Will be their heart's companion. 
 
 His voice they’ll always hear, 
 
 His face they’ll always see ; 
 
 There’s nought in life so sweet 
 As such a memory/ 9 9 
 
Captain Wordsworth and De Quincey. 121 
 
 Dorothy’s reply to this letter has not been preserved. 
 It came to the hands of Charles Lamb when his 
 sister was undergoing one of her temporary but most 
 sad confinements, in the asylum she periodically visited. 
 On the 14th of June, 1805, Charles wrote for her to 
 acknowledge the letter, one from which the following 
 . extract may be given : — “ Your long, kind letter has not 
 been thrown away (for it has given me great pleasure to 
 find you are all resuming your old occupations and are 
 better) ; but poor Mary, to whom it is addressed, cannot 
 yet relish it. She has been attacked by one of her severe 
 illnesses, and is at present from home . Last Monday 
 week was the day she left me, and I hope I may 
 calculate upon having her again in a month or little 
 more. I am rather afraid late hours have, in this case, 
 contributed to her indisposition. I have every reason to 
 suppose that this illness, like all the former ones, will be 
 but temporary ; but I cannot always feel so. Meantime 
 she is dead to me, and I miss a prop. All my strength 
 is gone, and I am like a fool, bereft of her co-operation. 
 I dare not think, lest I should think wrong, so used am 
 I to look up to her in the least as in the biggest 
 perplexity. To say all that I know of her would be more 
 than I think anybody could believe, or even under- 
 stand ; and when I hope to have her well again with 
 me, it would be sinning against her feelings to go about 
 to praise her, for I can conceal nothing that I do from 
 her. She is older and wiser and better than I, and all 
 my wretched imperfections I cover to myself by reso- 
 lutely thinking on her goodness. She would share life 
 and death, heaven and hell with me. She lives but for 
 
122 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 me ; and I know I have been wasting and teasing her 
 life for five years past incessantly with my cursed 
 drinking and ways of going on. But even in this, 
 upbraiding of myself I am offending against her, for I 
 know that she has clung to me for better for worse y 
 and if the balance has been against her hitherto it was- 
 a noble trade.” 
 
 It was in the year 1807 that De Quincey was added 
 to the number of the literary friends of the Words- 
 worths. He has given an interesting account of the 
 way in which the acquaintanceship was first formed 
 He had, indeed, been for some years an ardent admirer 
 of the poet, and had had some correspondence with him 
 a few years earlier. The characteristic timidity of this- 
 wayward genius is illustrated by the fact, that although 
 De Quincey had conceived an eager longing to form the 
 personal acquaintance of Wordsworth, and had been 
 favoured with a standing invitation to visit him, he* 
 allowed upwards of four years to pass without availing- 
 himself of the privilege of the meeting, “for which,, 
 beyond all things under heaven, he longed.” 
 
 He has recorded how he had on two occasions taken 
 a long journey with no other object. On one of these* 
 occasions he had proceeded as far only as Coniston — a 
 distance from Grasmere of eight miles — when, his 
 courage failing him, he returned. 
 
 The second time he actually so far kept up his. 
 courage as to traverse the distance between Coniston 
 and the Yale of Grasmere, and came in sight of the 
 “ little white cottage gleaming among trees,” which was 
 the goal of his desire. After, however, he had caught 
 
Captain Wordsworth and De Quincey. 12& 
 
 “ one hasty glimpse of this loveliest of landscapes,” he 
 “ retreated like a guilty thing.” This was in 1806. 
 During the following year circumstances combined to 
 bring about the much-desired meeting. 
 
 A short time after an introduction to Coleridge, in 
 the summer of this year, De Quincey learnt that Cole- 
 ridge, who was engaged to lecture in town, desired to 
 send his family to Keswick, and he was glad to accept 
 De Quincey’ s offer to escort them. As Grasmere lay in 
 their route, a call upon them was the most natural 
 thing, as was also an invitation to spend the night, and 
 resume their journey on the following day. 
 
 Describing the cottage, De Quincey says : “A little- 
 semi- vestibule between two doors prefaces the entrance 
 into what may be considered the principal room. It 
 was an oblong square, not above eight and a-half feet 
 high, sixteen feet long, and twelve feet broad ; very 
 prettily wainscotted from the floor to the ceiling with 
 dark-polished oak, slightly embellished with carving. 
 One window there was, a perfect and unpretending 
 cottage window, with little diamond panes, embowered 
 at almost every season of the year with roses, and, in 
 the summer and autumn, with a profusion of jasmine, 
 and other fragrant shrubs.” 
 
 After a description of Mrs. Wordsworth, before 
 alluded to, he follows with a most interesting account 
 of the appearance of Miss Wordsworth : “ Immediately 
 behind her moved a lady shorter, slighter, and, per- 
 haps, in all other respects, as different from her in 
 personal characteristics, as could have been wished for 
 the most effective contrast. Her face was of Egyptian 
 
124 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 brown ; rarely in a woman of English birth had I seen 
 a more determinate Gipsy tan. Her eyes were not soft, 
 -as Mrs. Wordsworth’s, nor were they fierce or bold ; but 
 they were wild and startling, and hurried in their 
 motion. Her manner was warm, and even ardent ; her 
 sensibility seemed constitutionally deep ; and some 
 subtle fire of impassioned intellect apparently burned 
 within her, which, being 'alternately pushed forward 
 into a conspicuous expression, by the irrepressible 
 instincts of her temperament, and then immediately 
 •checked, in obedience to the decorum of her sex and 
 age, and her maidenly condition, gave to her whole 
 demeanour, and to her conversation, an air of embarrass- 
 ment, and even of self-conflict, that was almost dis- 
 tressing to witness. Even her very utterance and 
 enunciation often suffered in point of clearness and 
 steadiness from the agitation of her excessive organic 
 sensibility. At times the self- counteraction and self- 
 baffling of her feelings caused her even to stammer, and 
 so determinately to stammer that a stranger who should 
 have seen her and quitted her in that state of feeling, 
 would certainly have set her down for one plagued with 
 that infirmity of speech as distressingly as Charles 
 Lamb himself. This was Miss Wordsworth, the only 
 sister of the poet — his ‘ Dorothy,’ who naturally owed so 
 much to the life-long intercourse with her great brother, 
 in his most solitary and sequestered years ; but, on the 
 other hand, to whom he has acknowledged obligations of 
 the profoundest nature ; and, in particular, this mighty 
 one, through which we also, the admirers and worshippers 
 of this great poet, are become equally her debtors — that 
 
Captain Wordsworth and De Quincey. 125 
 
 whereas the intellect of Wordsworth was, by its original 
 tendency, too stern, too austere, too much enamoured of 
 an ascetic harsh sublimity, she it was, — the lady who 
 paced by his side continually through sylvan and moun- 
 tain tracts — in Highland glens and in the dim recesses 
 of German charcoal burners — that first couched his eye 
 to the sense of beauty, humanised him by the gentler 
 charities, and engrafted with her delicate female touch 
 those graces upon the ruder growths of his nature, which 
 have since clothed the forest of his genius with a foliage 
 corresponding in loveliness and beauty to the strength of 
 its boughs and the massiness of its trunks. The greatest 
 deductions from Miss Wordsworth’s attractions, and 
 from the exceeding interest which surrounded her in 
 right of her character, of her history, and of the relation 
 which she fulfilled towards her brother, were the glancing 
 quickness of her motions, and other circumstances in 
 her deportment (such as her stooping attitude when 
 walking) which gave an ungraceful character to her 
 appearance when out of doors. She did not cultivate 
 the graces which preside over the person and its carriage. 
 But, on the other hand, she was a person of very re- 
 markable endowments, intellectually ; and, in addition 
 to the other great services which she rendered to her 
 brother, this I may mention as greater than all the rest, 
 and it was one which equally operated to the benefit of 
 every casual companion in a walk — viz., the exceeding 
 sympathy, always ready and always profound, by which 
 she made all that one could tell her, all that one could 
 describe, all that one could quote from a foreign author, 
 reverberate, as it were, d plusieurs reprises, to one’s own 
 
126 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 feelings, by the manifest impression it made upon hers . 
 The pulses of light are not more quick or more inevita- 
 ble in their flow and undulation than were the answering 
 and echoing movements of her sympathising attention. 
 Her knowledge of literature was irregular and thoroughly 
 unsystematic. She was content to be ignorant of many 
 things ; but what she knew and had really mastered 
 lay where it could not be disturbed — in the temple of 
 her own most fervid heart.” 
 
 Proceeding to compare his impressions of the two 
 ladies he adds : — “ Miss Wordsworth had seen more of 
 life, and even of good company; for she had lived, 
 when quite a girl, under the protection of Dr. Cookson, 
 a near relative, Canon of Windsor, and a personal 
 favourite of the Royal family, especially of George III. 
 Consequently she ought to have been the more polished 
 of the two ; and yet, from greater natural aptitudes for 
 refinement of manner in her sister-in-law, and partly, 
 perhaps, from her more quiet and subdued manner, Mrs. 
 Wordsworth would have been pronounced very much 
 the more lady-like person.” 
 
 In further allusion to Miss Wordsworth he says : — 
 “ Miss Wordsworth was too ardent and fiery a creature 
 to maintain the reserve essential to dignity ; and dignity 
 was the last thing one thought of in the presence of 
 one so natural, so fervent in her feelings, and so 
 embarrassed in their utterance — sometimes, also, in the 
 attempt to check them. It must not, however, be 
 supposed, that there was any silliness, or weakness of 
 enthusiasm, about her. She was under the continual 
 restraint of severe good sense, though liberated from 
 
Captain Wordsworth and De Quincey. 127 
 
 that false shame which, in so many persons, accom- 
 panies all expressions of natural emotion ; and she had 
 too long enjoyed the ennobling conversation of her 
 brother, and his admirable comments on the poets, 
 which they read in common, to fail in any essential 
 point of logic or propriety of thought. Accordingly, 
 her letters, though the most careless and unelaborate — 
 nay, the most hearty that can be imagined — are models 
 of good sense and just feeling. In short, beyond any 
 person I have known in this world, Miss Wordsworth 
 was the creature of impulse ; but, as a woman most 
 thoroughly virtuous and well principled, as one who 
 could not fail to be kept right by her own excellent 
 heart, and as an intellectual creature from her cradle, 
 with much of her illustrious brother’s peculiarity of 
 mind — finally, as one who had been, in effect, educated 
 and trained by that very brother — she won the 
 sympathy and respectful regard of every man worthy 
 to approach her.” 
 
 De Quincey subsequently relates how he was enter- 
 tained for the night in the best bedroom of the poet’s 
 home, and on the following morning discovered Miss 
 Wordsworth preparing the breakfast in the little sitting- 
 room. He adds : — “ On the third morning the whole 
 family, except the two children, prepared for the expedi- 
 tion across the mountains. I had heard of no horses, 
 and took it for granted that we were to walk ; however 
 at the moment of starting, a cart — the common farmer’s 
 cart of the country — made its appearance ; and the 
 driver was a bonny young woman of the vale. 
 Accordingly, we were carted along to the little town or 
 
128 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 village of Ambleside — three and a half miles distant. 
 Our style of travelling occasioned no astonishment ; on 
 the contrary, we met a smiling salutation wherever we 
 appeared — Miss Wordsworth being, as I observed, the 
 person the most familiarly known of our party, and 
 the one who took upon herself the whole expenses 
 of the flying colloquies exchanged with stragglers, 
 on the road.” 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Miss Wordsworth at Coleorton — Allan Bank — 
 The Parsonage — Death of Two of Wordsworth’s 
 Children. 
 
 A MONG- the many friendships of the Wordsworths 
 (to some of which reference is made in a sub- 
 sequent chapter) was a very notable one which existed 
 between them and Sir George and Lady Beaumont, of 
 Coleorton Hall, in Leicestershire. This friendship, 
 which Wordsworth has said he reckoned “ among the 
 blessings of his life,” was formed in the year 1803, and 
 continued in undiminished fervour and confidence until 
 broken by death. Sir George had for some years 
 recognised the genius of the poet, and advantage was 
 taken of a visit which he made to Coleridge, while 
 resident at Greta Hall, Keswick, for the formation of 
 a persona] acquaintance. This resulted in an intimate 
 correspondence between the baronet and his wife and 
 the various members of the Wordsworth family for 
 many years, and in many friendly visits being paid to 
 Coleorton by the latter. In many ways the unvarying 
 kindness to, and interest in, the poet’s household were 
 shown by the Beaumonts. As Wordsworth’s family 
 increased — four children being born in Dove Cottage — 
 the accommodation of that small but dearly-loved 
 
 9 
 
130 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 place became insufficient for liis needs. In the 
 winter of 1806 and 1807 the Wordsworths availed 
 themselves of the generosity of Sir George in asking 
 them to occupy a farmhouse at Coleorton. The hall 
 was at this time being rebuilt, and the poet spent 
 much time in laying-out and arranging flower-beds, 
 walks, and shrubberies, in planting and in writing 
 inscriptions for the trees and grounds. In this 
 way this historic place is made full of memories of 
 the poet as well as of Sir George, who was himself 
 a painter of no small merit, and a descendant of the 
 famous dramatist, Francis Beaumont. In this work, 
 so congenial to the poet, he was aided in no small 
 measure by his sister, whose eye was unerring, and 
 whose aptness for detecting and contriving harmony 
 in pleasure-grounds was remarkable. 
 
 Shortly after their return to Grasmere, the incon- 
 veniences of their narrow home still continuing, they 
 removed to Allan Bank, a substantial residence on the 
 hillside, near' the entrance to the Yale of Easedale. 
 This abode is not nearly so closely connected with the 
 memory of the Wordsworths as either Dove Cottage or 
 Bydal Mount. The time, however, was not by any 
 means an unproductive one, for here was composed 
 the greater part of the “ Excursion,” the whole of 
 which poem is said to have been transcribed by the 
 faithful and industrious sister. 
 
 It is interesting to know that after their removal 
 from Dove Cottage, that now historic place became for 
 many years the home of De Quincey. After his first 
 visit, of which he has given such a graphic account, it 
 
Miss Wordsworth at Coleorton. 
 
 131 
 
 ••appears that he paid another towards the end of 1808 ; 
 and that he then enjoyed the hospitality of the Words- 
 worths until the February following, when, having 
 assisted during a stay in London in the correction 
 in its progress through the press of Wordsworth’s 
 pamphlet, “ The Convention of Cintra,” he formed the 
 project of settling in Grasmere. Writing to him, Miss 
 Wordsworth says : — “ Soon you must have rest, and we 
 •-shall all be thankful. You have indeed been a treasure 
 to us while you have been in London, having spared 
 my brother so much anxiety and care. We are very 
 grateful to you.” 
 
 Whatever service De Quincey rendered to Words- 
 worth in assisting in the publication of “ The Convention 
 of Cintra ” was much more than repaid in the active 
 kindness of Miss Wordsworth herself, who was for 
 some months engaged in preparing the cottage at Town 
 End for its new resident. It was, indeed, no small 
 service for her to undertake the multifarious and 
 •exhausting duties in connection with the furnishing 
 and fitting up of a home ; and shows not only her 
 unflagging activity and energy, but also her sound 
 sense and excellent judgment. As an instance of her 
 thoughtful economy on the occasion may be mentioned 
 her reason for choosing mahogany for book shelves 
 instead of deal, for she says : — “ Native woods are 
 dear; and that in case De Quincey should leave the 
 •country and have a sale, no sort of wood sells so well 
 at second-hand as mahogany.” 
 
 The frequent allusions in these pages to De Quincey, 
 -and his close association for some years with the Words- 
 
132 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 worths, render it necessary that some further reference 
 should be made to his subsequent connection with 
 Grasmere. 
 
 In 1816 De Quincey married a young woman named 
 Margaret Simpson, the daughter of a farmer living in a 
 cottage under Nab Scar, not far from his own at Town 
 End, who became devoted to his interests. He con- 
 tinued to reside partly at Grasmere until the year 1830, 
 although his literary duties necessitated his being much 
 at London and Edinburgh. It was in 1821 that his 
 now famous “ Confessions of an Opium Eater ” began 
 to appear in the pages of the London Magazine. After- 
 wards his connection with Blackwood took him a good 
 deal to Edinburgh. Although he and his wife did not 
 like the idea of quitting altogether the peaceful vale 
 where she had been reared, it became evident that it was 
 undesirable to keep up two houses, leaving his wife and 
 children so much alone at Grasmere. The following- 
 extract from a letter written by Miss Wordsworth to 
 him in November of this year shows her warm interest 
 in him and his family, and her readiness to give well- 
 timed sympathy and aid. After alluding to a visit paid 
 by her to Mrs. De Quincey, and the health of the chil- 
 dren, she says: — “Mrs. De Quincey seemed, on the 
 whole, in very good spirits ; but, with something of 
 sadness in her manner, she told me you were not likely 
 very soon to be at home. She then said that you had, 
 at present, some literary employments at Edinburgh, 
 and had, besides, an offer (or something to this effect) 
 of a permanent engagement, the nature of which she 
 did not know, but that you hesitated about accepting it. 
 
Miss Wordsworth at Allan Bank. 
 
 133 
 
 ;as it might necessitate you to settle in Edinburgh. To 
 this I replied, ‘ Why not settle there, for the time, at 
 least, that this engagement lasts ? Lodgings are cheap 
 at Edinburgh, and provisions and coals not dear. Of 
 this fact I had some weeks’ experience four years ago.’ 
 I then added that it was my firm opinion that you could 
 never regularly keep up your engagements at a distance 
 from the Press, and, said I, 4 pray tell him so when 
 you write.’ She replied, 4 do write yourself.’ Now I 
 could not refuse to give her pleasure by so doing, 
 especially being assured that my letter would not be 
 wholly worthless to you, having such agreeable news 
 to send of your family.” 
 
 This excellent advice was soon afterwards acted 
 upon, and Edinburgh became the scene of Be Quincey’s 
 further life and labours. 
 
 A melancholy incident which occurred during her 
 residence at Allan Bank may be mentioned, since 
 Miss Wordsworth took such an active, sympathetic 
 interest in the relief and succour of the sufferers. 
 Nestling in the valley of Easedale still stands a 
 humble farmhouse called Blentarn Ghyll, which takes 
 its name from a mountain ravine near by. Here, in the 
 year 1808, lived an industrious farmer and his wife, 
 named George and Sarah Green, with their six children, 
 the youngest a baby and the eldest a girl of nine or ten. 
 On the morning of a day long to be remembered George 
 Green and his wife started off over the mountains — a 
 distance of five or six miles — to Langdale, to attend a 
 sale of furniture (on which occasions these scattered 
 neighbours used to meet), intending to return the same 
 
134 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 evening. Notwithstanding that some of their friends 
 endeavoured to dissuade them from returning by the 
 mountains, they, in the afternoon, started on their 
 return journey. And neither of them was ever seen in 
 life again. A fall of snow came, in which they hope- 
 lessly lost their way, and, as De Quincey says, “ they 
 disappeared into the cloud of death.” Meanwhile, the 
 poor little children sat round the fire waiting in vain 
 for their parents’ return. The eldest, whose emotions 
 were, during that and subsequent days, changed from 
 those of a child of tender years to those of a mother,, 
 became heroic in her devotion to her tiny brothers and 
 sisters. The lonely farmhouse, with its little inhabit- 
 ants, was for some days surrounded by drifts of snow,, 
 which prevented their leaving it. Meantime, as day 
 succeeded day, the brave child cheered up the others, 
 as best she could, preparing their scanty meals, and 
 making the elder ones say their prayers night and 
 morning. It was not until the third day that she was 
 able to force her way through the snow and tell the sad 
 tale, inquiring with tearful face whether her father and 
 mother had been seen. 
 
 Such was the interest felt in the story of their loss, 
 that all the able-bodied men of Grasmere formed them- 
 selves into a search band ; but it was not until after 
 the expiration of three days that the bodies of the* 
 faithful couple were found near Dungeon Ghyll, the- 
 husband being at the bottom of a rock, from which he 
 had fallen, where his wife had crept round to him.. 
 They were only a few hundred yards from a farmhouse, 
 to which, however, their cries for help had not reached. 
 
Miss Wordsworth at Allan Bank. 
 
 135 
 
 or had been mistaken. In the future of the helpless 
 orphans Miss Wordsworth took an active interest, and 
 raised a considerable sum of money for their benefit. 
 The Royal Family were made acquainted with the sad 
 history, and the Queen herself and her daughters 
 became subscribers to the fund. The children were 
 taken into different families in the neighbourhood, one 
 of them going to live with the Wordsworths. The 
 heroic little girl died many years ago, and is buried in 
 Grasmere Churchyard beside her parents. 
 
 Among other lasting friendships of the Wordsworths 
 which was formed about this period is that with Mr. 
 Henry Crabb Robinson, whose “ Diary and Reminis- 
 cences ” afford some pleasant recollections of many of 
 the literati of his time, among whom he had a very 
 extensive acquaintance. In 1810 Miss Wordsworth 
 had been paying a visit to Mr. and Mrs. Clarkson (of 
 anti-slave trade celebrity) at Bury. Mr. Robinson met 
 her there, and, being about to return to London when 
 Miss Wordsworth was intending to pay a visit to 
 Charles and Mary Lamb, he undertook to escort her 
 thither. Upon her return home she wrote to him the 
 following letter : — 
 
 “ Grasmere , November 6, 1810. 
 
 44 My Dear Sir, — I am very proud of the commission 
 my brother has given me, as it affords me an oppor- 
 tunity of expressing the pleasure with which I think 
 of you, and of our long journey side by side in the 
 pleasant sunshine, our splendid entrance into the great 
 city, and our rambles together in the crowded streets. 
 
136 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 I assure you I am not ungrateful for even the least of 
 your kind attentions, and shall be happy in return to 
 be your guide amongst these mountains, where, if you 
 bring a mind free from care, I can promise you a rich 
 store of noble enjoyments. My Brother and Sister will 
 be exceedingly happy to see you ; and, if you tell him 
 Stories from Spain of enthusiasm, patriotism, and 
 detestation of the Usurper, my Brother will be a ready 
 listener; and in presence of these grand works of 
 Nature you may feed each other’s lofty hopes. We are 
 waiting with the utmost anxiety for the Issue of that 
 battle which you arranged so nicely by Charles Lamb’s 
 fireside. My Brother goes to seek the newspapers when- 
 ever it is possible to get a sight of one, and he is almost 
 out of patience that the tidings are delayed so long. 
 We had this morning a letter from Mrs. Montagu with 
 alarming accounts of the state of the King’s health. 
 We are loyal subjects, wishing him a long life, and, 
 if he die at this time, shall sincerely grieve for 
 his death. No doubt you have heard that our Friend 
 Coleridge accompanied the Montagus to London, and 
 possibly you may even have seen him. They and 
 I were travelling at the same time, but we took different 
 roads, otherwise we might have had a mortifying 
 glimpse of each other’s faces, or a three minutes’ talk 
 at some inn ; for on your side of Manchester the people 
 are never more than three minutes in changing horses 
 for the mail. I am much afraid that Miss Lamb is 
 very poorly. I have had a letter from Charles written 
 in miserably bad spirits. I had thoughtlessly (and you 
 cannot imagine how bitterly I reproach myself for it), 
 
Miss Wordsworth at Allan Bank. 137 
 
 I had thoughtlessly requested her to execute some com- 
 missions for me, and her brother writes to beg that I 
 will hold her excused from every office of that sort at 
 present, she being utterly unable to support herself 
 under any fatigue either of body or mind. Why had I 
 not the sense to perceive this truth in its full extent ? 
 I have caused them great pain by forcing them to a 
 refusal, and myself many inward pangs. I feel as if I 
 ought to have perceived that everything out of the 
 common course of her own daily life caused excitement 
 and agitation equally injurious to her. Charles speaks 
 of the necessity of absolute quiet, and at the same 
 time of being sometimes obliged to have company that 
 they would be better without. Surely, in such a case 
 as theirs, it would be right to select whom they will 
 admit, admit those only when they are likely to be 
 bettered by society, and to exclude all others ! They 
 have not one true friend who would not take it the more 
 kindly of them to be so treated. 
 
 “ Pray, as you are most likely to see Charles , at least 
 from time to time, tell me how they are going on. 
 There is nobody in the world out of our house for 
 whom I am more deeply interested. You will, I know, 
 be happy that our little ones are all going on well. 
 The delicate little Catherine, the only one for whom we 
 had any serious alarm, gains ground daily. Yet it will 
 be long before she can be or have the appearance of 
 being a stout Child. There was great joy in the house 
 at my return, which each showed in a different way. 
 They are sweet wild creatures, and I think you would 
 love them all. John is thoughtful with his wildness ; 
 
138 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 Dorothy alive, active, and quick ; Thomas, innocent 
 and simple as a new-born Babe. John had no 
 feeling but of bursting joy when he saw me. Dorothy’s, 
 first question was, ‘Where is my doll?’ We had 
 delightful weather when I first got home ; but on the 
 fourth morning Dorothy roused me from my sleep with,. 
 ‘ It is time to get up, Aunt ; it is a blasty morning — 
 it does blast so.’ And the next morning, not more 
 encouraging to me, she said, ‘ It is a haily morning — 
 it hails so hard ! ’ You must know that our house- 
 stands on a hill, exposed to all hails and blasts , and 
 the cold seemed to cut me through and through. . . . 
 
 “ D. Wordsworth.” 
 
 From the above letter it will be seen, as can be 
 well understood, that Miss Wordsworth was a great 
 favourite with the poet’s children, of whom there were 
 then born the four mentioned. To these children, and 
 the interests and enjoyments of their young lives, she 
 devoted herself with the unselfish devotion and zeal 
 which so pervaded her life and animated her conduct. 
 
 Sara Coleridge, the daughter of Samuel Taylor Cole- 
 ridge, between whose family and that of Wordsworth 
 the most cordial relations always existed, in the record 
 of her early life has a pleasant recollection of a visit 
 paid by her to Allan Bank when she was six years old.. 
 She writes : — “ That journey to Grasmere gleams be- 
 fore me as the shadow of a shade. Allan Bank is a 
 large house on the hill overlooking Easedale on one 
 side and Grasmere on the other. Dorothy, Mr. Words- 
 worth’s only daughter, was at the time very picturesque- 
 
Miss Wordsworth at the Parsonage. 139 
 
 in her appearance, with her long thick yellow locks, 
 which were never cut, but curled with papers, a thing 
 which seems much out of keeping with the poetic, 
 simple household. I remember being asked by my 
 father and Miss Wordsworth, the poet’s sister, if I did 
 not think her very pretty. 4 No,’ said I, bluntly, for 
 which I met with a rebuff, which made me feel as if I 
 was a culprit.” 
 
 Miss Coleridge also gives the following reminiscence : 
 — “ Miss Wordsworth, Mr. Wordsworth’s sister, of most 
 poetic eye and temper, took a great part with the 
 children. She told us once a pretty story of a primrose, 
 I think, which she espied by the wayside when she went 
 to see me soon after my birth, though that was at 
 Christmas, and how this same primrose was still bloom- 
 ing when she went back to Grasmere.” 
 
 The life of Miss Wordsworth had hitherto been, on 
 the whole, one of serene and calm enjoyment. In the 
 social circle bound so closely in mutual affection, and so* 
 richly endowed with the faculty of making herself 
 happy — of truly living — the only cloud during many 
 years of brightness had been the death of her brother 
 John. It could not, however, but have been expected 
 that the happy circle would become still more ac- 
 quainted with the common lot of mortal life* 
 
 During their residence at the parsonage at Grasmere,, 
 where they were living in 1812, the circle was broken by 
 the loss of two of their children, then five in number. 
 In the case of one, the interesting and delicate little 
 Kate, then about four years old, the circumstances 
 were peculiarly distressing. 
 
140 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 She had gone to bed bright and happy at the hour of 
 a June sunset, was discovered in a speechless condition 
 about midnight, and died in convulsions after a few 
 hours’ suffering. While, as may be imagined, the grief 
 of her parents at the loss was great, that of De Quincey 
 {who was not at Grasmere at the time, and was 
 informed of the event by Miss Wordsworth) was so 
 poignant and extravagant as to become romantic. The 
 dear child had got so near the heart of the little 
 dreamy opium-eater — had, in fact, found so warm a 
 corner there — that he seemed to be almost overwhelmed. 
 The heart was empty, and the eyes that could no longer 
 gaze upon the living form were filled with its image. 
 He used to imagine that he saw her. So great was his 
 grief that we are told he often spent the night upon her 
 grave. This may appear very extravagant, as it doubt- 
 less is ; but we cannot measure a man like De Quincey 
 by any ordinary standard. Possessing as he did a 
 gigantic and immortal genius, he was at the same time 
 one of the most unimaginable and eccentric, unreal and 
 dreamy of beings that ever owned a warm human 
 heart. The Wordsworth children were especially dear 
 to him, and particularly so little Catherine. And they 
 returned his affection. Three weeks before her death 
 he had seen her for the last time. In his letter to Miss 
 Wordsworth he says : — “ The children were speaking to 
 me altogether, and I was saying one thing to one and 
 another to another, and she, who could not speak loud 
 enough to overpower the other voices, had got on a 
 chair, and putting her hand upon my mouth, she said, 
 with her sweet importunateness of action and voice* 
 
Miss Wordsworth at the Parsonage. 141 
 
 * Kinsey, Kinsey, what a bring Katy from London ? r 
 I believe she said it twice ; and I remember that her 
 mother noticed the earnestness and intelligence of her 
 manner, and looked at me and smiled. This was the 
 last time that I heard her sweet voice distinctly, and 1 
 shall never hear one like it again.” 
 
 The death of Catherine was followed six months later 
 by that of her brother Thomas, six and a half years 
 old. This double affliction made the Wordsworths glad 
 to remove from the neighbourhood of the churchyard,, 
 which so constantly reminded them of their loss. It 
 was for this reason that, in 1813, they went to reside 
 at Kydal Mount, which was thenceforth the home of' 
 Dorothy Wordsworth until her death — a period of more: 
 than forty years. 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Rydal Mount — Dora Wordsworth. 
 
 S INCE their settlement in Grasmere, the worldly 
 circumstances of Wordsworth, as well as those of 
 his sister, had considerably improved. We have seen 
 upon what slender, combined means they began house- 
 keeping, living in “ noble poverty ” — and were happy. 
 Shortly afterwards the then Earl of Lonsdale honour- 
 ably paid to the Wordsworths the large sum of money 
 which, as has been before mentioned, had been with- 
 held by his father. The share of each of them of this 
 is said to have been about <£1,800. In addition to this 
 the poet’s muse had begun to be more profitable to him. 
 Though he had not then been awarded that high and 
 foremost rank in the inspired choir which he has since 
 attained, yet his power as a great poet was beginning to 
 be acknowledged by more than the select number who 
 had from the first recognised his genius. 
 
 About this time he also had conferred upon him the 
 appointment as distributor of stamps for Westmoreland. 
 While the emoluments of this office formed a sub- 
 stantial addition to the poet’s income, its duties were 
 such that they could be chiefly performed by deputy. 
 
 In obtaining for their new home the now classic 
 Rydal Mount, the good fortune of the Wordsworths 
 
Rydal Mount — Dora Wordsworth. 
 
 143 
 
 •did not fail them. The “modest mansion ” is well 
 known, and many descriptions of it have been given. 
 For the beauty of its situation, and the amenities of its 
 surroundings, it is almost unsurpassed. It has been 
 somewhere stated that whilst most persons, who, 
 having chosen their own residences, think them the first, 
 they are all ready to give the second place to Rydal 
 Mount. The house stands in an elevated position, 
 being on a plateau on the south side of Nab Scar. 
 Those who have been fortunate enough to gain admis- 
 sion to the now strictly-guarded grounds will remember 
 that striking off from the side of the house is a walk 
 •called the Upper Terrace. From this path the views 
 are exceedingly lovely. Immediately in front is the 
 Rothay Valley, backed by the richly-wooded heights of 
 Loughrigg, with Windermere in the distance to the 
 left, 4 4 a light thrown into the picture in the winter 
 season, and in the summer a beautiful feature, changing 
 with every hue of the sky.” About halfway along the 
 terrace we come to a rustic alcove, built of fir poles, and 
 lined with cones. Here, we should think, the walk 
 ends, for we are parallel with the boundary wall of the 
 garden below ; but opening a door, we find the road 
 branches slightly to the right, and, opening into the far 
 terrace, reveals a surprise view. Here we see beneath 
 us Rydal Water, gemmed with its romantic islands, and 
 beyond, the green slope of Loughrigg Terrace. Fol- 
 lowing the path, with its banks of ferns and flowers, 
 for about fifty yards, we find it terminated by a little 
 wicket gate, which opens upon a field, whence is a 
 bridle path under Nab Scar as far as the White Moss 
 
144 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 Common, where is joined the old road to Grasmere. 
 On the left of the Upper Terrace is a dwarf wall, niched 
 with ferns and mosses. Below this wall is another 
 terrace walk — a level one — afterwards formed by the 
 poet himself, chiefly for the sake of Miss Fenwick, 
 who became a valued friend, and, in after years, an 
 inmate at By dal Mount. 
 
 Alluding to their removal to Bydal Mount, Dorothy 
 wrote : “It is a place that, ten years ago, if I should 
 have dreamed it would ever be ours, I would almost 
 have danced for joy.” On being settled she wrote: 
 “ The place is a paradise ; but my inner thoughts will 
 go back to Grasmere. I was the last person who left 
 the house yesterday evening. It seemed as quiet as 
 the grave ; and the very churchyard, where our dead lie, 
 when I gave a last look upon it, seemed to cheer my 
 thoughts. Then I could think of life and immortality. 
 The house only reminded me of desolate gloom, empti- 
 ness, and cheerless silence. But why do I now turn to 
 these things ? The morning is bright, and I am more 
 cheerful.” 
 
 A poetical description of this chosen retreat, by Miss 
 Jewsbury, and published in The Literary Magnet for 
 1826, may be quoted here : — 
 
 “ The Poet’s Home. 
 
 “ Low and white, yet scarcely seen, 
 
 Are its walls for mantling green ; 
 
 Hot a window lets in light, 
 
 But through flowers clustering bright ; 
 
 Hot a glance may wander there, 
 
Rydal Mount — Dora Wordsworth. 145 
 
 But it falls on something fair ; 
 Garden choice, and fairy mound, 
 Only that no elves are found ; 
 Winding walk, and sheltered nook, 
 For student grave and graver book : 
 Or a bird-like bower, perchance, 
 
 Fit for maiden and romance. 
 
 Then, far off, a glorious sheen 
 Of wide and sunlit waters seen ; 
 Hills that in the distance lie, 
 
 Blue and yielding as the sky ; 
 
 And nearer, closing round the nest, 
 The home of all the ‘ living crest/ 
 Other rocks and mountains stand, 
 Rugged, yet a guardian band, 
 
 Like those that did, in fable old, 
 Elysium from the world enfold. 
 
 “ Companions meet 
 
 Thou shalt have in thy retreat : 
 
 One of long-tried love and truth, 
 Thine in age as thine in youth ; 
 
 One, whose locks of partial grey 
 Whisper somewhat of decay, 
 
 Yet whose bright and beaming eye 
 Tells of more that cannot die. 
 
 “ Then a second form beyond, 
 
 Thine, too, by another bond, 
 Sportive, tender, graceful, wild — 
 Scarcely woman, more than child — 
 One who doth thy heart entwine, 
 
 10 
 
146 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 Like the ever-clinging vine ; 
 
 One to whom thou art a stay, 
 
 As the oak that, scarred and grey, 
 
 Standeth on, and standeth fast, 
 
 Strong and stately to the last. 
 
 “ Poet’s lot like this hath been ; 
 
 Such, perchance, may I have seen ; 
 
 Or in fancy’s fairy land, 
 
 Or in truth, and near at hand : 
 
 If in fancy, then, forsooth, 
 
 Fancy had the force of truth ; 
 
 If, again, a truth it were. 
 
 Then were truth as fancy fair ; 
 
 But, which ever it might be, 
 
 ‘ ’Twas a Paradise to me.’ ” 
 
 Of the “ companions meet ” referred to above it is 
 evident that the first-named “ of long-tried love and 
 truth ” is Miss Wordsworth ; the second, Mrs. Words- 
 worth ; and the third, Miss Dora Wordsworth, the 
 poet’s daughter. 
 
 At the time of the removal to Kydal Mount, in the 
 spring of 1813, the family, in addition to the parents 
 and Miss Wordsworth, consisted of three children, of 
 whom the second — Dorothy, or Dora, born in 1804 — was 
 of the interesting age of nine years. She was named 
 after her aunt, Miss Wordsworth ; for, although her 
 father would have preferred to have called her Mary, 
 the name Dorothy, as he stated to Lady Beaumont, had 
 been so long devoted in his own thoughts to the first 
 daughter he might have, he could not break his promise 
 
Rydal Mount — Dora Wordsworth. 147 
 
 to himself. By way of further distinguishing her from 
 her aunt, Mr. Crabb Robinson used to call her Dorina. 
 To this surviving daughter, as she grew up to woman- 
 hood, Wordsworth was passionately attached. Inherit- 
 ing as she did, in no slight degree, the family genius, 
 he seemed to see reproduced in her a harmonious blend- 
 ing of the characteristics and mental lineaments of his 
 wife and sister, the two beings in the world whom he 
 had most devotedly loved. 
 
 Wordsworth’s later poems contain several allusions 
 to Dora. In this place may be quoted a stanza or two 
 from “ The Triad,” written in celebration of Edith 
 Southey, Dora Wordsworth, and Sara Coleridge: — 
 
 “ Open, ye thickets ! let her fly, 
 
 Swift as a Thracian Nymph o’er field and height ! 
 For She, to all but those who love her, shy, 
 
 Would gladly vanish from a Stranger’s sight; 
 Though where she is beloved and loves, 
 
 Light as the wheeling butterfly she moves ; 
 
 Her happy spirit as a bird is free, 
 
 That rifles blossoms on a tree, 
 
 Turning them inside out with arch audacity. 
 
 Alas ! how little can a moment show 
 Of an eye where feeling plays 
 In ten thousand dewy rays ; 
 
 A face o’er which a thousand shadows go ! 
 
 — She stops — is fastened to that rivulet’s side ; 
 
 And there (while, with sedater mien, 
 
 O’er timid waters that have scarcely left 
 Their birth-place in the rocky cleft, 
 
148 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 She bends) at leisure may be seen 
 Features to old ideal grace allied, 
 
 Amid their smiles and dimples dignified — 
 
 Fit countenance for the soul of primal truth : 
 
 The bland composure of eternal youth ! 
 
 “ What more changeful than the sea ? 
 
 But over his great tides 
 Fidelity presides ; 
 
 And this light-hearted Maiden, constant is as he. 
 High is her aim as heaven above, 
 
 And wide as ether her good-will ; 
 
 And, like the lowly reed, her love 
 Can drink its nurture from the scantiest rill : 
 Insight as keen as frosty star 
 Is to her charity no bar, 
 
 Nor interrupts her frolic graces 
 When she is, far from these wild places, 
 
 Encircled by familiar faces.” 
 
 Writing of Dora Wordsworth, Miss Coleridge says : — 
 “ There is truth in the sketch of Dora — poetic truth, 
 though such as none but a poetic father would have 
 seen. She was unique in her sweetness and goodness. 
 I mean that her character was most peculiar — a com- 
 pound of vehemence of feeling and gentleness, sharp- 
 ness and lovingness, which is not often seen.” 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Friends — Tour on Continent — Correspondence. 
 
 S OME reference more special than hitherto should 
 be made to the more outer influences which 
 entered into the life of Miss Wordsworth. Although 
 so bound up in her brother, her life presented many 
 sides, and her sympathies, as will have been seen, were 
 by no means limited in their operation to the household 
 circle. As in all other things, they were one in their 
 friendships. Both Wordsworth and his sister attached 
 a high value to the sweet intercourse of life which gives 
 to it so much charm. Probably those who are capable 
 of the truest friendship are also the greatest lovers of 
 solitude. If Wordsworth loved to steal away — alone, 
 or with his sister or wife — to the solitudes of Nature ; 
 if he was first the poet and Interpreter of Nature, he 
 was also eminently a poet of Humanity. In many 
 well-known poems — incidents of life among the rural 
 population around him — is shown true sympathy with 
 the deepest feelings of the human heart. Nowhere in 
 the annals of poetry do we find more genuine pathos 
 than in such stories as “Michael,” “The Brothers,” 
 and others. 
 
 The friendships of the Wordsworths were many, and 
 they were very real ones. They would form the subject 
 
150 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 of a separate and very interesting study. As children 
 their friendships were notable. Very pathetic is the 
 allusion in the Prelude to the boy who 
 
 “ Was taken from his mates and died 
 In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old.” 
 
 And of whom the poet says : 
 
 “ And through that churchyard when my way has led 
 On summer evenings, I believe that there 
 A long half-hour together I have stood 
 Mute, looking at the grave in which he lies.” 
 
 A few of the Wordsworth friendships may be just 
 mentioned. Dating from the period when William and 
 Dorothy removed from their first home on account of 
 it, we have that so truly wonderful which existed be- 
 tween them and S. T. Coleridge, whom Lamb has called 
 “ an archangel a little damaged.” Coleridge, that rare 
 genius of whom it has been said that “even in the 
 dilapidation of his powers, due chiefly, if you will, to 
 his own unthrifty management of them, we might, 
 making proper deductions, apply to him what Mark 
 Antony says of the dead Caesar : — 
 
 “He was the ruins of the noblest man 
 That ever lived in the tide of time.” 
 
 Shortly after the settlement of the Wordsworths 
 at Grasmere, Coleridge resided partly at Greta Hall, 
 Keswick, and many were the visits paid by him to Dove 
 Cottage, where he was ever welcomed by the brother 
 and sister, and afterwards by the other “ inmate of 
 the heart,” who resided there. For in the time of 
 
Friends. 
 
 151 
 
 their residence at Grasmere he would come to his 
 beloved friends for comfort and inspiration. The old 
 yearning for the past companionship often led his 
 footsteps over the hills from Keswick to their 
 Mountain Cottage Home : — 
 
 “ Full many a time upon a stormy night 
 His voice came to us from the neighbouring height ; 
 Oft could we see him driving full in view 
 At midday, when the sun was shining bright.” 
 
 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 bed-ridden ; 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.” 
 
 Notwithstanding a temporary misunderstanding, the 
 
152 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 relations between these friends were of a very rare 
 character. Writing of Wordsworth, Coleridge referred 
 to him as the “ man for whom I must find another 
 name than friend , if I call any others but him by the 
 name of friend.” After a few memorable evenings 
 spent at Coleorton in the winter of 1806, before 
 referred to, when Wordsworth first read to the 
 assembled friends the manuscript of the Prelude, 
 Coleridge wrote to his friend the memorable poem 
 commencing : — 
 
 “ O Friend, 0 Teacher ! God’s great gift to me.” 
 and ending : — 
 
 “ And when — 0 Friend, my Comforter ! my Guide ! 
 Strong in thyself and powerful in strength ! 
 
 Thy long- sustained song finally closed, 
 
 And thy deep voice had ceased — yet thou thyself 
 Wert still before mine eyes, and round us both 
 That happy vision of beloved faces 
 (All whom I deepliest love — in one room all !) 
 
 Scarce conscious and yet conscious of its close, 
 
 I sate, my being blended in one thought 
 (Thought was it ? or aspiration? or resolve?) 
 Absorbed; yet hanging still upon the sound — 
 
 And when I rose I found myself in prayer.” 
 
 Other friends also, dating from the same Nether 
 Stowey period, were Southey, also for several years 
 subsequently resident at Greta Hall ; the Wedgwoods ; 
 Clarkson, of anti- slave trade celebrity ; Mr. (afterwards 
 Sir) Humphry Davy ; and others, not unknown to 
 
Friends. 
 
 153 
 
 fame. The inseparable and incomparable Charles 
 and Mary Lamb were also among the earliest friends 
 of the Wordsworths. Although they could seldom 
 be induced to leave their beloved metropolis, Dorothy 
 from time to time paid visits to them there. Their 
 intercourse was close, and their mutual interest never 
 waned. 
 
 To these friends of the early days should be added 
 others who, with them, afterwards contributed in 
 making Dove Cottage so full of memories. Not the 
 least, should be mentioned Sir Walter Scott — the Master 
 of Fiction and the Master of Song together — to whom 
 Wordsworth wrote, in concluding a letter : “ Your sin- 
 cere friend — for such I will call myself, though slow to 
 use a word of such solemn meaning to any one ” ; Pro- 
 fessor John Wilson, of Elleray, the physical and 
 mental giant, who resided within what was to Words- 
 worth and himself fair walking distance ; Charles Lloyd, 
 of Brathay, the dreamy Quaker and bosom friend of 
 Lamb. 
 
 Later, we have seen De Quincey, the intellectual 
 opium-eater, received into the charmed circle, and very 
 sincere and unvarying was the attachment of Dorothy 
 towards him. 
 
 To these were subsequently added John Kenyon, the 
 cousin of Elizabeth Barrett Browning (to whom she 
 dedicated her Aurora Leigh) ; Henry Crabb Kobinson 
 also, who counted amongst his friends many of the 
 most eminent men of the day, and left behind him his 
 most interesting Diary and Beminiscences ; Sir Henry 
 Taylor, the talented author of Philip Van Artevalde ; 
 
154 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 and still later, Dr. Arnold, the beloved headmaster of 
 Rugby, who settled almost within a stone’s throw of 
 Rydal Mount. With such a roll of friends, not to 
 mention others, many of whom the strong personality 
 of Wordsworth drew to this interesting centre of 
 intellectual activity, there can be no real foundation 
 for the idea that Wordsworth was in any sense self- 
 contained or exclusive. Among many other sons of 
 genius who might also be ranked as friends of Words- 
 worth was Hay don, the painter. He painted Words- 
 worth 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 
 Hay don, 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 investi- 
 gator. 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 blush- 
 ing 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, un- 
 fortunately, sent to America, whence it has never re- 
 turned. Haydon writes, under date September 23, 
 
Friends. 
 
 155 
 
 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." 
 
 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-men- 
 tioned, 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 neighbour- 
 hood, became, and was for many years, a resident at the 
 Mount. From the 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 
 
156 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 conceiving/’ It was of this lady that Wordsworth 
 wrote the following lines : — 
 
 “ The star which conies at close of day to shine 
 More heavenly bright than when it leads the morn, 
 
 Is friendship’s emblem, whether the forlorn 
 She visiteth, or, shedding light benign 
 Through shades that solemnize Life’s calm decline, 
 Doth make the happy happier. This have we 
 Learnt, Isabel, from thy society, 
 
 Which now we too unwillingly resign, 
 
 Though for brief absence. But farewell ! the page 
 Glimmers before my sight through thankful tears, 
 Such as start forth, not seldom, to approve 
 Our truth, when we, old, yet unchilled by age, 
 
 Call thee, though known but for a few fleet years, 
 
 The heart affianced sister of our love.” 
 
 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 Dorothy 
 Wordsworth’s close interest in her brother and his 
 career, and in all the incidents of his life, never waned. 
 A letter written when “ The White Doe of Bylstone ” 
 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 
 
Tour on Continent. 
 
 157 
 
 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 indi- 
 viduals, who are passionately devoted to my brother’s 
 works — are abused by wholesale. 
 
 “How, 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 Dorothy accompanied her 
 brother and Mrs. Wordsworth, and their kinspeople — 
 Mr. and Mrs. Monkhouse. Mr. Crabb Robinson was 
 
158 
 
 Dorothy W ordsworth. 
 
 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 w r as young.” 
 
 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, 
 portions of which are contained in Professor Knight’s 
 “ Life ” of the Poet. 
 
 Por several years a friendly correspondence was 
 maintained between various members of the Words- 
 worth family and Mr. Crabb Robinson. During her 
 years of strength Dorothy was often the correspondent 
 for the family. In November, 1821, she writes : — 
 
 “ A thousand thanks for your interesting letter, this 
 moment arrived. Luckily the enclosed was detained,, 
 or I should not have been able to have told you how 
 much pleasure yours has given us. Yet we have been 
 greatly shocked with the sad news of Mary Lamb’s 
 recent attack. It must have been before the death of 
 her brother, and the awakening to that sorrow how 
 very dismal. Your account of Charles is just what we 
 expected. And are those articles really Coleridge’s P 
 It was much more pleasant to me to accuse the Black- 
 woodites of having libelled him than to believe that he 
 had really been a contributor to the magazine ; besides, 
 there seems to me to be a perplexity (and even a 
 
Correspondence. 
 
 159 
 
 poverty often) in the style which do not belong to 
 Coleridge. His matter is, God knows, often obscure 
 enough to unlearned readers like me. 
 
 “ My brother very often talks of you, and of our 
 tours with you. He has laid no Irish scheme as yet, 
 but most likely you will hear of one. 
 
 “ Your account of William gives great delight to all 
 — yet we are hungering after tidings of the beginning' 
 of pains-taking at his books. 
 
 “ God bless you !— Believe me, your affectionate 
 Friend, 
 
 “ D . Wordsworth.” 
 
 The following is dated the 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 
 
160 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 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 G-oddard’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 coun- 
 tenance flushed with pleasure, and he exclaimed : 
 ‘ I’ll go with him.’ Presently, however, the conver- 
 sation took a sober turn, and he concluded that 
 the journey would be impossible ; ‘ and then,’ said he, 
 4 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 
 
Correspondence 
 
 161 
 
 the 4 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 two following letters, written in the autumn of 
 1824, are addressed to Mr. John Kenyon : — 
 
 4 4 About three weeks ago, on returning from a walk, 
 a letter, in which I instantly recognised your hand- 
 writing, was given to me. I knew it must have been 
 left by a friend of yours, and was heartily grieved that 
 I should have been absent, and the more so, as the 
 servant told me he had neither visited the Terrace nor 
 the Mount. Such was my first feeling, and then I 
 opened and read your lettter. I am truly glad that 
 both you and Mrs. Kenyon are in good health and, 
 seemingly, in good spirits ; and was reconciled to your 
 having been compelled to visit the sea and the grey- 
 green fields of Bognor, instead of our brighter valleys, 
 as you would have found neither my brother nor sister 
 nor niece at home ; and I hope that you will have free 
 choice next summer, and that choice will lead you 
 hither. I am sure you will be glad to hear of us, and 
 this reconciles me to sending a poor scrawl without a 
 frank ; besides, I ought to have written to you from 
 London after the very kind letter which I there 
 received ; but you know how country folks are bustled 
 about in London, and will therefore excuse that failure 
 in duty. 
 
 I need not say how glad we should have been to 
 accept your friendly invitation, had it been in our power 
 
 11 
 
162 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 to visit you at Bath, and to take a ramble on the Quan- 
 tock Hills, on which, through God’s mercy, we can yet 
 walk with as light a foot as in the days of our youth. 
 But it is time to begin with what has been done. My 
 brother and Dora left me at Cambridge in May ; they 
 returned directly to Rydal Mount, and I followed them 
 in June, after paying a short visit to Mrs. Clarkson, 
 near Ipswich. Since that time we have had scarcely 
 anything but fine summer weather, such as you ought 
 to have when you first introduce Mrs. Kenyon to these 
 lakes and mountains ; and, though as I say, I am not 
 sorry that you did not come in the autumn months, I 
 wish you could have been here in the summer. It will 
 be six weeks to-morrow since Mrs. Wordsworth and my 
 brother left us. Three of those weeks they spent in 
 North Wales, thridding that romantic country through 
 every quarter. My brother, to whom it was familiar 
 ground when a very young man, has been pleased 
 beyond expectation and remembrance, and his wife and 
 daughter (to them all was new) have been delighted. 
 They have, however, had a sad drawback from the 
 agreeable thoughts and feelings which they carried 
 along with them to South Wales. There, on the banks 
 of the Wye, they met our friend, Mr. Thomas Monk- 
 house, who, by the advice of physicians, had come 
 thither to his brother for the sake of quiet, dry and 
 pure air, and cheerful society, with strict injunctions to 
 withdraw his mind entirely from business. That in- 
 junction was totally unnecessary, for he is, alas ! unfit 
 for all business. My brother and sister were heart- 
 struck at the first sight of him. He looks like a person 
 
Correspondence. 
 
 163 
 
 far gone in a consumption, but as the London physi- 
 cians, attributing the disorder entirely to a derangement 
 of the digestive organs, speak confidently of a cure, I 
 •am willing to hope, though the surgeon at Kington 
 holds out little or no hope of his recovery. You know 
 what a good creature Thomas Monkhouse is, and how 
 much he is valued by all his relatives and friends, and 
 will, I am sure, rejoice with us if we have the happiness 
 to see him restored to health. Removal to a warmer 
 climate for the winter has been recommended, but I 
 know not what will be done. 
 
 “You will be glad to hear that my nephew William is, 
 though not a thriving plant, what, but for his looks, we 
 should call healthy at present — not fit for a public 
 school, therefore he attends Hartley Coleridge, who has 
 now fourteen scholars — a flourishing concern for an 
 Ambleside schoolmaster ! and he is steady and regular. 
 
 “I have just had a letter from Mrs. Coleridge, by 
 which I learn that your friends, Mr. and Mrs. 
 G-uillemard, are at Keswick. I shall desire her to say 
 to them that I hope, if they return by this road, they 
 will turn aside to look at Rydal Mount, though there 
 is no chance of their finding my brother and sister at 
 home. I think we shall hardly see them before the 
 middle of November, as they think of paying a short 
 visit to Sir George and Lady Beaumont at Coleorton, 
 on leaving Wales, and most likely it will be the third 
 week of this month before they leave Wales. 
 
 “ You do not mention your brother. I hope you hear 
 .good tidings of him. May I beg to be remembered most 
 kindly to him when you write ? With best wishes to 
 
164 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 yourself and Mrs. Kenyon, — Believe me, dear Sir,. 
 Yours truly, 
 
 “D. Wordsworth. 
 
 “ John has been three weeks at Whitehaven with Mr. 
 Wm. Jackson. I expect him at home this week, to leave 
 us soon for Oxford. My brother’s address is Thomas 
 Hutchinson’s, Esqre., Eindwell, near Radnor. All pretty 
 well at Keswick.” 
 
 “An offer, just received from a friend, to execute 
 commissions for us at Bath, tempts me to send a few 
 lines to you, knowing that you will be glad to hear we 
 are gathered together again at Rydal Mount, the usual 
 family, except Miss Hutchinson (whose duties to poor 
 Mr. Monkhouse will, I fear, long detain her in the 
 South) and John (whom we expect in about a fortnight 
 from Oxford). The travellers returned delighted with 
 North Wales, all in good health and with improved 
 looks. My brother’s eyes have mostly, during the 
 summer, been in their better way, and are still so — very 
 useable for a short while at a time by daylight, but 
 hardly at all by candle-light, and this, I fear, is the 
 best that we may be allowed ever to expect from 
 them. I told you of Mr. Monkhouse’s deplorable 
 state of health in a letter addressed to you at Bognor, 
 and have written thus far as if I were assured you had 
 received it ; but perhaps you might have left the place, 
 as it was some weeks after the receipt of yours that I 
 wrote ; however, you have probably heard by other 
 means of the tour in North Wales, and the long visit 
 in South Wales and Herefordshire, therefore, I will not 
 tell the tale over again ; but must repeat that I very 
 
Correspondence. 
 
 165 
 
 much regretted that I had not the opportunity of 
 showing Kydal Mount to your friends ; and, in any 
 other way, of doing my best to make some amends for 
 the absence of my brother and sister. 
 
 “ Our friends at Keswick are pretty well. Southey 
 has got rid of his summer cold ; Sara Coleridge’s eyes 
 are no worse. Miss Southey is expected at home early 
 in the spring. After a long stay in Devonshire, she is 
 now in London. Derwent keeps his situation as third 
 master of Plymouth school, and we (hearing nothing 
 amiss) conclude he is going on well. As to poor 
 Hartley, he sticks to his school hours, is liked by his 
 scholars, and is still ‘ Hartley ’ among them ; even (out 
 of school) the bigger address him ‘ Hartley ! ’ This 
 will give you a notion of the nature of the discipline 
 exercised by him. 
 
 “ Miss Hutchinson is at Torquay with Mr. and Mrs. 
 Monkhouse. The invalid is not, to appearance, worse 
 than at his going thither about five weeks ago, but Miss 
 H. thinks him no better. 
 
 “My brother and sister, Dora and William, join 
 with me in kindest remembrances to you, and to your 
 brother, when you write to him. We often talk of you 
 both. I wish he may be in England next summer, that 
 you may bring Mrs. Kenyon to the Lakes, and that he 
 may make a third in the party. 
 
 “ It would give us great pleasure to hear how you are 
 going on; I do not ask you to write; but at some half 
 hour of leisure, the Kydal Folks coming into your head, 
 you may be seized with the inclination to say a few 
 words to us. Pray present our united regards to 
 
166 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 Mrs. Kenyon, and believe me, dear Sir, yours 
 faithfully, 
 
 “ Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 “ Byclal Mount , 28th November. 
 
 “ Do you hear frequently of or from Mr. Poole, and 
 how is he ? Do you know whether Coleridge has lately 
 been at Harrogate or not ? A rumour of his having; 
 been there has reached these parts, but we think there 
 must be a mistake in the name , and that it has been 
 some watering-place in the South.” 
 
CHAPTER XIY. 
 
 Correspondence with Henry Crabb Robinson. 
 
 HE following letters, or extracts from letters. 
 
 A written by Miss Wordsworth to their friend, 
 Mr. Crabb Robinson, cannot fail to be of interest, 
 containing as they do a record of many personal 
 incidents during the period in which they were 
 written. 
 
 The first, written from Rydal Mount, is dated 
 September 13, 1824. Formal parts are generally 
 omitted : — 
 
 “ I should have written to welcome your return to- 
 England, having about that time an opportunity of 
 making a letter-carrier of one of our visitors to the 
 Lakes, but I shrunk from being the first to communi- 
 cate to you the sad tidings of poor Thomas Monk- 
 house’s hopeless state, and merely sent a message 
 through Miss Lamb, begging for news of you and an 
 account of your Continental travels. We have heard 
 from Mrs. Clarkson of your being well and in good 
 spirits. That is all ; not a word of where you have been 
 or what doing. Pray write to us. Do not suppose I 
 require a journal, but, spoiled by former kindnesses in 
 this way, I really have been disappointed at not receiving 
 one before this time ; write, however, and if the 
 
168 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 journal comes hereafter it will be thankfully received. 
 My brother and sister, with their daughter, arrived 
 at home a month ago, after an absence of eleven and 
 a-half weeks. Their tour in North Wales was delightful, 
 much surpassing remembrance and expectation ; to my 
 brother the ground had been familiar in the days of 
 his youth, but all was new to the females. They spent 
 five weeks among their friends in Herefordshire and 
 Radnorshire, and bore away one great consolation in 
 parting from Thomas Monkhouse, as they all feared for 
 the last time, that he had been cheated out of many a 
 melancholy thought by their presence. My brother’s 
 society was an especial comfort to him. Two days 
 before our travellers left Wales, the sick man had set 
 off for Torquay with his wife and child and Miss 
 Hutchinson. . . . My brother and Dora were at 
 
 Keswick for four days last week. Southey is in his 
 usual good spirits, happy in his various employments. 
 Sara Coleridge is busy correcting proofs ; she has trans- 
 lated a book from the French, either written by the 
 Chevalier Bayard or by some other person, concerning 
 him and his times, I know not which. Cuthbert 
 Southey is a clever boy, and I hope it will please God 
 to preserve him for the comfort and delight of his poor 
 father, whose loss seemed irreparable when Herbert 
 (then his only son) died. Mrs. Coleridge, Mrs. Southey, 
 and the rest of the family are well. . . . My brother 
 has not yet looked at the Recluse ; he seems to feel the 
 task so weighty that he shrinks from beginning with it, 
 yet knows that he has now no time to loiter if another 
 great work is to be accomplished by him. I say another. 
 
Correspondence with H. C. Robinson. 169 
 
 for I consider tlie Excursion as one work, though the 
 title-page tells that it is but a part of one that has 
 another title. He has written some very pretty small 
 poems. I will transcribe two of them which have been 
 composed by him with true feeling; and he has great 
 satisfaction in having done them — especially that on 
 Mary Monkhouse, for her dear father’s sake, who prizes 
 it very much. 
 
 “John is just arrived from Oxford, and your old 
 friend William is very well in health, though not fit to 
 be trusted off to school at a distance. . . . It is too 
 
 soon to begin to talk of these things, and I hardly 
 think my brother will stir away from Rvdal next 
 summer ; yet he sometimes hints at going into Ireland, 
 and says that when he does go, he will take me along 
 with him. But we have all been such wanderers during 
 the last twelve months, that the pleasantest thought at 
 present is that of being gathered together at home, and 
 all quietly enjoying ourselves. There is no country that 
 suffers so little as this in bad weather, none that has 
 so much of beauty (and more than beauty) in the 
 winter season ; and at Rydal Mount especially we 
 are favoured, having the sun right before our windows, 
 both at his rising and setting. ... I hope 
 you often see Charles and Mary Lamb, and that they 
 are well ; Mrs. Field brought a very good account of 
 her. 
 
 “ What a loss the Lambs, not less than you, must feel 
 this winter of the cheerful resting-place and never- 
 failing cordial welcome by Thomas Monkhouse’ s fire- 
 side.” 
 
170 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 “July 2, 1825. 
 
 “ I hope we may see you here some weeks before 
 the poems can be printed ; for if you go into Ireland 
 you will certainly not refuse a berth in one of these 
 packets to Glasgow, thence to the Hebrides, and you 
 will come home by Rydal Mount , to say nothing of the 
 inducement of the Lakes. My brother would gladly 
 accompany you, and make me one of the party. He 
 would do so were money no object ; nor, indeed, would 
 he make it an object in the present case, had he not a 
 much grander scheme in view, for which all our savings 
 must be heaped up, no less than spending a whole* 
 winter in Italy, in Switzerland, and elsewhere, not 
 neglecting the Tyrol. John Wordsworth will have 
 finished at Oxford at the close of the year 1826, and 
 we talk, if it can be accomplished, of setting out in the 
 spring of 1827, and in our day-dreams you always 
 make one of the company. I really speak seriously ; 
 such is our plan. But even supposing life, health, and 
 strength are continued to us, there will still be diffi- 
 culties — the Stamp Office, the house, home, and other- 
 concerns are to be taken care of, &c. None of these 
 difficulties, however, appear to be insurmountable ; so- 
 you must go to the Highlands, on purpose to come 
 back by this road to plan with my brother, to give us 
 estimates of expenses, and to enable us to settle a 
 hundred things. My brother fancies that he might 
 almost make the journey cost nothing, by residing 
 two years abroad ; but that is too long a period 
 to enter into the first scheme, especially for a 
 
Correspondence with H. C. Robinson. 171 
 
 Government agent. I trust before 1827 you will be 
 quite satisfied of the propriety of retiring from the 
 law, and that in the meantime you will have continued 
 to you the cheerful spirits which make even the 
 drudgery of your London life no misfortune. We keep 
 our scheme entirely to ourselves, you only (as a destined 
 sharer in it) are made acquainted with it ; and for 
 various reasons, especially the delicacy required in 
 managing any business of this kind with the rulers of 
 the Stamp Office, we shall not speak of it till it is 
 needful to make arrangements for effecting our purpose, 
 therefore give no hint to any one. Surely amongst so 
 many we might make up a tour — print and publish — 
 that would at least have enough of originality in the 
 manner of it to ensure some profit ; but we must see 
 our way clearly before us without any help of that 
 kind. But no more of this. I cast my eyes with fear 
 and trembling on what I have just been writing. Of 
 the party from this house, one only (my niece) is going. 
 The youngest of us elder ones will have numbered 
 fifty-four years next Christmas. This thought leads 
 me to your poor sister, who may, I fear, before her 
 final release, have much pain to endure. If she 
 be still near you, pray give my kind regards to 
 her and sincerest good wishes. ... It would give 
 us great pleasure to hear of Charles Lamb’s having 
 got through his troublesome business, and being 
 again able thoroughly to enjoy his liberty. When 
 you wrote he haci a sort of nervous feverishness 
 hanging upon him. A long journey, I find, is not 
 to be thought of ; but I hope his sister and he will 
 
172 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 make one of their little trips before the summer is 
 over. . . . 
 
 “We are sadly out of the way of magazines. This I 
 say only for Charles Lamb’s sake. I begin now to 
 despair of seeing any of his last papers till they 
 are published all together, yet if Mr. De Quincey ‘ 
 ^ever does find his way back to Eydal we can borrow 
 the magazines from him. With all this scarcity of 
 magazines, novels from our lady friends have poured 
 in upon us so fast that we are muddled among them, 
 and can never attempt to get through all. Besides, I 
 am deep in Madame de G-enlis’s life, a hundred times 
 more entertaining than the best of our nowadays 
 novels, and how much more surprising ! If you have 
 not read this book, pray do so. I ought to have told 
 you that after three weeks’ stay at Harrogate, we hope 
 to have Miss Hutchinson at By dal, and certainly shall 
 if Mrs. Hutchinson is tempted, according to our expec- 
 tation, by the Harrogate waters. When you see the 
 Lambs, tell them about her. They also, I believe, 
 know Mrs. H., and her only surviving brother, that 
 excellent man John Monkhouse. My brother and 
 sister beg their tenderest remembrances, and Dora 
 too, who, in spite of your sauciness, will be very 
 glad to borrow your arm on the Italian precipices. 
 How say in your next that Ireland and Scotland 
 are your choice for this year, and that you will 
 come and plan with us for Italy. I wish this letter 
 were not half so long, but I know your good-nature 
 too well to fear that you will be angry, or even a 
 little cross.” 
 
Correspondence with H. C. Robinson. 178 
 
 “ November 8th, 1825. 
 
 “ My original intention was to meet yon witli a note 
 of congratulation on your return to the lonesome 
 chambers in King’s Bench Walk ; but I have just heard 
 of poor Mary Lamb’s illness, and this is a matter of 
 sincere condolence. I write, then, chiefly to inquire 
 after her and her brother, and next to plead for a con- 
 tinuation of your journal, theiirst part of which was 
 duly received and read by all of us with very great 
 pleasure. It made me wish to touch at those agreeable 
 islands the next voyage we take, if ever we are destined 
 again to wander beyond the shores of Britain. . . . 
 
 My brother and sister, and Miss Hutchinson, have been 
 a month at Coleorton, and it is from them that we at 
 home have received the distressing tidings of Miss 
 Lamb’s illness, brought to them by the Master of 
 Trinity, who has also been at Coleorton. How, my 
 good friend, I pray you write as soon as you receive 
 this. I hope you may be able to say that the present 
 attack is of the milder kind, as they have lately been, 
 and that she is in the way of recovery. Besides, tell us 
 particularly how Charles is himself. I learn that the 
 supposed cause of the sister’s illness was his having 
 had a relapse after a nervous fever. Beyond this, 
 at present, I require no more than to know that 
 you are safe and well after a journey which I trust 
 has been pleasant, for you have the happy art of 
 enjoying wherever there is a possibility of find- 
 ing anything to enjoy. Leave all particulars, only 
 do not retract your promise. ... I have stayed 
 
174 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 at home all summer, and have had an agreeable lot, 
 and the weather has been better than was ever known, 
 and I have had health and strength to allow me to 
 take long walks, which (especially upon the mountains) 
 are as delightful to my feelings as ever in my younger 
 days. My sister has been ten weeks absent. She 
 accompanied Mrs. Thomas Hutchinson to Harrogate, 
 stayed some time there, and met her husband and 
 sister at Sir G. Beaumont’s. My last report to you 
 of the state of my brother’s eyes was very cheerful ; 
 we were in hopes that he was going to outlive that 
 troublesome weakness ; but, alas ! ever since he went 
 to Coleorton he has been suffering from inflammation, 
 especially in one of his eyes. Mrs. Wordsworth is quite 
 well. We expect them at home about the middle of 
 next week. . . . When he is at home again we 
 
 shall be kept very busy for awhile. A new arrange- 
 ment is to be made, and till the work is printed he will 
 always be attempting to correct faults. 
 
 “ Two Miss Southeys are staying with us, so we are a 
 lively party.” 
 
 “ November 2 6th, 1825. 
 
 “On telling my brother that I was going to write to 
 you, with a question, ‘ Have you anything to say to 
 him ? ’ his reply was, ‘ A hundred things. Tell him 
 I wish I was as strong as he, that I half envy him his 
 joyous spirits, that I should have liked to have gone 
 with him to the Tyrol, to Italy, or anywhere ’ ; and he 
 added many more of the hundred things, which I have 
 forgotten, and your fancy must supply. And now. 
 
Correspondence with H. C. Robinson. 175 
 
 Betting aside wishes which, for at least two or three 
 jears, cannot be gratified (college expenses and others 
 being so great), I must tell you that your letter has 
 interested us very much, and I return you a thousand 
 thanks, not only for gratifying my wishes in the most 
 agreeable manner possible, but for even anticipating 
 them. I did not venture to expect the journal for 
 weeks to come, yet it arrives before my request reaches 
 you ; and, at the same time, your account of Charles 
 and Mary Lamb allays our anxiety, though till we 
 hear from you again we cannot be satisfied. Yet I 
 hope he has had no second relapse, and that she has 
 been restored to herself and her good brother at the 
 accustomed period ; but, after all that is passed, there 
 must be a heavy struggle with sadness and depression 
 •of spirits before they are reinstated in their usual com- 
 forts. Pray give our kindest regards to them, and 
 write as soon as you have leisure, to tell us exactly how 
 they are going on ; and mention also your poor sister, 
 whether she still continues to suffer less than is usual 
 in her afflicting malady, and if you think it will not 
 give her pain to be reminded of those times when I have 
 seen her, or of one whom she will never meet again in 
 this world. Will you give my love to her, and add 
 that I frequently think of her ? 
 
 “ I know not that I have anything new to tell you. It 
 will be a fortnight on Thursday since my brother and 
 sister and Miss Hutchinson returned to Rydal Mount. 
 They spent above a month at Coleorton, and, with stops 
 on the road, were six weeks absent — that is, my 
 brother and Miss H. — but Mrs. W.’s absence had 
 
176 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 extended to ten weeks and a-half when she reached 
 home, and truly happy she was to settle herself again. 
 She is in good health, and her husband also, which I 
 hardly looked to, for during the whole of his stay at 
 Coleorton he suffered grievously from his eyes, having* 
 more pain and distressful weakness in the eye-balls than 
 he had ever had before. In this state he set forward, 
 alone, in a pony-chaise. I knew of his intentions, and 
 was very anxious ; but, as he foretold, the journey 
 proved a great relief — almost a cure — though the 
 weather was sometimes cold and stormy. In fact, 
 he always finds the fresh air more beneficial than any- 
 thing else ; but my fears were grounded on the 
 long- continued exposure to all changes. My sister and 
 Miss H. travelled per coach, waited his arrival at Man- 
 chester, and stayed with him there two days, saw some 
 pleasant, well-informed people, and one most beautiful 
 picture, for which seven thousand pounds had been 
 refused; I forget the master’s name, the subject is 
 the Holy Family — the Virgin, they tell me, a striking* 
 
 . picture of Sara Coleridge. This picture belongs to a 
 Manchester merchant, who had it from abroad in lieu 
 of a bad debt. How, while I speak of Manchester, let 
 me say a word in favour of a friend of Dora’s, a Miss 
 Jewsbury, who has written for The Souvenir , and for 
 several other periodicals, under the signature of Miss 
 J. J. She is a young woman of extraordinary talents, 
 is a good daughter, and a good sister to a numerous 
 family, at the head of which she was left, by the death 
 of their mother, at the age of fifteen. We became 
 acquainted with Miss Jewsbury last summer, and she 
 
Correspondence with H. C. Eobinson. 177 
 
 •spent above a week under our roof ; and the party were 
 with her at Manchester, and were all much interested 
 by and for her. Mr. Alaric Watts has encouraged and 
 persuaded Miss Jewsbury to publish a volume in prose 
 and verse (miscellaneous sketches, short essays, &c.) ; 
 and there is one pretty long tale (‘ The Unknown ’) 
 which is, to me, affectingly told. The title of the 
 volume is Phantasmagoria , a title which would not be 
 very taking to me were the author a stranger. I 
 mention it, however, in order that if you have leisure 
 you may glance an eye over the book; and as you 
 are sometimes a dabbler in reviews, you may have 
 an opportunity of serving the authoress; or perhaps 
 Charles Lamb could slip a favourable notice into one 
 of the magazines. I cannot ask either of you to review 
 the volumes, though, if you would do so and could 
 in conscience speak favourably, it would be a great 
 kindness done to a deserving person and gratefully 
 received. . . . 99 
 
 The following is written from Brinsojo Court , near 
 Hereford , and dated Feb. 25th, 1826 : — 
 
 “ I hope you have not set me down as an ungrateful 
 one for not having sooner thanked you for your inte- 
 resting letter, and Mrs. Collier for her great kindness in 
 sparing to me the valuable Memorials of her Tour, 
 which in course of time would, I think, become the 
 more valuable for the cause which in some degree seems 
 to reconcile you to the accepting them for me — namely, 
 that to her they are now become melancholy memorials. 
 The assurance that if her life be prolonged she will 
 hereafter cling with especial delight to the memory of 
 
 12 
 
178 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 those few weeks which cheered her declining husband’s; 
 spirits, makes me unwilling to deprive her of anything 
 that might assist her recollections ; and if you feel as I 
 do, pray do not accept her gift, but return it to her 
 with a thousand thanks from me. I recollect Mrs. 
 Collier and her hospitable kindness when she lived in 
 Hatton Gardens . I once dined there with you, at that 
 time when I travelled with you upon the coach from 
 Bury. Perhaps this circumstance may help her to 
 recollect something about me. 
 
 “ My young friend gets on ^lowly with the Journal,, 
 therefore the prints will not be wanted for a long time m r 
 however, I will attend to your advice and have it bound 
 •with blank leaves, so as to receive whatever prints I 
 may be so fortunate as to pick up. You all perhaps 
 blame me for having taken so little pains in the 
 curtailing. I have done no more than cut out passages 
 (sometimes pretty long ones) in giving it a hasty 
 reading over. 
 
 “It is time that I should explain the date of this 
 letter. Here I arrived yesterday week, having parted 
 from my brother and his daughter at Kendal just ten 
 days before. I halted a few days at Manchester with 
 Miss Jewsbury, the authoress of ‘ Phantasmagoria,’ 
 &c., and was even more pleased with her at home than 
 abroad. Her talents are extraordinary, and she is 
 admirable as a daughter and sister, and has besides; 
 many valuable friends, to some of whom I was intro- 
 duced. Prom Manchester I came by way of Worcester, 
 and the delightful hills of Malvern, to Hereford, where 
 I was met by Mrs. Wordsworth’s sister. Brinsop* 
 
Correspondence with H. C. Eobinson. 179 
 
 Court is six miles from Hereford, the country rich 
 and climate good, far less rain than we have in 
 Westmoreland; but, as I have always said, our com- 
 pensations do much more than make amends, our 
 dry roads, where, after the heaviest shower, one can 
 walk with comfort, and above all, our mountains and 
 lakes, which are just as beautiful, just as interesting in 
 winter as in summer. Brinsop Court is, however, 
 even now no cheerless spot, and flowers in the hedges 
 and blossoms in the numerous orchards will soon 
 make it gay. Our fireside is enlivened by four fine, 
 well-managed children and cheerful friends, and Mrs. 
 Hutchinson is one of the most pleasing and excellent 
 of women, the sister of our good friend Thomas 
 Monkhouse. 
 
 “Poor Grraham, what a wretched end his course will 
 be. . . . Ho, I cannot add the sequel of his story 
 
 to my Journal. It is enough for me that the knowledge 
 of it sullies my remembrances of our bewitching voyage 
 on the Lake of Lucerne, when the hills were wrapped in 
 green, soft, gloomy light, without shadows, and again 
 the sun burst forth in all its brilliancy. But you had 
 more to tell, and pray let me have it. The story inte- 
 rested us all very much ; and, indeed, we had expected 
 nothing good from him. 
 
 “ I shall remain in Herefordshire till May, if nothing- 
 unforeseen happens. My brother talks of meeting me 
 in North Wales, and going with me to the top of Snow- 
 don ; but I do not much depend on his being able to 
 leave home. At all events, the time of his coming will 
 
180 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 be governed by the time of the General Election. If it 
 be put off till autumn, it will probably be the end of 
 May or beginning of June before he can come. That is 
 the time when you lawyers are busiest, I believe ; other- 
 wise, you might be tempted to join us ; I should be no 
 less glad of your support on Snowdon than on St. 
 Salvador. Adieu.” 
 
 The next is again written from Rydal Mount, 
 December 18, 1826. “I have little to say but thanks 
 for your lively and very interesting sketch of your 
 Irish tour. My brother is much pleased with it, and 
 you will not doubt (knowing my delight in travelling) 
 that the dreary tracts you sometimes passed through 
 did not deter me from a wish, at some period, to visit 
 the Giant’s Causeway and the Devil’s Haunts, the soft 
 Lakes of Killarney, the towers, the ruins, &c., &c. I 
 ^nter entirely into your notions of Dublin in comparison 
 with Edinburgh, and can even sympathise with your 
 pleasure in O’Connell’s society, and think your loss was 
 gain in travelling by the wrong road, thereby securing 
 an eight hours’ discussion with that champion of the 
 Papists — and of Liberty — you will say. Well, let 
 that pass. I will not enquire after the treason you 
 talked, nor, if you should in an unguarded moment let 
 it out, will I inform against you ; and if ever we should 
 go to Ireland, I should like very well to be introduced 
 to the domain of Derrynane, and have no horror even 
 of the mansion and the Priest, under the sanction 
 of your guidance and my brother’s protection. But 
 Ireland, and even North Wales, do not make any part 
 of my present travelling wishes, nor have I any that 
 
Correspondence with H. C. Robinson. 181 
 
 can be absolutely termed hopes, for my dear niece’s 
 long- delayed recovery keeps us still anxious and watch- 
 ful ; not that we apprehend danger if proper means be 
 used, but it seems nearly certain that change of air and 
 scene will be required as soon as weather will permit in 
 the spring, and this conviction prevents us from look- 
 ing at or contriving anything disconnected with her 
 state of health. She talks with glee of Italy ; but such 
 a journey could not be accomplished without strength 
 to begin with, and a salutary change for her may be 
 procured at much less expense. Most likely she will 
 be taken into Somersetshire with her mother. . . _ 
 
 She is very much better within the last three weeks, 
 and rides on horseback whenever we have a fine 
 day. 
 
 “We expect John from Oxford this week. He was 
 to take his degree to-day ; wrote in good spirits after 
 passing the examination, and the same post brought a 
 satisfactory letter from his tutor, lamenting his illness 
 in the summer — and consequent inability to study — 
 having prevented him from going up for honours 
 which, ‘ from the manner he passed the examination/ 
 he had ‘ no doubt he would have attained.’ 
 
 “What do you say to the War? It seems there 
 never was one which so few voices were raised against. 
 I am afraid of the French proving false — that is, of 
 their seeking occasion to quarrel with us — and if we 
 once begin to fight with them again, farewell to 
 peace. 
 
 “ When you see Charles and Mary Lamb give our 
 kindest regards to them. I wish they would now and 
 
182 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 then let us see their handwriting, a single page from 
 Charles Lamb is worth ten postages. However, it is 
 well to hear good tidings, and we have no right to 
 complain of their silence. Your assurance that they 
 were well and in good spirits gave us great satisfaction. 
 
 “ My brother does really intend, by the same lady 
 who conveys this to London, to write to Longman 
 respecting the publishing of his poems. I heartily wish 
 that an agreement and speedy printing may follow. He 
 has lately written some very good sonnets. I wish that 
 I could add that the 4 Recluse ’ was brought from his 
 hiding-place. 
 
 “ The eyes continue well, and as active and useful as 
 any eyes in the house. I will conclude with begging 
 you to send your extract concerning G-oddard as soon 
 as you can, but not till you can add to it a letter 
 though but a little one ; however, the larger the better. 
 You cannot think what pleasure we have in hearing 
 from you. Excuse my penmanship, and accept the 
 good old wish, ‘ A merry Christmas to you and a 
 happy Hew Year,’ from your grateful and affectionate 
 Friend, 
 
 “D. Wordsworth. 
 
 “ Have you chanced to see Miss Coleridge P She 
 is in London. The Southeys are well. Mrs. Coleridge 
 is in sad spirits about her son Hartley; he has been on 
 his wanderings nearly a month. Derwent has a curacy 
 in Cornwall ; report speaks well of his performances in 
 the pulpit. 
 
 “My brother, sister, Miss Hutchinson, Dora and 
 Willy, all beg their kindest remembrances.” 
 
Correspondence with H. C. Robinson. 183 
 
 “ (5th January , 1827. 
 
 “ I took the opportunity of a private hand to send 
 you our Christmas good wishes, which partly reconciles 
 me to putting you to the expense of postage for another 
 of as little worth as the former ; as far as regards your- 
 self, however, as you have no greater pleasure than in 
 obliging your friends, I know not but that you may be 
 thankful even for the poor scrawl, the object of which 
 is to point out a means by which you may possibly do a 
 service (not a very important one, I grant) to a person 
 whom we have long known and esteemed. 
 
 “You once met at Southey’s a Mr. Kenyon, and, 
 having met, I think cannot have forgotten him. Oh, 
 no ! that you cannot , for it has just come into my 
 recollection that he dined with us in Gloucester Place 
 in 1820, when the wedding-cake was cut — a sort of 
 Christmas feast before its time — when poor Thomas 
 Monkhouse, Charles Lamb, my brother, and you, made 
 a company of sleepers after dinner. Was he or was he 
 not there ? When I began this notice I surely thought 
 he was, but my sister, who sits beside me, says not, and 
 now I begin to doubt. Well, this same Mr. Kenyon has 
 written to my sister for the family interest, and I will, 
 as the easiest mode of explaining, quote from his own 
 letter : ‘ The fact is, I am desirous (I will not say 
 anxious, the word would be unduly strong) to be a 
 member of the Athenaeum Club, and am to be balloted 
 for on Monday, the 5th of February. On looking over 
 the list of members, I see some names of your friends, 
 amongst them that of H. C. Robinson, your travelling 
 
184 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 companion, and Allan Cunningham. If these gentle- 
 men are likely to be in London at that time, perhaps I 
 might be allowed to ask your interest with them to give 
 me their votes and their interest on this occasion. You 
 may venture to represent me as a man who will not 
 steal the silver spoons, who does not wear creaking 
 shoes, and as a good listener, &c.’ He adds : 4 Sir 
 George Beaumont and Rogers, I see, both belong to the 
 club ; but these are old men, not to be teased to think 
 of trifles, or to go out on a February evening.’ 
 
 44 1 need say no more on this subject, except (which I 
 suppose may not be necessary for you to know) that 
 Mr. Kenyon’s address is No. 7, Upper Church Street,. 
 Bath ; but if you should have anything to say on the- 
 matter, I am sure he would be glad to hear from you. 
 ###### 
 
 44 1 was happy to hear of Tom Clarkson being in per- 
 fect health, with increasing business ; and why does not 
 the marriage take place ? Thus people wait till 4 All 
 the life of life is gone.’ 
 
 44 1 have some good tidings for you of my brother’s 
 eyes. We have now no dread of proof-sheets, but are 
 hoping for their arrival before the end of next week. . . 
 
 44 My dear niece’s health is very much improved. 
 She gains strength and flesh. True, she is still 
 invalidish, and will probably be so throughout the 
 winter; but there seems to be no present cause for 
 anxiety, and, through God’s blessing, we trust to the- 
 spring for perfect restoration. 
 
 44 The weather is now as wintry as it can be. Ponds, 
 are all frozen, and thronged with skaters and sliders ; 
 
Correspondence with H. C. Robinson. 185 
 
 the lakes not yet frozen, strong winds have prevented 
 this. My brother is Christmassing at Jedburgh, with 
 his son John, at his (John’s) old schoolmaster’s. . . * 
 
 “ I have to-day received a letter from my nephew 
 John (of Cambridge). He says: ‘You will be pleased 
 to hear that my father is gradually gaining ground, in 
 spite of the troubles and anxieties of his Vice-Chan- 
 cellorship. The improvement in his appearance, how- 
 ever, has not kept pace with that of his strength, and 
 any person who should judge of him by his looks would 
 not form a just estimate of his progress. His face is 
 thin and wrinkled, and he says of himself, “ I can count 
 all my bones ” ; but his spirits are good, and, I think, 
 his strength fully re-established, and he takes great 
 pains to convince himself and others that the state of 
 thinness is favourable to health.’ I suppose you know 
 that this good brother of mine was dangerously ill in 
 the summer. 
 
 “ My dear friend, you must forgive my scrawling- 
 penmanship. I hope to hear from you very soon. 
 Remember your promise of the Journal extract. You 
 will also have to tell us what you mean to do respecting 
 Mr. Kenyon.” 
 
 “ 18th February , 1827. 
 
 “ A frank tempts me to slip in our united thanks for 
 your zeal in the cause of our friend, Mr. Kenyon ; I 
 assure you, as the French say, it has not been bestowed 
 upon an ingrate, as you will yourself perceive if ever 
 you meet him at the club. He will then, I am sure, be 
 glad to hold discourse with you, and to tell you how 
 much he has been pleased by your kindness and that of 
 
186 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 others of our friends. It does, indeed, appear that he 
 came in with a ‘ high hand.’ 
 
 “ My brother is much obliged to you, and to your 
 friend Mr. Rolfe, for getting John’s name \mt on the 
 University Club’s Boards, and will be further obliged if 
 you will place him on those of the Athenaeum. It may 
 be useful, and can do no harm. 
 
 “ He is now at Oxford studying Divinity, and we 
 hope the result will be a steady determination to apply 
 himself to the duties of a minister of our Church. 
 
 “ The printing of the poems goes on rapidly. My 
 brother inserts your note (I believe without any altera- 
 tion), only, perhaps, something may be added to it ; 
 and, besides, one or two extracts will, I think, be 
 inserted from our Journals as notes to some other 
 poems. 
 
 “ My niece is much the same — not worse, but very 
 delicate ; and we are unceasingly anxious, during this 
 cold weather, to keep her from injury. The present 
 morning has brought that kind of fine weather which is 
 delightful to the strong for exercise, but very frying to 
 invalids, though confined wholly to the house, as she 
 is. . . . A heavy snow is now on the ground, and 
 
 still falling. We hope a thaw will follow. Nothing 
 can exceed the purity of the scene now before my eyes. 
 How different to you in London, if the same snow is 
 falling on the streets and houses ! 
 
 “ The death of Sir Gfeorge Beaumont is a great afflic- 
 tion to us, and was also a severe shock ; for when he 
 was at Rydal in the summer, and when I parted from 
 him at Coleorton at the end of October, he was in as 
 
Correspondence with H. C. Robinson. 187 
 
 good health and spirits as he has ever been since we first 
 knew him, twenty- three years ago, and appeared as likely 
 to live for eight years to come, as any of our younger 
 friends, though his seventy-third birthday was on the 6th 
 of November. Dear Lady Beaumont has been wonder- 
 fully supported hitherto, but I fear the worst for her is 
 jet to come, and that strength and spirits may wholly 
 fail ; for she is of a weak bodily constitution, and after 
 having lived with a husband fifty years in perfect har- 
 mony, sharing in all his pursuits, the change must be 
 vdreadful, and such a husband ! 
 
 “ Sir George Beaumont was buried on Wednesday, 
 j-ust a week after his death. His illness was short, I 
 believe, not more than ten days. Charles and Mary 
 Lamb will, I know, sympathise with us. They knew 
 iand highly valued our inestimable friend.” 
 
 “ Whitwick , near Ashby -de-la- Z ouch, 
 
 “ November 30, 1828. 
 
 “ I will not say that I like a letter the worse for being 
 franked, but I should have been very angry with you 
 (could I have known of my loss) had you kept yours 
 back, as you threatened to do, in case of not meeting 
 with a franker ; so, once for all, let me assure you that 
 ■the sight of your handwriting is always welcome to me 
 at whatever cost, and, at the same time, I beg that 
 whenever you have the inclination to take the pen, 
 whether you have anything new to tell me or not, you 
 will favour me with a letter of chit-chat, or whatever 
 may come into your head. You are now a man of 
 leisure, therefore I make no scruple in asking this of 
 
188 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 you. You can hardly form a notion of the pleasure it 
 will be to me during the coming lonely winter to receive- 
 tidings of distant friends ; lonely, I mean, in compari- 
 son with past years, for my nephew John is my constant 
 companion, and we are very comfortable and happy 
 together. To be sure, I have only had a fortnight’s, 
 trial, but I think I have already seen enough of Whit- 
 wick fireside to be justified in my belief that time will 
 not hang heavy on our hands. Yet never was there a 
 place, though it is a crowded village, more barren of 
 society, except at the distance of three miles, where our 
 Rector and his family and Lady Beaumont are 
 always glad to see us, and a visit to them makes 
 a pleasant termination of a walk not longer than 
 we take daily. You will, I am sure, be glad to 
 hear that John enters with great zeal into the duties, 
 of his profession, and gives much satisfaction both to 
 the parish and his rector. He has a fine voice, reads 
 agreeably (according to my notion, at least), and is much 
 liked in the pulpit by his hearers ; they have been 
 accustomed to a spiritless, humdrum curate. I, how- 
 ever, do not find John so much at home in preaching as. 
 in reading ; but time will give him more confidence, and 
 he is so desirous of doing his duty that I cannot doubt, 
 if God grant him health and strength, of his becoming an 
 effective preacher. I know not into what quarter your- 
 English travels may lead you this winter, or in the 
 spring; but we are only a few miles out of the great North 
 Road. . . . This evening’s post has brought pleasant 
 tidings from Rydal ; all well, and my brother busy with 
 poetical labours, and (what nearly concerns John and 
 
Correspondence with H. C. Eobinson. 189 
 
 me) Mr. Quillinan has thoughts of paying a visit to 
 Derbyshire with his eldest daughter, and if so, will come 
 to see us. This is what he tells my sister, and I heartily 
 wish he may put this scheme in execution. Pray, if 
 you see him, tell him so. Indeed, I must not trust to 
 chance ; if you do not see him, be so good as to write 
 him a line by the twopenny post to the above effect, and 
 desire him, if he comes, to write a line to say if possible 
 when we may expect him, and to direct near Ashby, 
 <fcc. . . . 
 
 “ Am I unreasonable in wishing to have your sketch 
 of the Pyrenean tour filled up with your actual adven- 
 tures ? I fear I am, for I have no claim for such a 
 favour, having not once written to thank you for the 
 last addition to my little collection of your tours. I 
 will not trouble you with explanations — excuse I have 
 none — but, believe me, I was not less interested by the 
 last than heretofore, and that I do greatly prize, and 
 always shall prize, these proofs of your kindness. 
 
 “Alas! for Rome. I never expect to set foot upon 
 that sacred ground, nor do I ever visit it even in a day- 
 dream. But once again I do hope to see Switzerland if 
 we all live a few years longer, and perhaps the country 
 of the Tyrolese. Indeed, when my brother talks of 
 Rome, it always rather damps my hopes of even crossing 
 the Channel again, so many circumstances must concur 
 to make so large a scheme practicable, and years slip 
 away. On the 25th of next month (Christmas Day) I, 
 the youngest of the three elders of the house, shall have 
 completed my fifty- sixth year. ... I intend to 
 stay at Whitwick six months without stirring from the 
 
190 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 spot, i.e., till May. My plans after that time are not 
 fixed; but certainly before I turn northward I shall 
 visit my brother C. at Cambridge, and perhaps a friend 
 at Worcester, and if so, shall work on to Brinsop, where 
 Miss Hutchinson now is, so that it is probable I shall 
 not return to By dal till July ; but, as I said, nothing is 
 fixed but six months at Whitwick, and feeling that I am 
 so much of a comfort to John here, and being also 
 myself very comfortable, I shall not find it easy to resist 
 coming to him again next winter. This brings me to 
 the wish that he had a good living and a good wife, 
 both which blessings I hope he will deserve.” 
 
CHAPTER XY. 
 
 Illness — Further Correspondence — Later 
 Incidents. 
 
 HE long period of freedom from family care which 
 
 X had been the lot of the Wordsworths since the 
 death of the two children in 1812 was destined to be 
 rudely broken. It was Dorothy herself, the youngest 
 of the elder inmates of Rydal Mount, who was the first 
 to bring the great shadow of pain upon the happy 
 circle. The fifteen years that succeeded their first 
 residence at Rydal were happy, fruitful years, the daily 
 routine of which was pleasantly varied by occasional 
 tours, by lengthened visits to many friends, and by a 
 correspondence with them, in which Dorothy delighted. 
 Among other pleasant places of resort was Brinsop 
 Court, Herefordshire, where lived a brother of Mrs. 
 Wordsworth. Meanwhile, also, Dorothy’s nephews and 
 niece grew up. From their infancy they had always 
 held a foremost place in the heart of their Aunt 
 Dorothy. The elder surviving son, John, decided to 
 enter the Church ; William, the younger, assisting his 
 father in the duties of the appointment of stamp dis- 
 tributor; Dora remaining to brighten the parental 
 
 home, 
 
192 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 From the correspondence of Dorothy herself, as well 
 as that of her brother, we are able to learn some- 
 thing of the commencement and progress of the sad 
 illness by which, for a quarter of a century, she was 
 for more or less afflicted. The cause we may also 
 gather. 
 
 It was in the last month of the year 1828 that her 
 splendid physical energies began to show signs of decay. 
 A letter of her niece Dora, written in February, 1827, 
 contains the following significant comment, which seems 
 to be almost prophetic: “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 seem to 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 apj^ears 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 
 
Illness. 
 
 193 
 
 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 we learn from her last-quoted letter to Henry 
 Crabb Robinson, in the autumn of 1828 Dorothy went 
 ‘to keep house for her nephew John, who had become 
 curate at Whitwick. Here she was seized with an 
 illness of a very severe nature, which prostrated her 
 for some months. In a letter from Wordsworth to 
 Mr. Robinson, of April 26, 1829, he refers to 
 the danger his “ dear Sister ” had just escaped, 
 and continues : “ What a shock that was to our poor 
 hearts ! Were she to depart, the Phasis of my Moon 
 would be robbed of light to a degree that I have not 
 courage to think of. During her illness we often 
 thought of your high estimate of her goodness, and of 
 your kindness towards her upon all occasions. Our 
 last account was of the 19th, and that morning 
 she had been out in the garden for ten minutes, 
 and we know that if she had not been going on 
 well since we should certainly have heard. We 
 look for a letter, in course, to-morrow, Mrs. Words- 
 worth is still with her, and I have entreated her to 
 stay ten days more. Dora is my housekeeper, and 
 did she not hold the pen, it would run wild in her 
 ^praises.” 
 
 13 
 
194 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 Upon her partial recovery, Dorothy wrote as follows 
 to her friend, Crabb Robinson : — 
 
 “ May 2, 1829. 
 
 “ Your letter, which by some strange mistake was 
 directed to me at Rydal instead of Whitwick, has just 
 reached me with a few words upon it by my niece, 
 telling me that her father had written to you ; from 
 him you will have heard all particulars respecting where 
 the dispersed of the family are, what doing, and what 
 intending, and this I am glad of, not having time or 
 room for a long letter. It drew tears from my eyes to 
 read of your affectionate anxiety concerning me. In 
 fact, it is the first time of my life of fifty- six years in 
 which I have had a serious illness, therefore, I never 
 before had an opportunity of knowing how much some 
 distant friends cared about me. Friends abroad, friends, 
 at home, all have been anxious, and more so, far more 
 I am sure, than I deserve ; but I attribute much of this 
 to my having been so remarkably strong and healthy. It 
 came like a shock to every one to be told of a dangerous 
 illness having attacked me. I am now, through G-od’s 
 mercy, perfectly restored to health and almost ta 
 strength; but quiet care — for a time at least — I am 
 assured is necessary, and, indeed, my own frame 
 admonishes me that it is. But for the sake of my 
 kind friends I am bound to take care, and I promise 
 them all, including you, who will be far away from us, 
 that I will be neither rash nor negligent. Indeed, 
 I never can forget what I suffered myself, nor the 
 anxiety of those around me. My nephew William was 
 
Further Correspondence. 
 
 195 
 
 the tenderest nurse possible. It would have moved 
 anybody’s heart to see him. But enough of this 
 subject. He is still at Whit wick, and we hear nothing 
 of Mr. Papendich’s arrival in England, but I think we 
 shall part from William finally in a week. His uncle 
 wishes to see him at Cambridge. There he will stay a 
 short while, and proceed to London, where he will take 
 up his quarters with Mr. Quillinan (to whom, if you 
 see him, give my kind love, and tell him I am deeply 
 sensible of the interest I know he has taken concerning 
 me). I am not hopeless of William’s having the good 
 fortune to see you before your departure. Yours is 
 dated the 27th, and you say in about ten days you shall 
 go into Suffolk, pay the Clarksons a visit, and return to 
 London. I wish this may catch you before your 
 departure for Suffolk ; indeed, I expect it will, other- 
 wise I should not have troubled you with the enclosure 
 for Rydal. You must know we sent a letter there 
 yesterday, and to-day Dora’s little note arrives (written 
 in yours), and there is something in it which it is better 
 to answer immediately, yet we cannot find in our hearts 
 to tax her with a second shilling ; so, recollecting that 
 you can almost command franks through your loyal 
 friends, I take the chance, and shall be much obliged 
 to you and the worthy Alderman if, by your joint 
 services, it can be forwarded. ... I wish you 
 would now and then write to us when you are abroad. 
 How long do you mean to stay P God grant that we 
 may all be alive and in good health at your return ! 
 And what a joyful welcome shall we give you at Rydal 
 Mount. If my brother ever should be able to take us 
 
196 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 into Italy, we shall call on you to fulfil your promise 
 of accompanying us — and what an accomplished 
 guide you will be. 
 
 # # # * # 
 
 “ Tell dear Mrs. Clarkson that it hurts me to turn 
 northward without seeing her ; but I hope if I live to 
 travel southward again, it will not be so. John gives 
 up his curacy after Trinity Sunday. Perhaps he may 
 go to London for a week or ten days, and rejoin me 
 here to accompany me to Halifax, where I shall stay a 
 few weeks, and then go to Rydal. John is not obliged 
 to go to his living at Moresby until the end of July. I 
 once had thoughts of visiting my friends in Hereford- 
 shire before my return to Kydal, but my illness has left 
 a home- sickness behind it, and nothing but the claims 
 of an aged friend, who took charge of me when a 
 child, at the request of my dying mother, could have 
 induced me to linger on the road after WhitwicJc claims 
 are satisfied. I think you have heard me speak of Mrs. 
 Pawson, of Halifax ; her husband died last year. 
 They were the oldest couple in Halifax among the upper 
 ranks. She is now eighty-three, and has all her facul- 
 ties perfect except that she is a little deaf.” 
 
 ‘'You have heard, no doubt, of my poor brother’s 
 eyes having been inflamed. Thank Grod they are better, 
 and, therefore, my sister has been less wanted at home, 
 especially as Dora is unusually well. They have been 
 very kind in sparing her to us so long. All danger was 
 over when she heard of my illness, but they could not 
 be easy; and it is well she came, for without her I 
 should not have myself perceived how weak I was, and 
 
Further Correspondence. 
 
 197 
 
 how much care was needed, and I should certainly 
 have had a relapse. In case of a similar attack, how- 
 ever, I should know better, and could of myself avoid 
 all risks. 
 
 “ If this letter should not catch you before you go to 
 Play ford, pray enclose this scrap for Mrs. Clarkson 
 before you leave England ; and excuse the trouble I give 
 you by close and bad penmanship, and do not forget us- 
 when you are gone, and believe me ever your faithful 
 and affectionate friend, 
 
 “D. Wordsworth. 
 
 “ I have not seen the Review, but have seen enough 
 of the cowardly manner in which people relinquish 
 their principles.” 
 
 While at Halifax on her way to Rydal, as mentioned 
 in this letter, Dorothy had a return of her illness which 
 detained her there for several months. 
 
 After her return, during the summer of this year 
 (1829), she appears to have been more or less of an 
 invalid for the remainder of her long life. Her tours 
 and her wanderings were over — her desire to visit 
 Rome never realised. The following letter to the same 
 correspondent is dated 22nd April, 1830 : — 
 
 “ Your scrap of a letter gave us more satisfaction 
 than I can express, . . . but I assure you we had 
 
 much rather you had . . . given us a real letter 
 
 bearing the post-mark of the ‘ Eternal City.’ 
 
 “ I will begin with a sober review of the autumn and 
 winter as they have passed away with us in our quiet 
 home, leaving all public and general matters to the 
 
198 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 newspapers, which no doubt you read more regularly 
 than ive do. I think you left England about the time 
 of John’s exchanging his Leicestershire curacy for the 
 small rectory of Moresby, in Cumberland. We left 
 Wliitwick with regret, but have now many reasons for 
 rejoicing in the change ; and but three weeks after 
 parting with our kind friend Lady Beaumont, her 
 sudden death tended to reconcile us, for without her, 
 Coleorton and Whit wick would not have been the same 
 places they used to be. An unusually severe winter, 
 and low wages, and want of work in the stocking 
 factory on which Whit wick depends, in a few months 
 completely reconciled us to our removal from a place 
 where poverty and distress that we could not effectually 
 relieve would have daily met our eyes. John is very 
 happy at Moresby, in a small parish, yet sufficiently 
 peopled, both by poor and rich, to require and call forth 
 constant moderate exertion, without that depressing 
 accompanying conviction that all we can do is of no 
 avail for permanent relief. John’s income is not much 
 larger than at Whitwick'; but he is a richer man, and is 
 comfortably habited in lodgings where he can at any 
 time receive one or two of us. His mother spent three 
 weeks with him in the winter, and Dora is now his com- 
 panion, and will remain till fetched home by her father, 
 who finds a sad want of her ; but he willingly submits, 
 the young people being so very happy, and her health 
 improving with sea-air and horse exercise with her 
 brother ; they have each a pony. Her winter’s cough 
 has dealt more gently with her than usual, yet she has 
 been very far from well, though with an inexhaustible 
 
Further Correspondence. 
 
 199 
 
 stock of lively spirits and of activity within doors, though 
 utterly unable to follow the example of her mother’s 
 youth and mine in walking. The family summer plans 
 are not yet fixed, but I think the father and daughter 
 will be tripping off to Cambridge before the commence- 
 ment, and perhaps my sister may visit her own rela- 
 tions in the county of Durham at the same time. As 
 for me, it seems to be decreed that I must stay at home, 
 and surely it is no punishment to be confined to this 
 beautiful spot. I have been enacting the invalid ever 
 since the month of November, though, in truth, I have 
 had no one ailment since the beginning of January. 
 Whenever the weather has been tolerable, I have gone 
 out in the pony chaise, or walked — but not farther than 
 the Terrace. Since the trees began to bud, I have 
 extended my walks a little farther ; and do indeed feel 
 myself equal to much more than I venture to attempt. 
 In compliance with the judgment and advice of those 
 who I suppose are much better judges of what is safe 
 than I am myself, I shall continue to use similar caution 
 during the whole of next summer and the following 
 winter, if I live so long ; and after that time I hope I 
 may be safely trusted to my own feelings as a guide in 
 ascertaining the measure of my strength. In the mean- 
 time it is certainly my duty to submit to be guided by 
 those who have already suffered so much anxiety on my 
 account, and there is no hardship in it, for this different 
 mode of life has no effect whatever upon my spirits, and 
 certainly it has agreed with my health ; for, as I told 
 you, I am, and have been since January, perfectly well. 
 It was a sad illness I had at Whitwick, and again I was 
 
200 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 very ill at Halifax, whence I came to Rydal the first 
 week of September, and since have not slept one night 
 from home. My brother has enjoyed his accustomed 
 good health, and though he passed his sixtieth birth- 
 day on the 7th of this month, is really as active— in as 
 good walking plight — as when we crossed the Alps in 
 1820. My sister, too, retains her strength and activity 
 wonderfully, though with some drawbacks from rheu- 
 matism, and a weak arm that was sprained above- 
 twenty years ago. Dora longs to go to Rome ; the 
 father would dearly like it, the mother would fall into 
 any plans that could reasonably be formed for such a 
 purpose, and as for me, I think I should lack none of 
 the zeal which would have accompanied me thither 
 twenty years ago. But we say not much about it. We 
 are past the scheming age (except Dora), and there 
 seem to be so many obstacles, that I cannot think we 
 shall ever accomplish a journey of such magnitude ; 
 and, indeed, whenever I venture upon a wish it carries 
 me no farther than dear Switzerland. But who knows 
 what circumstances may do for us ? When you come 
 home you will so rouse and inspire my brother’s aged 
 heart by his own fireside, that strange schemes may 
 arise, and all be realised with as much ease as our 
 journey of 1820 ! 
 
 # # # # ^ ^ 
 
 “We have had one most delightful letter from Charles 
 and Mary Lamb since you left England. She writes as 
 if very happy and contented in being released from 
 housekeeping cares, and gives, on the whole, a good 
 account of her brother, though from his own letter 
 
Further Correspondence. 
 
 201 
 
 (written with, quiet spirit and humour) we could 
 hardly know whether he was oppressed by being- 
 hurried out of his usual course or not. S. T. Coleridge 
 continues to live at Highgate, as usual, attacked by 
 occasional fits of sharp illness, but always, to a certain 
 point, recovering from them ; and I believe he is pub- 
 lishing some new work upon the old abstruse subjects. 
 His daughter is happily settled near him in London, but 
 they cannot see much of each other. To walk is im- 
 possible, and to be otherwise conveyed far too expensive 
 for a young lawyer’s wife who has his fortune to make. 
 Mrs. Coleridge is with her son Derwent, who does well 
 in his curacy and school ; Hartley is at Grasmere, writing 
 now and then for Blackwood and the annuals, and 
 when he has money in his pocket, wandering off nobody 
 knows whither. Miss Hutchinson is with the Southeys. 
 
 . . . Southey was off his work, but is better, and 
 
 as busy as ever. What he does is wonderful. He was 
 much affected by the death of his brother’s wife, Mrs. 
 Dr. Southey. My brother has laid his poetry aside for 
 two or three months. He has enough of new matter 
 for a small volume, which we wish him to publish, but 
 I think he will not, he so dislikes publishing. A new 
 edition of his poems will soon be called for. He has 
 lately been busied, day after day, out of doors, among 
 workmen who are making us another new and most 
 delightful terrace. I hope you will soon come and walk 
 upon it, so I shall not describe. . . . This is a poor 
 
 letter to travel so far ; but I know you will be glad to- 
 hear of us, and to receive our assurances of affectionate 
 remembrances, in which we three (the only ones at home) 
 
202 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 do heartily join. . . . Adieu, my dear friend. — 
 
 Believe me, ever yours affectionately, 
 
 “ Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 “We have a very wet and mostly cold spring, after 
 an unrelenting winter. How is it with you ? Our 
 shrubs are budding, larches green, but the trees very 
 backward ; and the soil is so sodden with wet that even 
 the flowers look comfortless. 
 
 “Monsieur H. C. Robinson, 
 
 “La Poste Restante a Rome.” 
 
 “ Friday , December 1 qt, 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 : 4 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 agree- 
 able to us all, for it is fast approaching ; but that when- 
 ever it suits you (for you may have Christmas engage- 
 ments with your own family) to travel so far northward, 
 we shall be rejoiced to see you ; and whatever other 
 
Further Correspondence. 
 
 203 
 
 visitors we may chance to have, we shall always be able 
 to find a corner for yon. 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. . . . 
 
 44 But to return to pleasant By dal Mount, still cheer- 
 ful and peaceful — if it were not for the newspapers we 
 should know nothing of the turbulence of our great 
 towns and cities. ... 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 dread- 
 ful events may make each man seek only to promote the 
 peace and prosperity of the country. You will see that 
 
204 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 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 of 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. . . .” 
 
CHAPTEE XYI. 
 
 The Shadows Thicken — The Long Twilight. 
 EOM the correspondence contained in the previous 
 
 JL chapters, it does not appear that Miss Words- 
 worth’s severe prostration had, up to this time, to any 
 degree affected her mind, but that she was still in pos- 
 session of her vigorous and clear intellect. In the year 
 1832 she was, however, seized anew with a very severe 
 illness. This was accompanied by an alarming attack 
 of brain fever, from the effects of which she never 
 altogether recovered. 
 
 Wordsworth himself felt very keenly the affliction of 
 his sister. Writing to his brother, the Eev. Dr. Words- 
 worth, 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 at- 
 tention. 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 
 
206 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 year, writing to Professor Hamilton, after referring to 
 Coleridge, lie 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.” 
 
 The sad, progressive inroads of Miss Wordsworth’s 
 affliction are best gathered from the following extracts 
 from letters from her brother, during the few succeeding 
 years, to Mr. Crabb Robinson : — 
 
 Writing February 5, 1833, he says : — “ My poor dear 
 Sister has not left her room for five weeks, and scarcely 
 her bed, but merely to return to it. She is, you will 
 grieve to hear, deplorably weak, and cannot, we fear, 
 remain long with us. But do not speak of this to any- 
 body, further than to say she is very poorly. . . . 
 
 The origin of her complaint was imprudent exposure,, 
 during a long walk, when she lived with her nephew in 
 Leicestershire, three years ago. She had a relapse above 
 twelve months past, and never has been well or strong 
 since. But no more of this sad subject. I am come to 
 that time of life when I must be prepared to part with 
 or precede my dearest friends, but G-od’s will be done.” 
 
 June 5, 1833. — “ My dear Sister is, upon the whole, 
 considerably better, but sadly subject to injury from 
 the changes of the weather. She can walk about 
 twenty or thirty steps, but always with exhaustion; 
 nevertheless, when the weather is favourable she is 
 always wheeled about in a chair for an hour or two in 
 the garden.” 
 
 November , 1833. — “ My dear Sister is rallying. 
 
The Shadows Thicken. 
 
 207 
 
 though she has only risen from her bed to sit up 
 once/’ 
 
 November 21, 1834. — “My Sister does not gain 
 strength, and had about a month ago a back-cast, from 
 which she is in a good measure recovered. So, upon 
 the whole, she cannot be said to be worse than when 
 you saw her.” 
 
 May, 1835. — “Had not my family been in so dis- 
 tressing a state I should have gone to London by Cam- 
 bridge about the beginning of next month, which pro- 
 bably would have allowed me the pleasure of seeing you 
 before your departure for the Continent. At present I 
 can entertain no such project, as it seems impossible 
 that my beloved Sister can put on for any length of 
 time.” 
 
 July 6, 1835. — “ My Sister’s health of body seems 
 to have suffered less than her mind. Her recollection 
 is greatly impaired since the event, I mean her recollec- 
 tion of recent events. ... I fear you cannot read 
 this letter ; I feel my hand shaking, I have had so 
 much agitation to-day in attempting to quiet my poor 
 Sister, and for being under the necessity of refusing 
 her things that would be improper for her. . . . Her 
 
 memory is excellent this morning ; I chanced to mutter 
 a line from Dyer’s ‘ Cronger Hill,’ she immediately 
 finished the passage, reciting the previous line, and the 
 two following. Speaking about her faculties, she told 
 me that Miss Hutchinson’s vanishing had been a 
 shattering to them.” 
 
 November, 1835. — “You will be surprised to hear 
 that her bodily health is good ; but her mind is, I may 
 
208 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 say, in a state of childishness. . . . Her memory 
 
 of passing events — which at one period was quite gone, 
 though retrospective it was perfect, and her mind, if 
 it could be fixed on books or serious matters, as 
 vigorous as ever — is much recovered, and this en- 
 courages us to trust that her intellect also may be 
 restored ; but alas ! at present her thoughts and 
 manners are quite childlike. She has much wild 
 pleasure in her sallies ; yet almost at the same time 
 bemoans her sufferings, which it is difficult for us to 
 understand.” 
 
 March 16, 1836. — “ My best news is that our dear 
 Sister is mightily improved in bodily health since your 
 departure; her mind, however, is still feeble in all 
 that relates to her illness, of which she has a strangely 
 confused recollection. She now makes some little 
 progress in walking, though not without support.” 
 
 July 4, 1836. — Mrs. Wordsworth writes : — “ Her 
 bodily health continues good, though sad indeed is the 
 feeling that now abides with us, and has removed the 
 hope we had encouraged of her mind strengthening as 
 a consequence of her being able to get out and be 
 amused in the fresh air. She has now her drives and 
 daily exercise in a Merlin’s chair in the garden, and 
 for a time enjoys it, and she is very happy, but no 
 permanent change follows. She is, as you know, at 
 times, quiet for a short space, her own acute self 
 retains the power over her fine judgment and dis- 
 crimination ; then, and at once, relapses into childlike 
 feebleness, and gives vent by merry sallies, or, with 
 the impatience of a petted child, contrives one want 
 
The Shadows Thicken. 
 
 209 
 
 -after another, as if merely to provoke contradiction. 
 But she has no delusions.” 
 
 November 1, 1836. — Mrs. Wordsworth writes: 
 
 “Miss W. to us seems quite delightful, though my 
 sister Joanna, who joined us only last week, is greatly 
 shocked at the change that has taken place in her, 
 and almost wonders to hear us congratulate ourselves. 
 Yet our cause for thankfulness is great.” 
 
 Notwithstanding long - cherished hopes to the 
 contrary, it came to be slowly recognised that the 
 outward, active life of Miss Wordsworth was a thing 
 of the past. Her condition became such that those 
 who loved her so dearly could only hope to relieve her 
 pain and cheer her lonely hours. In a note of his life, 
 dictated by the poet himself, he refers to this as being 
 the year when his sister became a “ confirmed invalid.” 
 
 Meanwhile, in the poet’s home and circle, the inevit- 
 able flight of time was bringing about other changes 
 which tended to sadden the age of its inhabitants. 
 Intimate friends were departing. Coleridge, the bosom 
 friend of Wordsworth’s early manhood, 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. 
 
 14 
 
210 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 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 woman- 
 hood, 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 accom- 
 plished 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, 
 who met her death by burning, leaving two little girls. 
 Dorothy attended assiduously the dying bed, and 
 became, along with her niece Dora, the warm friend 
 and comforter of the motherless children. When, 
 after the lapse of nearly twenty years, Mr. Quillinan 
 sought the hand of the poet’s daughter in marriage, 
 even the close friendship existing between the families 
 was hardly sufficient to reconcile the poet to the loss of 
 his daughter’s companionship. Sir Henry Taylor, in 
 
The Shadows Thicken. 
 
 211 
 
 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 intoler- 
 able 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 break- 
 fast; 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 Fen- 
 wick 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. 
 
212 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 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, 1843, that Words- 
 worth, 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 
 
The Long Twilight. 
 
 213 
 
 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. Some writers have 
 alluded to her during these later years of her life as if 
 her mind were a complete and permanent wreck. There 
 is no doubt that her affliction was one of a most severe 
 character, and that its prostrating effects on body and 
 mind were lasting, but, as has been abundantly shown 
 by the correspondence, the condition of Miss Words- 
 worth was sometimes relieved by brightness, when her 
 mind reclaimed its youthful power, and she appeared to 
 be her own, old, bright self. And this continued to the 
 last. 
 
 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 say 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.” 
 
 The late Mr. Thomas Cooper has, in his diary under 
 date September, 1846, the following reference to a visit 
 to Rydal Mount : “ The poet’s aged and infirm sister 
 was being drawn about the courtyard in a wheeled 
 chair, as we walked on the terrace. He descended with 
 me, and introduced me to her as a poet ! and hung over 
 her infirmity with the kindest affection, while she talked 
 with me.” 
 
 A later mention of Miss Wordsworth is found in a 
 
214 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 letter of 1849, from Mr. Crabb Robinson to Miss 
 Fenwick. 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 remi- 
 niscence : “ 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 con- 
 nected 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 G-rasmere.” 
 
 Notwithstanding Miss Wordsworth’s long illness, she 
 was destined to survive the beloved brother for whom 
 she had done so much — for whom she had lived. In 
 March, 1850, the poet took his last walk as far as 
 White Moss Cottage. While sitting in the porch, 
 watching the setting sun (how often had he and his 
 wife and sister watched it set over the same hills in the 
 olden time!), he caught a chill, which resulted in an 
 attack of bronchitis. After lying in a state of ex- 
 haustion until April 23, the great soul passed away 
 to continue its great ministry of song in the eternal 
 world. 
 
The Long Twilight. 
 
 215 
 
 In consequence of her own condition, Miss Words- 
 worth had not been 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. When wheeled 
 past the room in which her brother lay, she was heard 
 to say, “ O Death, where is thy sting P O Grave, where 
 is thy victory ? ” 
 
 Miss Wordsworth 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, she had, 
 indeed, to the very last, perfectly lucid intervals, during 
 which she was remarkably clear and quite herself. She 
 could remember quite well what took place in her girl- 
 hood, while, if asked what she had been doing or talk- 
 ing about an hour previously, she would have no recol- 
 lection of it. 
 
 During her latest years Miss Wordsworth was unable 
 to read much, but would amuse herself by repeating 
 pieces of poetry, her own as well as her brother’s, 
 which, learnt in previous years, she remembered 
 wonderfully well. As late as the year 1841 or 
 1842 Miss Wordsworth composed her poem on the 
 Floating Island, and about the same time a few 
 pathetic verses which she frequently repeated to the 
 younger members of the family who used to walk 
 
216 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 by her bath-chair, and which contained the following- 
 lines : — 
 
 “ No prisoner am I on this conch, 
 
 My mind is free to roam ; 
 
 And leisure, peace and loving friends, 
 
 Are the best treasures of an earthly home* 
 
 Such gifts are mine, then why deplore, 
 
 The body’s gentle, slow decay ; 
 
 A warning mercifully sent 
 
 To fix my hopes upon a surer stay.” 
 
 Another favourite occupation of Miss Wordsworth was; 
 her care of the birds, chiefly robins, which she loved to 
 gather about her in front of the house, to be fed. Of 
 these she had, indeed, shown a fondness since her 
 girlhood. 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 con- 
 dition was aggravated by an attack of bronchitis, and her 
 spirit left the wearied frame on the 25th of January, in 
 her eightv-third year. 
 
 Her remains were deposited in the peaceful churchyard 
 of Grasmere, by the murmuring waters of the Eothay, 
 the same sacred spot of earth which contained those of 
 her beloved brother, overshadowed by the same yew trees. 
 
The Eternal Dawn. 
 
 217 
 
 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 ex- 
 ception 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 sacri- 
 fice, 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 re- 
 views, 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 over- 
 
218 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 clouded, 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 
 assurance 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, and with 
 the familiar love re-linked — in Pctradiso. 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 ‘Concluding Remarks — A Quiet Resting Place. 
 
 Keep fresh the grass upon his grave, 
 
 O Roth a, with thy living wave ! 
 
 Sing him thy best ! for few or none 
 Hears thy voice right, now he is gone. 
 
 — M. Arnold. 
 
 A FEW words only are here desirable in which to 
 take a farewell of the most interesting cluster of 
 lives of which William and Dorothy Wordsworth have 
 formed the central theme, and upon which the thoughts 
 so lovingly linger. 
 
 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 Words- 
 worth and his sister, before mentioned), “and for 
 letting us know how his excellent wife, Mrs. Words- 
 worth, 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 
 
220 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 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 hi 
 her grand- children . ’ ’ 
 
 During the last three years of her life, Mrs. Words- 
 worth — the second guardian angel of the poet’s life 
 — -was blind. 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 to 
 help 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. 
 
 This is no place in which to dwell upon the character 
 of Wordsworth as a poet. Posterity has happily done 
 for him what many of his early contemporaries refused 
 or neglected to do, and the name and fame of Words- 
 worth are for all eternity enshrined in ever-multiplying 
 loving hearts. Beginning his life with the one domi- 
 nant purpose of becoming a teacher to his fellow-men, 
 he lived to see that purpose abundantly recognised 
 and answered. In a letter to Lady Beaumont, alluding 
 to his poems, he once said: “ Trouble not yourself 
 upon their present reception ; of what moment is that 
 compared with what, I trust, is their destiny ?— i to- 
 console the afflicted, to add sunshine to delight by 
 making the happy happier ; to teach the young and the 
 
Concluding Remarks. 
 
 221 
 
 gracious of every age to see, to think, and to feel, and 
 therefore to become more actively and securely virtuous ; 
 this is their office, which I trust they will faithfully 
 perform long after we (that is, all that is mortal of us) 
 are mouldering in our graves.” 
 
 It has by some been stated, by 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. 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 true 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 Words- 
 worth, in his early years, worshipped. It should, how- 
 ever, be remembered that the same pen which wrote 
 what have been styled the pantheistic poems, wrote 
 also 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 lofty 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 pa-ssion and suffer- 
 ing are to be allayed, we are reminded of “ the sure 
 
222 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 relief of prayer,” and the advice given to the Solitary to> 
 aid in the restoration of a lost trust and hope : 
 
 “ One adequate support 
 For the calamities of mortal life 
 Exists — one only : an assured belief 
 That the procession of our fate, however 
 Sad or disturbed, is ordered by a Being 
 Of infinite benevolence and power ; 
 
 Whose everlasting purposes embrace 
 All accidents, converting them to good. 
 
 The darts of anguish fix not where the seat 
 Of suffering hath been thoroughly fortified 
 By acquiescence in the Will supreme 
 For time and for eternity ; by faith, 
 
 Faith absolute in God, including hope, 
 
 And the defence that lies in boundless love 
 Of His perfections ; that habitual dread 
 Of aught unworthily conceived, endured 
 Impatiently, ill done, or left undone. 
 
 To the dishonour of His holy name. 
 
 Soul of our Souls, and safeguard of the world l 
 Sustain, thou only canst, the sick of heart ! 
 Restore their languid spirits, and recall 
 Their lost affections unto Thee and Thine ! ” 
 
 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 
 
Concluding Remarks. 
 
 223* 
 
 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 
 Dorothy’s journal — one r made after an interval of many 
 years — we find as follows : October 4 th, 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.” It must be admitted that the 
 feeling which dictated those words marks a distinct 
 advance. It cannot be doubted 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, unceasingly murmuring their eternal mys- 
 teries, as in the public assembly of worshippers. And 
 such would be in accord with the glow of youthful life 
 with which they bounded to greet Nature’s subtle 
 influences. A longer experience of life brought its in- 
 evitable sobering tendencies, accompanied by a longing 
 for a closer approach to 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. 
 
 Among the quiet resting-places of the dead, few, if 
 
224 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 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 “ 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 overshadowed by aged 
 yews, which gently shower around them their peaceful 
 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 rest- 
 ing-place of the “ loving, and tractable, though wild,” 
 Catherine bears the inscription, “ Suffer little children 
 
A Quiet Resting-place. 
 
 225 
 
 to come unto Me.” That of her brother contains a few 
 memorial lines recording at once his age and loving 
 disposition : — 
 
 “ Six months to six years added he remained 
 Upon this sinful earth, by sin unstained : 
 
 O blessed Lord ! Whose mercy then removed 
 A Child whom every eye that looked on loved ; 
 Support us, teach us calmly to resign 
 What we possessed, and now is wholly Thine ! ” 
 
 The next green mound, in point of date, is that 
 which covers the remains of the first Mrs. Quillinan, 
 who died on the 25th May, 1822, at the early age of 
 twenty- seven years, six months after the birth of her 
 second daughter. She was a daughter of the late Sir 
 Egerton Brydges, Bart., of Denton Court, near Dover. 
 There is in Grasmere Church a monument to her 
 designed by Sir F. Chantrey. 
 
 Miss Sarah Hutchinson, the younger sister of Mrs. 
 Wordsworth, who has been before mentioned, comes 
 next in this remarkable group. Spending, as she did, 
 much of her time with the Wordsworths, at Grasmere 
 and Rydal Mount, she was devoted to all the members 
 of the family. Being herself of poetic mould, the poet's 
 home was most congenial to her. It was she who, 
 during a sickness the year before her death, wrote the 
 following lines to the Redbreast : — 
 
 “ Stay, cheerful little Robin ! stay, 
 
 And at my casement sing, 
 
 Though it should prove a farewell lay 
 And this our parting spring. 
 
 15 
 
22 6 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 “ Though I, alas ! may ne’er enjoy 
 The promise in thy song, 
 
 A charm, that thought cannot destroy, 
 
 Doth to thy strain belong. 
 
 “ Methinks that in my dying hour 
 Thy song would still be dear, 
 
 And, with a more than earthly power, 
 
 My passing Spirit cheer. 
 
 “ Then, little Bird, this boon confer. 
 
 Come, and my requiem sing. 
 
 Nor fail to be the harbinger 
 Of everlasting Spring.” 
 
 She died, as before mentioned, in 1835. Her memo- 
 rial stone states that she was the beloved sister and 
 faithful friend of mourners, who had caused the stone 
 to be erected, with the earnest wish that their remains 
 might be laid by her side, and a humble hope that, 
 through Christ, they might together be made partakers 
 of the same blessed resurrection. Twelve years after- 
 wards the sod was again cut, to receive, not yet the aged 
 poet or his wife, but their idolised daughter Dora, the 
 devoted wife of Mr. Quillinan, who, in her forty -third 
 year, after a brief period of wedded happiness, died on 
 the 9th July, 1847. Upon the stone at the head of her 
 grave is chiselled a lamb bearing a cross, and the con- 
 solatory words : “ Him that cometh unto Me I will in 
 no wise cast out.” 
 
 The poet himself was the next to be added to the 
 group, and the slab, with the simple inscription 
 “ William Wordsworth, 1850,” has been gazed upon 
 
A Quiet Resting-place. 
 
 227 
 
 'by as many moistened eyes as the elaborate tombs of 
 nny of England’s greatest heroes. 
 
 Mr. Edward Quillinan, who died in July, 1851, 
 rests near the two beloved companions of his life. 
 
 The subject of this brief memoir — the most perfect 
 sister the world hath known — after her sunny youth, 
 her strong maturity, and her afflicted age, now sleeps 
 in peace on the right side of the poet, to whom her 
 self-denying life was devoted, her resting-place, to all 
 who have heard her name, being sufficiently indicated 
 by the words, 
 
 “Dorothy Wordsworth, 
 
 1855.” 
 
 In a few years more the poet’s grave received to its 
 shelter the tried and honoured partner of his long life, 
 and the words were added : “ Mary Wordsworth, 1859.” 
 
 From this time there is a break of many years, when 
 the enclosure received another member of the younger 
 generation. Miss Rotha Quillinan, named after the 
 murmuring river, by the banks of which her life was 
 spent, died on the 1st February, 1876. She was the 
 younger daughter of Mr. Quillinan, and, apart from 
 the subsequent relationship, had been an object of 
 especial interest to the poet as his god-daughter. He 
 wrote the following lines in her album : — 
 
 “ Rotha, my Spiritual Child! this head was grey 
 When at the sacred font for thee I stood : 
 
 Pledged till thou reach the verge of womanhood, 
 
 And shalt become thy own sufficient stay ; 
 
 Too late, I feel, sweet Orphan ! was the day 
 For steadfast hope the contract to fulfil ; 
 
228 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 Yet shall my blessing hover o’er thee still, 
 
 Embodied in the music of this Lay, 
 
 Breathed forth beside the peaceful mountain Stream, 
 Whose murmur soothed thy languid Mother’s ear 
 After her throes, this Stream of name more dear 
 Since thou dost bear it — a memorial theme 
 For others ; for thy future self, a spell 
 To summon fancies out of Time’s dark cell.’ , 
 
 Another addition to the group was made in 1883, 
 when Mr. William Wordsworth, the last surviving 
 son of the poet, was added to the number. 
 
 In August, 1888, the ground was again opened to 
 receive the remains of the much-loved widow of the 
 last-named, the last survivor of the generation of 
 Wordsworths who formed the Rydal Mount household. 
 
 Still another member of the famous kindred has 
 been subsequently added to this group of “ immortal 
 dead.” Jemima Katherine Quillinan, the elder daughter 
 of Mr. Quillinan, who survived her sister many years, 
 died in January, 1891. The influence of their quiet 
 and unostentatious lives is shown by a tasteful 
 memorial window in Rydal Church, bearing the record 
 that it was “ erected to the memory of Jemima 
 Katherine and Rotha Quillinan, by some of those 
 whose childhood was made happier by their never- 
 failing kindness.” 
 
 There is one more grave which, though not within 
 the enclosure, lies close behind it, and may be fittingly 
 mentioned. Hartley Coleridge, the eldest son of his 
 more distinguished father, was for many years a 
 
A Quiet Resting-place. 
 
 229 
 
 familiar figure in the neighbourhood where he now 
 rests. As a child, quiet, intelligent, and promising ; 
 as a youth, encouraging the hope that he was gifted 
 with a genius which would lead to a career of no 
 ordinary character ; as a collegian, fulfilling the bright 
 hopes of his friends, and attaining signal distinction ; — 
 his subsequent history affords one more instance of the 
 fact that the greatest genius may by one failing be 
 crippled, and the brightest promise be never followed 
 by its full fruition. But this is not the place to re- 
 count his story. His published poems show that he 
 inherited no small portion of his father’s poetic ability. 
 In his subsequently rather aimless life, he endeared 
 himself not a little to the sympathetic inhabitants of 
 the vale by his gentle, warm-hearted, and loving disposi- 
 tion. He was passionately fond of children, and would 
 hardly pass through the village without taking a little 
 one into his arms. For his father’s sake, as well as his 
 own, he was a favourite with the Wordsworths. It was 
 by Mrs. Wordsworth, the friend of his infancy, that in 
 his fifty-third year his relatives were summoned to his 
 dying bed ; and by Wordsworth himself (a year before 
 his own death) his last resting-place was chosen. “ Let 
 him lie by us,” said the aged poet, “ he would have 
 wished it ; ” adding to the sexton, “ keep the ground 
 for us — we are old people, and it cannot be for 
 long.” 
 
 The following sonnet may be given as a specimen of 
 Hartley Coleridge’s poetry, the closing line not inaptly 
 expressing the prayerful attitude with which he ap- 
 proached the eternal future. 
 
230 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 “she loved much. 
 
 “ She sat and wept beside His feet. The weight 
 Of sin oppressed her heart ; for all the blame, 
 And the poor malice of the worldly shame, 
 
 To her was past, extinct, and out of date ; 
 
 Only the sin remained — the leprous state. 
 
 She would be melted by the heat of love, 
 
 By fires far fiercer than are blown to prove 
 And purge the silver ore adulterate. 
 
 She sat and wept, and with her untressed hair 
 Still wiped the feet she was so blest to touch ; 
 And He wiped off the soiling of despair 
 From her sweet soul, because she loved so much.. 
 I am a sinner, full of doubts and fears, 
 
 Make me a humble thing of love and tears.” 
 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Poems. 
 
 D OROTHY WORDSWORTH did not write much 
 poetry. The few pieces she has left behind, 
 though not of the highest order, are sufficient to show 
 that had she devoted herself to it, she might have 
 attained distinction. She was so devoted to her brother 
 that she did not attempt for herself an independent 
 position. She preferred to find subjects for the more 
 skilful pen of her brother, and to act as his amanu- 
 ensis. The poems that she did write, and which have 
 been published with those of her brother, should have 
 a place here. The first of these, written in 1805, is — 
 
 “the cottager to her infant. 
 
 ( Suggested while watching one of the Poet 1 s Children.) 
 
 “ The days are cold, the nights are long, 
 
 The north wind sings a doleful song ; 
 
 Then hush again upon my breast ; 
 
 All merry things are now at rest, 
 
 Save thee, my pretty Love ! 
 
 “ The kitten sleeps upon the hearth, 
 
 The crickets long have ceased their mirth ; 
 
232 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 There’s nothing stirring in the house 
 Save one wee , hungry, nibbling mouse, 
 
 Then why so busy thou ? 
 
 “ Nay ! start not at that sparkling light ; 
 
 ’Tis but the moon that shines so bright 
 On the window pane, bedropped with rain : 
 Then, little Darling ! sleep again, 
 
 And wake when it is day.” 
 
 % 
 
 The following (written in 1806) has been described 
 by Charles Lamb as masterly : — 
 
 “ ADDRESS TO A CHILD (DURING A BOISTEROUS 
 WINTER EVENING). 
 
 “ What way does the Wind come ? What way does 
 he go ? 
 
 He rides over the water, and over the snow ; 
 
 Through wood and through vale ; and o’er rocky height 
 Which the goat cannot climb, takes his sounding flight ; 
 He tosses about in every bare tree, 
 
 As, if you look up, you plainly may see ; 
 
 But how he will come, and whither he goes, 
 
 There’s never a scholar in England knows. 
 
 He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook, 
 
 And ring a sharp ’larum ; — but, if you should look, 
 There’s nothing to see but a cushion of snow 
 Bound as a pillow, and whiter than milk, 
 
 And softer than if it were covered with silk. 
 
 Sometimes he’ll hide in the cave of a rock, 
 
 Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard cock ; 
 
 — Yet seek him, — and what shall you find in the place ? 
 
Poems. 
 
 233 
 
 ^Nothing but silence and empty space ; 
 
 Save, in a corner, a heap of dry leaves, 
 
 'That he’s left, for a bed, to beggars or thieves ! 
 
 As soon as ’tis daylight to-morrow, with me, 
 
 You shall go to the orchard, and then you will see 
 That he has been there, and made such a rout, 
 
 And cracked the branches, and strewn them about ; 
 Heaven grant that he spare but that one upright twig 
 That looked up at the sky so proud and big 
 All last summer, as well you know, 
 
 Studded with apples, a beautiful show ! 
 
 Hark ! over the roof he makes a pause, 
 
 And growls as if he would fix his claws 
 Eight in the slates, and with a huge rattle, 
 
 Drive them down, like men in a battle : 
 
 But let him range round; he does us no harm, 
 
 We build up the fire, we’re snug and warm ; 
 
 Untouched by his breath, see the candle shines bright. 
 And burns with a clear and steady light ; 
 
 Books have we to read, — but that half- stifled knell, 
 
 Alas ! ’tis the sound of the eight o’clock bell. 
 
 — Come now, we’ll to bed ! and when we are there, 
 
 He may work his own will, and what shall we care ? 
 
 He may knock at the door, — we’ll not let him in ; 
 
 May drive at the windows, — we’ll laugh at his din ; 
 
 Let him seek his own home, wherever it be ; 
 
 Here’s a cozie warm house for Edward and me.” 
 
 The next (also a child’s poem), written in 1807, 
 was composed on the eve of the return of Mrs. 
 Wordsworth, after a month’s absence in London. 
 
234 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 Miss Wordsworth and the children were then staying- 
 at Coleorton : — 
 
 “ THE MOTHER’S RETURN. 
 
 “ A month, sweet little ones, is past 
 Since your dear Mother went away, — 
 
 And she to-morrow will return ; 
 
 To-morrow is the happy day. 
 
 “ 0 blessed tidings ! thought of joy ! 
 
 The eldest heard with steady glee ; 
 
 Silent he stood ; then laughed amain, — 
 
 And shouted, 4 Mother, come to me ! ’ 
 
 “ Louder and louder did he shout, 
 
 With witless hope to bring her near ; 
 
 ‘ Ha y, patience ! patience, little boy ! 
 
 Your tender mother cannot hear.’ 
 
 “ I told of hills, and far-off towns, 
 
 And long, long vales to travel through. — 
 
 He listens, puzzled, sore perplexed, 
 
 But he submits ; what can he do ? 
 
 “ H o strife disturbs his sister’s breast ; 
 
 She wars not with the mystery 
 Of time and distance, night and day 
 The bonds of our humanity. 
 
 “ Her joy is like an instinct — joy 
 Of kitten, bird, or summer fly ; 
 
 She dances, runs without an aim ; 
 
 She chatters in her ecstacy. 
 
Poems. 
 
 235 
 
 “ Her brother now takes up the note, 
 
 And echoes back his sister’s glee ; 
 
 They hug the infant in my arms. 
 
 As if to force his sympathy. 
 
 “ Then, settling into fond discourse, 
 
 We rested in the garden bower ; 
 
 While sweetly shone the evening sun, 
 
 In his departing hour. 
 
 “We told o’er all that we had done, — 
 
 Our rambles by the swift brook’s side. 
 Far as the willow- skirted pool, 
 
 Where two fair swans together glide. 
 
 “ We talked of change, of winter gone, 
 
 Of green leaves on the hawthorn spray, 
 Of birds that build their nests and sing. 
 And all ‘ since Mother went away ! ’ 
 
 “ To her these tales they will repeat, 
 
 To her our new-born tribes will show, 
 The goslings green, the ass’s colt, 
 
 The lambs that in the meadow go. 
 
 “ — But see, the evening star comes forth ! 
 To bed the children must depart ; 
 
 A moment’s heaviness they feel, 
 
 A sadness at the heart : 
 
 “ ’Tis gone — and in a merry fit 
 They run upstairs in gamesome race ; 
 
 I, too, infected by their mood, 
 
 I could have joined the wanton chase. 
 
236 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 “ Five minutes past — and, O the change ! 
 
 Asleep upon their beds they lie ; 
 
 Their busy limbs in perfect rest, 
 
 And closed the sparkling eye.” 
 
 The following poem was written at Kydal Mount in 
 1832. Wordsworth has said he believed it arose out of 
 a casual expression of a child : — 
 
 “ LOVING AND LIKING : IRREGULAR VERSES, ADDRESSED 
 TO A CHILD. 
 
 “ There’s more in words than I can teach ; 
 
 Yet listen, Child ! — I would not preach ; 
 
 But only give some plain directions 
 To guide your speech and your affections. 
 
 Say not you love a roasted fowl, 
 
 But you may love a screaming owl, 
 
 And, if you can, the unwieldy toad 
 That crawls from his secure abode 
 Within the mossy garden wall 
 When evening dews begin to fall. 
 
 Oh mark the beauty of his eye : 
 
 What wonders in that circle lie ! 
 
 So clear, so bright, our fathers said 
 He wears a jewel in his head ! 
 
 “ And when upon some showery day, 
 
 Into a path or public way 
 A frog leaps out from bordering grass, 
 
 Startling the timid as they pass, 
 
 Do you observe him, and endeavour 
 To take the intruder into favour ; 
 
 Learning from him to find a reason 
 
Poems. 
 
 237 
 
 For a light heart in a dull season. 
 
 And you may love him in the pool, 
 
 That is for him a happy school, 
 
 In which he swims as taught by nature, 
 
 Fit pattern for a human creature, 
 
 G-lancing amid the water bright, 
 
 And sending upward sparkling light. 
 
 “ Nor blush if o’er your heart be stealing 
 A love for things that have no feeling : 
 
 The spring’s first rose by you espied 
 May fill your breast with joyful pride ; 
 
 And you may love the strawberry-flower, 
 
 And love the strawberry in its bower ; 
 
 But when the fruit, so often praised 
 For beauty, to your lip is raised, 
 
 Say not you love the delicate treat, 
 
 But like it, enjoy it, and thankfully eat. 
 
 “ Long may you love your pensioner mouse, 
 
 Though one of a tribe that torment the house : 
 
 Nor dislike for her cruel sport the cat, 
 
 Deadly foe both of mouse and rat ; 
 
 Remember she follows the law of her kind, 
 
 And Instinct is neither wayward nor blind. 
 
 Then think of her beautiful gliding form, 
 
 Her tread that would scarcely crush a worm, 
 
 And her soothing song by the winter fire, 
 
 Soft as the dying throb of the lyre. 
 
 “ I would not circumscribe your love : 
 
 It may soar with the eagle and brood with the dove. 
 May pierce the earth with the patient mole, 
 
238 
 
 Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 Or track the hedgehog to his hole. 
 
 Loving and liking are the solace of life, 
 
 Rock the cradle of joy, smooth the death-bed of strife. 
 
 4 ‘ You love your father and your mother, 
 
 Your grown-up and your baby-brother ; 
 
 You love your sister, and your friends, 
 
 And countless blessings which God sends : 
 
 And while these right affections play, 
 
 You live each moment of your day ; 
 
 They lead you on to full content. 
 
 And likings fresh and innocent, 
 
 That store the mind, the memory feed, 
 
 And prompt to many a gentle deed : 
 
 But likings come, and pass away ; 
 
 ’Tis love that remains till our latest day : 
 
 Our heavenward guide is holy love, 
 
 And will be our bliss with saints above.” 
 
 The poem suggested by an island on Derwent -water, 
 which is said to have been composed so late as the year 
 1842, shows that, if the date be correct, which is some- 
 what doubtful, Miss Wordsworth was at that time in 
 full possession of her faculties. These hues, we are 
 informed, she used to take pleasure in repeating during 
 her last illness. 
 
 “ FLOATING- ISLAND. 
 
 “ Harmonious Powers with Nature work 
 On sky, earth, river, lake, and sea ; 
 Sunshine and cloud, whirlwind and breeze, 
 All in one duteous task agree. 
 
Poems. 
 
 239 
 
 “ Once did I see a slip of earth 
 (By throbbing waves long undermined) 
 
 Loosed from its hold ; how, no one knew, 
 
 But all might see it float, obedient to the wind ; 
 
 “ Might see it, from the mossy shore 
 Dissevered, float upon the Lake, 
 
 Float wdth its crest of trees adorned 
 
 On which the warbling birds their pastime take. 
 
 “ Food, shelter, safety, there they find ; 
 
 There berries ripen, flowerets bloom ; 
 
 There insects live their lives, and die ; 
 
 A peopled world it is ; in size a tiny room. 
 
 “ And thus through many seasons’ space 
 This little Island may survive ; 
 
 But Nature, though we mark her not, 
 
 Will take away, may cease to give, 
 
 “ Perchance when you are wandering forth 
 Upon some vacant sunny day, 
 
 Without an object, hope, or fear, 
 
 Thither your eyes may turn — the Isle is passed 
 away ; 
 
 “ Buried beneath the glittering Lake, 
 
 Its place no longer to be found ; 
 
 Yet the lost fragments shall remain 
 To fertilize some other ground.” 
 
APPENDIX I. 
 
 Dote Cottage. 
 
 It may be noted that this home of memories has been 
 purchased, and is now preserved, for the use of the 
 public. It was for some time my property. In the 
 latter end of 1889 I received a communication from the 
 Rev. Stopford Brooke asking if I would dispose of the 
 cottage for the purpose of being devoted to the public 
 delectation in a way similar to Shakespear’s house at 
 Stratford-on-Avon. Although the unique possession 
 was highly prized by me, I considered that I could 
 not stand in the way of such a laudable object, and 
 consented to its being conveyed to trustees for the 
 purpose indicated. Mr. Brooke thereupon wrote a 
 charming brochure , entitled “ Dove Cottage,” descriptive 
 of the place and its associations, recommending the 
 scheme to the public ; and a strong committee having 
 been formed, subscriptions were quickly forthcoming 
 for the purchase. Since the acquisition of the little 
 domain, the cottage has undergone repair, and both it 
 and the “ sweet garden -orchard ” restored as far as 
 practicable to the condition in which they were at the 
 time of the poet. It has now been open for three 
 seasons, and fairly patronised. Some relics have been 
 obtained as a nucleus for a Wordsworth Museum, but 
 much yet remains to be done in this direction. The 
 present trustees are Lord Justice Davey, the Rev. 
 Canon Ainger, Professor Armstrong, the Rev. Stop- 
 ford A. Brooke, W. Gr. Brooke, Gr. L. Craik, Professor 
 Knight, Edmund Lee, C. E. Mathews, Joseph Ruston, 
 and J. H. Etherington- Smith. 
 
 The following lines, not having been before printed, 
 will be of interest. They were written in Dove Cottage, 
 on June 12, 1846, by the late Hartley Coleridge, and 
 
Appendix. 
 
 241 
 
 by him the MSS. was given to a gentleman,, from 
 whose possession it came into mine. 
 
 Town-End. 
 
 They seem the very same, 
 
 Those thronging flowers so yellow, 
 
 As grew when first I came, 
 
 A merry little fellow. 
 
 When first I came to this meek cot, 
 
 And not five years had told, 
 
 And now that I am grey and old, 
 
 Each golden cup is a Forget-me-not. 
 
 Within this very room, 
 
 Where we are sitting cozy, 
 
 A Poet in the bloom 
 Of summer genius rosy, 
 
 A Poet dwelt with glorious thought, 
 
 E’en Wordsworth in his power, 
 
 When he could stamp on any flower 
 The magic name — Forget-me-not. 
 
 Hartley Coleridge. 
 
 APPENDIX II. 
 
 Some doubt has been recently cast upon the question 
 as to whether the “Lines to a Young Lady,” &c. (page 
 72), were addressed to Dorothy Wordsworth. Hitherto, 
 this has been the opinion pretty generally held. Pro- 
 fessor Knight has adopted this view, as also has Pro- 
 fessor Dowden in his recent edition of Wordsworth in 
 the “ Aldine Poets.” On the other hand, Mr. Ernest 
 Coleridge, whose view on such a matter must carry con- 
 siderable weight, comes to the conclusion that the lines 
 were written to Mary Hutchinson, afterwards the 
 poet’s wife. The reasons which have led me to quote 
 the poem in the present edition as referring to Dorothy 
 
 16 
 
242 
 
 Appendix. 
 
 appear from the following “ Notes,” contributed a 
 little time ago to The Athenaeum : — 
 
 “Note on Wordsworth. 
 
 “In his new Edition of Wordsworth’s poems Pro- 
 fessor Dowden expresses some doubt with regard to the 
 date of the 4 Lines to a Young Lady who had been re- 
 proached for taking long walks in the country,’ but 
 assumes that they were addressed to Dorothy Words- 
 worth. Professor Knight takes the same view. The 
 lines in question were first included in the two-volume 
 edition, published by Longman in 1807. In Mac- 
 millan’s Edition, 1889, the date assigned to the com- 
 position of the poem is 1805. In the 4 Fenwick Notes ’ 
 Wordsworth asserts that the lines were composed 4 at 
 the same time and in the same view as 44 1 met Louisa 
 in the Shade ” ; indeed, they were designed to make one 
 piece.’ I venture to think that the following consider- 
 ations point to the conclusion that they were addressed, 
 not to the poet’s sister, but to his future wife, Mary 
 Huchinson. 
 
 44 In the first place, the lines originally appeared in 
 The Morning Post for February 11th, 1802. They are 
 headed : 4 To a Beautiful Young Lady who had been 
 harshly spoken of on account of her fondness for 
 taking long walks in the Country.’ 
 
 44 Secondly, we know from Dorothy Wordsworth’s 
 Journal that Mary Hutchinson was at Dove Cottage in 
 the late Autumn of 1801, and that on December 28, 
 1801, she accompanied the Wordsworths on foot to 
 Keswick, reaching G-reta Hall at half-past five in the 
 afternoon. A second visit, so Professor Knight tells 
 us, was paid to Grasmere early in January, 1802, and 
 at the end of the month she visited the Clarksons at 
 Eusemere, and friends at Penrith. 
 
 44 Thirdly, the lines to Louisa, which Wordsworth 
 couples with the 4 Lines to a Young Lady,’ are evi- 
 dently addressed by a lover to his betrothed. Your 
 reviewer points out that there is proof that these lines 
 belong to 4 some period before 1802.’ 
 
 4 4 Fourthly, the young lady who. was reproached for 
 
Appendix. 
 
 243 
 
 her long mountain walks is promised 4 heart- stirring ’ (or 
 4 delightful ’ in the original version) 4 days,’ as 4 wife 
 and friend,’ 4 in a nest in a green dale.’ Babes will 
 cling around her, and thus as wife and mother she will 
 fulfil the conditions of perfect womanhood. Addressed 
 to a future wife the prophecy is intelligible, but to an 
 unmarried sister so entire a disposal of her destiny 
 would have been hardly welcome. 
 
 44 As to the occasion of the poem, it is, perhaps, idle to 
 hazard a guess. But it is not impossible that the 
 4 reproaches ’ proceeded from G-reta Hall, and that 
 Mrs. Coleridge, who did not appreciate long walks, may 
 have permitted herself to remonstrate with 4 the young 
 ladies ’ on the score of prudence, if not of propriety. 
 But I may be doing her an injustice, and it is as likely 
 that the 4 railing accusation ’ came from Penrith or 
 some other quarter. At Grasmere, in those happy 
 days, there was no one to rail. Be that as it may, it is 
 pleasant to think that the forecast in the closing stanza 
 was fulfilled to the letter. Any one who can recall Mrs. 
 Wordsworth in her old age 4 serene and bright ’ might 
 almost persuade himself that these beautiful lines were 
 a descriptive, not a prophetic strain. 
 
 44 E. H. C.” 
 
 44 Note on Wordsworth. 
 
 44 Bradford, September , 1893. 
 
 44 Notwithstanding the authority with which 4 E. H. C.’ 
 writes on matters Wordsworthian, I think he is mis- 
 taken in supposing that the lines 4 To a young lady who 
 had been reproached for taking long walks in the 
 country,’ were written in reference to Mary Hutchinson 
 (afterwards Mrs. Wordsworth) rather than Dorothy 
 Wordsworth. Dorothy was a noted pedestrian, and 
 during the Nether Stowey period was much more likely 
 to have been the subject of reproach from Mrs. 
 Coleridge than was Miss Hutchinson. The fact that 
 the poet anticipated the time when the subject of the 
 poem should be a wife and mother is hardly strong 
 
244 
 
 Appendix. 
 
 enough to rebut the probabilities the other way. For 
 me, however, the matter was settled some years ago by 
 the late Miss Quillinan informing me that the lines 
 were addressed to the poet’s sister. 
 
 “ Edmund Lee.” 
 
 “ Note on Wordsworth. 
 
 “ If Mr. Edmund Lee will look again at the poems, 
 ‘ To a young lady who had been reproached,’ &c., and 
 ‘ To Louisa,’ he will see that they were composed at 
 Grasmere, and bear no reference to Nether Stowey. 
 Nor am I convinced by his appeal to the authority of 
 Miss Quillinan. It is highly improbable that she was 
 aware that the poem dated by Wordsworth, 1803 (Mac- 
 millan, 1889, gives 1805), had in reality been written 
 at least a year before, and, on the other hand, she would 
 have known that Miss Wordsworth took long mountain 
 walks, and had been reproached for doing so. It is, of 
 course, impossible to prove that these poems were written 
 to Mary Hutchinson, and not to Dorothy Wordsworth, 
 but the inference from dates and circumstances is that 
 the beautiful (so Morning Post) young lady was not the 
 poet’s sister, but his future wife. And why promise 
 Dorothy ‘ a nest in a green dale ’ ? She was safely 
 hopsed already : — 
 
 “ Entrenched, say rather peacefully embowered, 
 
 In yon orchard, in yon humble cot. 
 
 “ E. H. C.” 
 
 I may add to the above that the time when the poem 
 was composed is by no means conclusive as to the 
 period to which it had reference. The dates mentioned 
 were before me when the above “ Note ” was written. 
 Instances might be given in which Wordsworth in 
 writing alluded to events some time past ; and although 
 Miss Quillinan’s statement may not have been grounded 
 on certain knowledge, her close, life-long association 
 with the Wordsworths seems to afford sufficient evidence 
 of a family tradition on the subject. 
 
 E. L. 
 
SOME OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 THE LITERARY WORLD.— This “ Story of a Sister’s 
 Love 99 will, we should imagine, be read with delighted satisfac- 
 tion by all who have come to feel an interest in Wordsworth and 
 his home and family. It is a most welcome and interesting book. 
 We give it a very hearty commendation, and are sure it will 
 have a loving welcome from Wordsworthians of all sorts and 
 conditions. 
 
 THE CHRISTIAN WORLD.— Told with considerable skill 
 and feeling. We have found it to be a very fascinating story, 
 and have unfeigned pleasure in commending it to our readers. 
 The story of that life of devotion has left a tender and powerful 
 lesson for many. 
 
 GREENWICH OBSERVER. -This is a delightful book, and 
 one that will be much appreciated by Wordsworthian students. 
 The story is told with considerable detail, and in a manner cal- 
 culated to rouse very tender emotions in all who read it. 
 Admirers of Wordsworth will be exceedingly thankful to Mr. Lee 
 for filling this vacancy in the list of notable Englishwomen. It 
 is the story of a life rich in that blended strength and grace of 
 character which made Dorothy Wordsworth loved by women and 
 reverenced by men. We commend the book, to earnest and 
 thoughtful young women especially, as a volume that is intensely 
 interesting and full of noble impulse. 
 
 WAKEFIELD FREE PRESS.— All admirers of the poet 
 Wordsworth will be pleased to learn that an admirably-written 
 biography of the poet’s sister Dorothy, by Edmund Lee, has just 
 been issued. Mr. Lee’s choice and arrangement of his material 
 is admirable. 
 
 WEST CUMBERLAND TIMES. — Every member of the 
 Wordsworth Association should become acquainted with the new 
 work from the pen of Edmund Lee, of Bradford. Every tourist 
 halting beneath the hoary yews of Grasmere Churchyard, and 
 honouring the graves of the Wordsworth household, should first 
 be versed in the biography of Dorothy Wordsworth and her 
 
246 
 
 Opinions op the Press. 
 
 sweet example of sisterly love. We heartily commend the 
 book. 
 
 CONTEMPORARY REVIEW.— To Lake literature “ Dorothy 
 Wordsworth '' is a pleasant addition. 
 
 AMBLESIDE HERALD. — We can remember no life of the 
 poet which so vividly brings to light the immense influence 
 which the sister exercised over her brother. Addressing those 
 (if any) who are still unacquainted with the life of the E-ydal 
 bard, we would say : 
 
 If in thine inmost soul there chance to dwell 
 Aught of the poetry of human life. 
 
 Take thou this hook, and with a liumhle heart 
 Follow these pilgrims in their joyous walk. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED LONDON NEWS. -An appreciative mono- 
 graph, presenting a pleasing picture of this remarkable woman. 
 
 MANCHESTER EXAMINER AND TIMES.— In performing 
 what has evidently been a labour of love he has produced a 
 singularly charming biography. The book is one to which we 
 extend a hearty welcome. The writer modestly speaks of it as a 
 compilation, and such, indeed, it largely is ; but there are com- 
 pilations and compilations, and the present volume is more 
 artistically harmonious and homogeneous in construction than 
 many works of more obtrusive originality. Mr. Edmund Lee's 
 name is new to us, but we shall be glad to hear of him again. 
 
 THE BOSTON LITERARY WORLD.— An agreeable and 
 valuable narrative. He has done his work with sympathy and 
 good taste. 
 
 THE CHURCH (PHIL.). — A charming memoir, and will 
 supply its readers with pleasure, instruction, and moral power. 
 
 THE NATION. — The whole volume breathes the peace, quiet 
 pleasures, and domesticity of Wordsworth's home; the closing 
 chapters, which contain in a few words the story of how his 
 sister's mind became weakened and dull in consequence of a 
 severe illness, and how the care of her was one of the poet’s most 
 cherished occupations in his last aged years, are full of pathos. 
 
 UTICA PRESS. — Mr. Lee pays a beautiful tribute to the 
 memory of Dorothy Wordsworth. It is a charming book, exceed- 
 ingly graceful in style, abounding in interest from the first page 
 to the last — in fact, it is one of the most delightful biographies 
 written for many a day. 
 
 DAYTON DEMOCRAT. — The author modestly claims for 
 himself no more credit than js due to a compiler; a claim, 
 however, which those who read his book will be disposed to dis- 
 pute. . , . It is a mosaic so nicely fitted together, and pervaded 
 
Opinions of the Press. 
 
 24 7 
 
 by the appreciative spirit of her biographer, that it seizes upon 
 the reader with the inexpressible charm of a well-written book. 
 
 BOSTON COURIER. — Mr. Lee has written enthusiastically, 
 yet with judicious restraint. The tender regard of the brother 
 and sister, their close intellectual union, and the influence 
 Dorothy had upon the development of the poet's genius, are 
 clearly shown and well treated. The book adds to the reader’s 
 knowledge of Wordsworth, by presenting his character in a new 
 point of view, and will be heartily welcomed by all lovers of the 
 poet. 
 
 PITTSBURGH CHRISTIAN ADVOCATE. -The author 
 has rendered valuable service. With fidelity, delicacy and true 
 appreciation of her character and worth, he presents the life of 
 this excellent woman. 
 
 NEW YORK INDEPENDENT.-A delightful sketch. An 
 altogether charming book. 
 
 NEW YORK TIMES. — It may be said, as praise of Mr. Lee's 
 monograph, that he prepares the reader to accept without 
 criticism his final declaration that Dorothy Wordsworth was 
 the most perfect sister the world hath seen. 
 
 BOSTON GAZETTE. — Told with a literary skill that makes 
 it very interesting reading. 
 
 BOSTON TRAVELLER. — He writes with enthusiasm and 
 charm of style. 
 
 BOSTON COMMONWEALTH. — An altogether delightful 
 book. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA BULLETIN. — The volume has a peculiar 
 charm. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA RECORD. — The delightful and simple 
 manner in which he has done his work, and the impress of his 
 individuality which he has left on almost every page, give the 
 book a decided originality. 
 
 PALLADIUM. — Just and appreciative. Will fill a long-felt 
 want. 
 
 CHICAGO JOURNAL. — The book has a singular sweetness 
 and charm about it. 
 
 THE CRITIC. — An idyll surely, and onq which could scarcely 
 be better told than in the volume before us. The writing of 
 the book has evidently been a labour of love with Mr. Lee, and 
 it has been even better done than such labours are apt to be. 
 It is a delightful picture that he gives us of William and 
 Dorothy. 
 
BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 
 
 SOME NOBLE SISTERS. 
 
 London: JAMES CLARKE & CO. Price 5s. 
 
 THE SPEAKER. — Pleasantly written, and the fragrance of 
 sweet household love, and generous, disinterested loyalty, lends 
 a charm to the record of deeds of meek womanly devotioD. 
 
 BRADFORD OBSERVER. — Mr. Lee writes with a sympathy 
 which by its own force attracts the reader, and is in no wise 
 wanting in literary skill. 
 
 CHRISTIAN WORLD. — " Some Noble Sisters ” is a good idea 
 well worked out. 
 
 GLASGOW HERALD. — He deserves credit for working out 
 the idea with skill and good taste. 
 
 EAST ANGLIAN DAILY NEWS.— An excellent book for the 
 persons for whom it is designed. 
 
 LITERARY WORLD. — To those who are not already familiar 
 with the lives we heartily recommend these sympathetic little 
 memoirs. 
 
 GREAT THOUGHTS. — An interesting little work. . . . 
 Will make a good prize or present. 
 
 METHODIST TIMES. — Those who want to know how sisters 
 can win the enthusiastic love of their own brothers can read no 
 better book than this. 
 
 MORNING LEADER. — Eminently suited to the "young 
 person” of to-day. 
 
 NORTH BRITISH DAILY MAIL.— It bears evidence of 
 painstaking care. A volume which admirably fulfils a very 
 excellent purpose. 
 
 DAILY TELEGRAPH. — It is curious that no similar work 
 should have been attempted before, and the greater praise is due 
 to Mr. Lee for the infinite research, labour, and patience which 
 must have been brought to bear on the book before us. It should 
 be in the hands of every girl to whom the sacred ties of family 
 are dear and honoured. 
 
 EASTERN DAILY PRESS. — His present work combines 
 considerable research with a keen appreciation of the deepest 
 human affections. These gleanings from the garden of sisterly 
 devotion and potent influence are full of tender reminiscence and 
 inspiration. Mr. Lee has given us a book which should prove 
 acceptable in every hcTme, as well for its elevated tone as its marks 
 of literary merit. 
 
 LONDON QUARTERLY REVIEW.— The whole book may 
 be recommended as one likely to interest and inspire the brightest 
 and best of the sex for which especially it is intended. 
 
284794 
 

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