“ You have
scarcely
begun the old: you are hardly more than
a child now.
a child now.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v27 - Wat to Zor
Could they come back to earth they would
be the first to pity and aid you, now that you are down. So
would it be with you if the case were reversed; for a soldier is
generous to a soldier.
It was not your own heart that spoke
then; it was the small venom of a woman, that here, as every-
where through the South, is playing its rancorous part.
The sick man gazed out through the window, seeing for the
first time the far-spreading ranks of the dead. He was very
weak, and the keeper's words had touched him; his eyes were
suffused with tears. But Miss Ward rose with a flashing glance.
She turned her back full upon the keeper and ignored his very
existence. "I will take you home immediately, Ward — this very
evening,” she said.
"A nice, comfortable place for a sick man,” commented the
keeper scornfully. "I am going out now, De Rosset, to prepare
your supper: you had better have one good meal before you go. ”
He disappeared; but as he went he heard the sick man say,
deprecatingly: "It isn't very comfortable over at the old house
now, indeed it isn't, Betty; I suffered — " and the girl's passionate
outburst in reply. Then he closed his door and set to work.
When he returned half an hour later, Ward was lying back
exhausted on the pillows, and his cousin sat leaning her head
upon her hand; she had been weeping, and she looked very deso-
late, he noticed, sitting there in what was to her an enemy's
country. Hunger is a strong master, however, especially when
allied to weakness; and the sick man ate with eagerness.
“I must go back," said the girl, rising. "A wagon will be
sent out for you, Ward; Pomp will help you. ”
But Ward had gained a little strength as well as obstinacy
with the nourishing food. "Not to-night,” he said.
“Yes, to-night. ”
“But I cannot go to-night; you are unreasonable, Bettina.
To-morrow will do as well, if go I must. ”
“If go you must! You do not want to go, then — to go to
our own home — and with me Her voice broke; she turned
toward the door.
The keeper stepped forward. (This is all nonsense, Miss
Ward,” he said, “and you know it.
,
Your cousin is in no state
(
## p. 16182 (#528) ##########################################
16182
CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON
»
to be moved. Wait a week or two, and he can go in safety.
But do not dare to offer me your money again; my kindness
was to the soldier, not to the man, and as such he can accept it.
Come out and see him as often as you please. I shall not in-
trude upon you. Pomp, take the lady home. ”
And the lady went.
Then began a remarkable existence for the four: a Confed-
erate soldier lying ill in the keeper's cottage of a national cem-
etery; a rampant little rebel coming out daily to a place which
was to her anathema-maranatha; a cynical, misanthropic keeper
sleeping on the floor and enduring every variety of discomfort
for a man he never saw before,- a man belonging to an idle,
arrogant class he detested; and an old black freedman allowing
himself to be taught the alphabet in order to gain permission
to wait on his master- - master no longer in law — with all the
devotion of his loving old heart. For the keeper had announced
to Pomp that he must learn his alphabet or go: after all these
years of theory, he, as a New-Englander, could not stand by and
see precious knowledge shut from the black man.
So he opened
it, and mighty dull work he found it.
Ward De Rosset did not rally as rapidly as they expected.
The white-haired doctor from the town rode out on horseback,
pacing slowly up the graveled roadway with a scowl on his brow,
casting, as he dismounted, a furtive glance down toward the
parade-ground. His horse and his coat were alike old and worn;
and his broad shoulders were bent with long service in the mis-
erably provided Confederate hospitals, where he had striven to
do his duty through every day and every night of those shad-
owed years. Cursing the incompetency in high places, cursing
the mismanagement of the entire medical department of the
Confederate army, cursing the recklessness and indifference which
left the men suffering for want of proper hospitals and hospital
stores, he yet went on resolutely doing his best with the poor
means in his control, until the last. Then he came home, he and
his old horse, and went the rounds again - he prescribing for
whooping-cough or measles, and Dobbin waiting outside; the only
difference was that fees were small and good meals scarce for
both, not only for the man but for the beast. The doctor sat
down and chatted awhile kindly with De Rosset, whose father
and uncle had been dear friends of his in the bright, prosperous
days; then he left a few harmless medicines and rose to go,–
his gaze resting a moment on Miss Ward, then on Pomp, as if he
## p. 16183 (#529) ##########################################
CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON
16183
was
were hesitating. But he said nothing until on the walk outside
he met the keeper, and recognized a person to whom he could
tell the truth. « There is nothing to be done: he may recover,
he may not; it is a question of strength merely. He needs no
medicines; only nourishing food, rest, and careful tendance. ”
“He shall have them,” answered the keeper briefly. And then
the old gentleman mounted his horse and rode away,— his first
and last visit to a national cemetery.
National! » he said to himself-national! »
All talk of moving De Rosset ceased, but Miss Ward moved
into the old house. There was not much to move: herself, her
one trunk, and Marí, a black attendant, whose name probably
began life as Maria, since the accent still dwelt on the curtailed
last syllable. The keeper went there once, and once only; and
then
an errand for the sick man, whose fancies came
sometimes at inconvenient hours — when Pomp had gone to town,
for instance. On this occasion the keeper entered the mockery
of a gate and knocked at the front door, from which the bars
had been removed; the piazza still showed its decaying planks,
but quick-growing summer vines had been planted, and were now
encircling the old pillars and veiling all defects with their green-
ery. It was a woman's pathetic effort to cover up what can-
not be covered, — poverty. The blinds on one side were open,
and white curtains waved to and fro in the breeze; into this
room he was ushered by Marí. Matting lay on the floor, streaked
here and there ominously by the dampness from the near ground.
The furniture was of dark mahogany, handsome in its day: chairs;
a heavy pier-table with low-down glass, into which no one by
any possibility could look unless he had eyes in his ankles; a
sofa with a stiff round pillow of hair-cloth under each curved
end; and a mirror with a compartment framed off at the top,
containing a picture of shepherds and shepherdesses, and lambs
with blue ribbons around their necks, all enjoying themselves
in the most natural and lifelike manner. Flowers stood on the
high mantelpiece, but their fragrance could not overcome the
faint odor of the damp straw-matting. On a table were books:
a life of General Lee, and three or four shabby little volumes
printed at the South during the war,— waifs of prose and poetry
of that highly wrought, richly colored style which seems indige-
nous to Southern soil.
"Some way, the whole thing reminds me of a funeral,”
thought the keeper.
-
## p. 16184 (#530) ##########################################
16184
CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON
Miss Ward entered, and the room bloomed at once; at least
that is what a lover would have said. Rodman, however, merely
noticed that she bloomed, and not the room, and he said to him-
self that she would not bloom long if she continued to live in
such a moldy place. Their conversation in these days was excess-
ively polite, shortened to the extreme minimum possible, and con-
ducted without the aid of the eyes, at least on one side. Rodman
had discovered that Miss Ward never looked at him, and so he
did not look at her,- that is, not often; he was human, how-
ever, and she was delightfully pretty. On this occasion they
exchanged exactly five sentences, and then he departed, but not
before his quick eyes had discovered that the rest of the house
was in even worse condition than this parlor; which, by the
way, Miss Ward considered quite a grand apartment: she had
been down near the coast, trying to teach school; and there the
desolation was far greater than here, both armies having passed
back and forward over the ground, foragers out, and the torch at
work more than once.
Will there ever come a change for the better ? ” thought the
keeper, as he walked homeward. «What an enormous stone has
got to be rolled up-hill! But at least, John Rodman, you need
not go to work at it; you are not called upon to lend your
shoulder. "
None the less, however, did he call out Pomp that very after-
noon and sternly teach him “E” and “F,” using the smooth
white sand for a blackboard, and a stick for chalk. Pomp's primer
was a government placard hanging on the wall of the office. It
read as follows:
IN THIS CEMETERY REPOSE THE REMAINS
OF
FOURTEEN THOUSAND THREE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-ONE UNITED
STATES SOLDIERS
Tell me not in mournful numbers
Life is but an empty dream;
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul!
## p. 16185 (#531) ##########################################
CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON
16185
»
« The only known instance of the government's condescend-
ing to poetry,” the keeper had thought, when he first read this
placard. It was placed there for the instruction and edification
of visitors; but no visitors coming, he took the liberty of using
it as a primer for Pomp. The large letters served the purpose
admirably, and Pomp learned the entire quotation; what he
thought of it has not transpired. Miss Ward came over daily
to see her cousin. At first she brought him soups and various
concoctions from her own kitchen,- the leaky cavern, once the
dining-room, where the soldier had taken refuge after his last
dismissal from hospital: but the keeper's soups were richer, and
free from the taint of smoke; his martial laws of neatness even
disorderly old Pomp dared not disobey, and the sick man soon
learned the difference. He thanked the girl, who came bringing
the dishes over carefully in her own dimpled hands, and then,
when she was gone, he sent them untasted away. By chance
Miss Ward learned this, and wept bitter tears over it; she con-
tinued to come, but her poor little soups and jellies she brought
no more.
One morning in May the keeper was working near the flag-
staff, when his eyes fell upon a procession coming down the road
which led from the town, and turning toward the cemetery. No
one ever came that way: what could it mean?
entered the gate, and showed itself to be negroes walking two
and two, -old uncles and aunties, young men and girls, and even
little children, all dressed in their best; a very poor best, some-
times gravely ludicrous imitations of “ole mars'or “ole miss',”
sometimes mere rags bravely patched together and adorned with
a strip of black calico or rosette of black ribbon; not one was
without a badge of mourning. All carried flowers, common blos-
soms from the little gardens behind the cabins that stretched
around the town on the outskirts,— the new forlorn cabins with
their chimneys of piled stones and ragged patches of corn; each
little darkey had his bouquet and marched solemnly along, rolling
his eyes around, but without even the beginning of a smile, while
the elders moved forward with gravity, the bubbling, irrepress-
ible gayety of the negro subdued by the new-born dignity of the
freedman.
« Memorial Day,” thought the keeper: "I had forgotten it. ”
“Will you do us de hono', sah, to take de head ob de pro-
cessio', sah ? " said the leader with a ceremonious bow. Now, the
It drew near,
((
## p. 16186 (#532) ##########################################
16186
CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON
keeper had not much sympathy with the strewing of flowers,
North or South: he had seen the beautiful ceremony more than
once turned into a political demonstration. Here, however, in
this small, isolated, interior town, there was nothing of that kind:
the whole population of white faces laid their roses and wept
true tears on the graves of their lost ones in the village church-
yard when the Southern Memorial Day came round; and just as
naturally the whole population of black faces went out to the
national cemetery with their flowers on the day when, through-
out the North, spring blossoms were laid on the graves of the
soldiers, from the little Maine village to the stretching ranks
of Arlington, from Greenwood to the far Western burial-places of
San Francisco. The keeper joined the procession and led the
way to the parade-ground. As they approached the trenches, the
leader began singing, and all joined. "Swing low, sweet chariot,”
sang the freedmen, and their hymn rose and fell with strange,
sweet harmony, - one of those wild, unwritten melodies which
the North heard with surprise and marveling when, after the
war, bands of singers came to their cities and sang the songs of
slavery, in order to gain for their children the coveted education.
«Swing low, sweet chariot,” sang the freedmen; and two by
two they passed along, strewing the graves with flowers till all
the green was dotted with color. It was a pathetic sight to see
some of the old men and women, ignorant field-hands, bent, dull-
eyed, and past the possibility of education even in its simplest
forms, carefully placing their poor flowers to the best advantage.
They knew dimly that the men who lay beneath those mounds
had done something wonderful for them and for their children;
and so they came bringing their blossoms, with little intelligence
but with much love.
The ceremony over, they retired. As he turned, the keeper
caught a glimpse of Miss Ward's face at the window.
« Hope we's not makin' too free, sah,” said the leader, as the
procession, with many a bow and scrape, took leave, “but we's
kep' de day now two years, sah, befo' you came, sah, and we's
teachin' de chil'en to keep it, sah. ”
The keeper returned to the cottage. “Not a white face,” he
said.
«Certainly not,” replied Miss Ward, crisply.
“I know some graves at the North, Miss Ward-graves of
Southern soldiers; and I know some Northern women who do not
(C
## p. 16187 (#533) ##########################################
CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON
16187
scorn to lay a few flowers on the lonely mounds as they pass by
with their blossoms on our Memorial Day. ”
“ You are fortunate. They must be angels. We have no
angels here. "
“I am inclined to believe you are right,” said the keeper.
That night old Pomp, who had remained invisible in the
kitchen during the ceremony, stole away in the twilight and
came back with a few flowers. Rodman saw him going down
toward the parade-ground, and watched. The old man had but
a few blossoms: he arranged them hastily on the mounds with
many a furtive glance toward the house, and then stole back,
satisfied; he had performed his part.
Ward De Rosset lay on his pallet, apparently unchanged; he
seemed neither stronger nor weaker. He had grown childishly
dependent upon his host, and wearied for him, as the Scotch say;
but Rodman withstood his fancies, and gave him only the even-
ings, when Miss Bettina was not there. One afternoon, however,
it rained so violently that he was forced to seek shelter: he set
himself to work on the ledgers; he was on the ninth thousand
now. But the sick man heard his step in the outer room, and
called in his weak voice, “Rodman, Rodman. ” After a time he
went in, and it ended in his staying; for the patient was nervous
and irritable, and he pitied the nurse, who seemed able to please
him in nothing. De Rosset turned with a sigh of relief toward
the strong hands that lifted him readily, toward the composed
manner, toward the man's voice that seemed to bring a breeze
from outside into the close room; animated, cheered, he talked
volubly. The keeper listened, answered once in a while, and qui-
etly took the rest of the afternoon into his own hands.
Miss Ward yielded to the silent change, leaned back, and closed
her eyes. She looked exhausted and for the first time pallid;
the loosened dark hair curled in little rings about her temples,
and her lips were parted as though she was too tired to close
them — for hers were not the thin, straight lips that shut tight
naturally, like the straight line of a closed box. The sick man
talked on.
Come, Rodman,” he said after a while, “I have read that
lying verse of yours over at least ten thousand and fifty-nine
times; please tell me its history: I want to have something
definite to think of when I read it for the ten thousand and
sixtieth. ”
## p. 16188 (#534) ##########################################
16188
CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON
« Toujours femme varie,
Bien fou qui s'y fie;
Une femme souvent
N'est qu'une plume au vent,”
read the keeper slowly, with his execrable English accent. “Well,
I don't know that I have any objection to telling the story. I
am not sure but that it will do me good to hear it all over
myself in plain language again. ”
“Then it concerns yourself,” said De Rosset: “so much the
better. I hope it will be, as the children say, the truth, and
long. "
“It will be the truth, but not long. When the war broke out
I was twenty-eight years old, living with my mother on our farm
in New England. My father and two brothers had died and left
me the homestead; otherwise I should have broken away and
sought fortune farther westward, where the lands are better
and life is more free. But mother loved the house, the fields,
and every crooked tree. She was alone, and so I stayed with
her. In the centre of the village green stood the square white
meeting-house; and near by, the small cottage where the pastor
lived. The minister's daughter Mary was my promised wife.
Mary was a slender creature, with a profusion of pale flaxen
hair, large serious blue eyes, and small, delicate features; she was
timid almost to a fault; her voice was low and gentle. She was
not eighteen, and we were to wait a year. The war came, and
I volunteered, of course, and marched away. We wrote to each
other often: my letters were full of the camp and skirmishes;
hers told of the village, — how the widow Brown had fallen ill,
and how it was feared that Squire Stafford's boys were lapsing
into evil ways. Then came the day when my regiment marched
to the field of its slaughter, and soon after our shattered rem-
nant went home. Mary cried over me, and came out every day
to the farm-house with her bunches of violets; she read aloud
to me from her good little books, and I used to lie and watch
her profile bending over the page, with the light falling on her
flaxen hair low down against the small white throat. Then my
wound healed, and I went again, this time for three years; and
Mary's father blessed me, and said that when peace came he
would call me son, but not before, for these were no times for
marrying or giving in marriage.
a good man, a red-
hot abolitionist, and a roaring lion as regards temperance; but
He was
## p. 16189 (#535) ##########################################
CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON
16189
nature had made him so small in body that no one was much
frightened when he roared. I said that I went for three years;
but eight years have passed, and I have never been back to the
village. First mother died. Then Mary turned false. I sold the
farm by letter, and lost the money three months afterward in an
unfortunate investment. My health failed. Like many another
Northern soldier, I remembered the healing climate of the South;
its soft airs came back to me when the snow lay deep on the
fields, and the sharp wind whistled around the poor tavern where
the moneyless, half-crippled volunteer sat coughing by the fire.
I applied for this place and obtained it. That is all. ”
“But it is not all,” said the sick man, raising himself on his
elbow; "you have not told half yet, nor anything at all about
the French verse. ”
« Oh — that ? There was a little Frenchman staying at the
hotel; he had formerly been a dancing-master, and was full of
dry, withered conceits, although he looked like a thin and bilious
old ape dressed as a man. He taught me, or tried to teach me,
various wise sayings; among them this one, which pleased my
fancy so much that I gave him twenty-five cents to write it out
in large text for me. ”
« « Toujours femme varie,) ) repeated De Rosset; but you
“
don't really think so, do you, Rodman ? »
«I do. But they cannot help it: it is their nature. - I beg
your pardon, Miss Ward. I was speaking as though you were
not here. ”
Miss Ward's eyelids barely acknowledged his existence; that
was all.
But some time after she remarked to her cousin that
it was only in New England that one found that pale flaxen
hair.
June was waning, when suddenly the summons came. Ward
De Rosset died. He was unconscious toward the last, and
death, in the guise of sleep, bore away his soul. They carried
him home to the old house; and from there the funeral started,
- a few family carriages, dingy and battered, following the
hearse, for death revived the old neighborhood feeling; that
honor at least they could pay,- the sonless mothers and the
widows who lived shut up in the old houses with everything
falling into ruin around them, brooding over the past. The
keeper watched the small procession as it passed his gate on
the way to the church-yard in the village. “There he goes, poor
>
(
## p. 16190 (#536) ##########################################
16190
CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON
H
C
»
>>
fellow, his sufferings over at last,” he said; and then he set the
cottage in order and began the old solitary life again.
He saw Miss Ward but once.
It was a breathless evening in August, when the moonlight
flooded the level country. He had started out to stroll across the
waste; but the mood changed, and climbing over the eastern wall
he had walked back to the flagstaff, and now lay at its foot gaz-
ing up into the infinite sky. A step sounded on the gravel walk;
he turned his face that way, and recognized Miss Ward. With
confident step she passed the dark cottage, and brushed his arm
with her robe as he lay unseen in the shadow. She went down
toward the parade-ground, and his eyes followed her. Softly out-
lined in the moonlight, she moved to and fro among the mounds,
pausing often, and once he thought she knelt. Then slowly she
returned, and he raised himself and waited; she saw him, started,
then paused.
“I thought you were away,” she said: “Pomp told me so. ”
« You set him to watch me ? »
“Yes. I wished to come here once, and I did not wish to
meet you. "
“Why did you wish to come ? »
« Because Ward was here — and because — because never
mind. It is enough that I wished to walk once among these
mounds. ”
"And pray there ? ”
« Well - and if I did! ” said the girl defiantly.
Rodman stood facing her, with his arms folded; his eyes
rested on her face; he said nothing.
"I am going away to-morrow," began Miss Ward again, as-
suming with an effort her old, pulseless manner. “I have sold
the place, and I shall never return, I think; I am going far away. ”
«Where? ”
« To Tennessee. ”
“That is not so very far,” said the keeper smiling.
“There I shall begin a new existence,” pursued the voice,
ignoring the comment.
“ You have scarcely begun the old: you are hardly more than
a child now. What are you going to do in Tennessee ? ”
Teach. ”
"Have you relatives there? ”
“No. ”
## p. 16191 (#537) ##########################################
CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON
16191
"A miserable life - a hard, lonely, loveless life,” said Rodman.
"God help the woman who must be that dreary thing, a teacher
from necessity! »
Miss Ward turned swiftly, but the keeper kept by her side.
He saw the tears glittering on her eyelashes, and his voice soft-
ened. “Do not leave me in anger," he said; “I should not have
spoken so, although indeed it was the truth. Walk back with
me to the cottage, and take your last look at the room where
poor Ward died, and then I will go with you to your home. ”
“No: Pomp is waiting at the gate," said the girl, almost
inarticulately.
“Very well; to the gate then. ”
They went toward the cottage in silence; the keeper threw
open the door.
“Go in,” he said. “I will wait outside. ”
The girl entered and went into the inner room, throwing her.
self down upon her knees at the bedside. «O Ward, Ward ! »
she sobbed; "I am all alone in the world now, Ward — all
alone ! She buried her face in her hands, and gave way to a
passion of tears; and the keeper could not help but hear as he
waited outside. Then the desolate little creature rose and came
forth; putting on, as she did so, her poor armor of pride. The
keeper had not moved from the doorstep. Now he turned his
face. “Before you go-go away for ever from this place — will
you write your name in my register,” he said “the visitors'
register? The government had it prepared for the throngs who
would visit these graves; but with the exception of the blacks,
who cannot write, no one has come, and the register is empty.
Will you write your name? Yet do not write it unless you
can think gently of the men who lie there under the grass. I
believe you do think gently of them, else why have you come of
your own accord to stand by the side of their graves ? » As he
said this, he looked fixedly at her.
Miss Ward did not answer; but neither did she write.
“Very well,” said the keeper: "come away.
come away. You will not, I
see. ”
« I cannot! Shall I, Bettina Ward, set my name down in
black and white as a visitor to this cemetery, where lie fourteen
thousand of the soldiers who killed my father, my three broth-
ers, my cousins; who brought desolation upon all our house, and
ruin upon all our neighborhood, all our State, and all our coun-
try ? - for the South is our country, and not your North. Shall
(C
»
## p. 16192 (#538) ##########################################
16192
CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON
a
I forget these things ? Never! Sooner let my right hand wither
by my side! I was but a child; yet I remember the tears of
my mother, and the grief of all around us. There was not a
house where there was not one dead. ”
“It is true," answered the keeper: "at the South, all went. ”
They walked down to the gate together in silence.
"Good-by,” said John, holding out his hand; you will give
me yours or not as you choose, but I will not have it as
favor. ”
She gave it.
“I hope that life will grow brighter to you as the years pass.
May God bless you! ”
He dropped her hand; she turned, and passed through the
gateway; then he sprang after her.
«Nothing can change you,” he said; “I know it, I have
known it all along: you are part of your country, part of the
time, part of the bitter hour through which she is passing.
Nothing can change you; if it could, you would not be what
you are, and I should not -
But you cannot change. Good-by,
Bettina, poor little child - good-by. Follow your path out into
the world. Yet do not think, dear, that I have not seen — have
not understood. ”
He bent and kissed her hand; then he was gone, and she went
on alone.
A week later the keeper strolled over toward the old house.
It was twilight; but the new
was still at work. He
was one of those sandy-haired, energetic Maine men, who, prob-
abiy on the principle of extremes, were often found through the
South, making new homes for themselves in the pleasant land.
"Pulling down the old house, are you? " said the keeper, lean-
ing idly on the gate, which was already flanked by a new fence.
« Yes,” replied the Maine man, pausing: “it was only an old
shell, just ready to tumble on our heads. You're the keeper over
yonder, ain't you ? ” (He already knew everybody within a circle
of five miles. )
“Yes. I think I should like those vines if you have no use
for them,” said Rodman, pointing to the uprooted greenery that
once screened the old piazza.
“Wuth about twenty-five cents, I guess," said the Maine man,
handing them over.
Owner
>
((
## p. 16193 (#539) ##########################################
16193
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
(1770-1850)
BY FREDERIC W. H. MYERS
TIS no easy matter for a disciple of Wordsworth's to write
a brief estimate of his work which shall fall into its due
place in a collection of the great writers of the world :* the
claim which must needs be made for him is so high, the drawbacks
are so obvious. Between prosiness and puerility, the ordinary reader
may feel as though he had been invited to a banquet, and regaled
with bread and water.
Much indeed which might be thought prosy or puerile can be put
aside at once without loss. Wordsworth wrote poetry for nearly half
a century. For about ten years (1798-1808) he was at his best, and for
ten years more (1808–1818) he was still from time to time inspired;
after that date the poems worthy of him were short and few. t
A great mass of valuable work remains; mainly in poems indi-
vidually brief, and difficult to classify except in chronological order.
For the sake of clear treatment in a brief essay, I may divide these
into three stages, roughly chronological. First will come the simple
poems, in the style of Lyrical Ballads'; then the poems in inter-
mediate style, of mixed simplicity and grandeur; and lastly the
poems in the grand style, such as Laodamia' and many of the son-
nets,-a style in which he continued at times to be able to write
* In 1881 I published a Life of Wordsworth) (now attainable in a cheap
shilling edition), in Mr. John Morley's series of English Men of Letters)
(Macmillan & Co. , London and New York). I was there able to give a
fuller introduction to the study of Wordsworth than space here allows; and
the reader who may turn to that book will find some of its ideas and expres-
sions repeated in the course of this essay, among other thoughts which the
years since elapsed have suggested, on a theme on which, in spite of all that
has been written, there is so much yet left to feel and to say.
+ The reader may, I think, omit the following poems: Juvenile Pieces,
(Thorn, Idiot Boy,' Borderers, Vaudracour and Julia, Artegal and
Elidure, (White Doe of Rylstone, (Lament of Mary Queen of Scots,' (Sons
of Burns,' (Vernal Ode, (Thanksgiving Ode, (Invocation to Earth,' Memo-
rials of Tour on Continent) (1820), and most of the "Ecclesiastical Sketches,'
(Sonnets on Duddon,' and (Excursion. '
XXVII-1013
(
(
## p. 16194 (#540) ##########################################
16194
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
when his early gift of exquisite simplicity had left him. The simple
poems are largely concerned with the Lake Country, and with rustic
emotion. As the style merges into grandeur, it deals rather with
themes of legendary or national dignity. And through all styles
alike runs an undercurrent of prophetic conviction as to the relation
of the visible world to a world unseen. *
I pass at once to a brief consideration of each group in turn.
Wordsworth, as is well known, began by preaching both by precept
and example the duty of throwing aside the so-called dignity and the
so-called language of poetry, and of appealing in the speech of real
life to the primary emotions of unsophisticated men. But his instruc-
tions sometimes resembled the conjurer's mystifying explanations of
artifices, which, however attentively we may listen, we can none the
better understand. Plainly one must not bring one's objects on the
stage in an obvious basket of “poetical diction”; but how produce a
canary from one's pocket-handkerchief at the moment desired? As
a matter of actual history the gift of poetical melody,—“the charm of
words, a charm no words can say,” — has been of all artistic gifts the
rarest and the most unteachable; simplicity of aim makes it no easier,
and few men - and they but rarely — have breathed into phrases of
absolute naïveté that touch of haunting joy.
«Sweet Emma Moreland of yonder town
Met me walking on yonder way,” —
lines such as these may sound easy enough; yet I doubt whether
even Tennyson ever caught quite that note again. And to me
Wordsworth's
poems on
(Matthew,' on Lucy,' the Cuckoo,' the
"Solitary Reaper, and the like, seem more marvelous, more excep-
tional as poetical tours de force, than even his sonnets; although I
agree with those who maintain that he has left us the finest collec-
tion of sonnets which any English poet has to show.
-
*1 may mention the following poems as examples of the different styles
alluded to above, - styles which of course run into each other:- Simple style:
(We are Seven); Lucy Gray); Poet's Epitaph); Pet Lamb); (Poor Susan);
Poems on Matthew; “Expostulation) and < Tables Turned); Fragment); (Stray
Pleasures); Poems on Lucy; My Heart Leaps Up); (Louisa'; (Sparrow's
Nest); Daffodils ); (Highland Girl); (Phantom of Delight); (Solitary Reaper);
Nightingale); Cuckoo. ' Transition to grand style: (Tintern Abbey);
(Brougham Castle); Leech-Gatherer); (AMiction of Margaret); "There was a
Boy); Peele Castle); Death of Fox); Nutting”; (Prelude. Grand style
(Happy Warrior); (Yew-Trees); (Laodamia); Dion); (Ode on Immortality `;
"Ode to Duty); "Wisdom and Spirit); (Patriotic and Other Sonnets ); Even-
ing Ode. )
## p. 16195 (#541) ##########################################
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
16195
I quote in illustration three stanzas of the type which in Words-
worth's early days was a mark for general derision:-
“And turning from her grave, I met
Beside the church-yard yew,
A blooming girl, whose hair was wet
With points of morning dew.
«A basket on her head she bare ;
Her brow was smooth and white:
To see a child so very fair,
It was a pure delight!
«No fountain from its rocky cave
E'er tripped with foot so free;
She seemed as happy as a wave
That dances on the sea. )
Something here is imitable; something, I think, beyond imitation.
In “The Two April Mornings,' from which these stanzas are taken,
there is of course a pathetic attitude of mind to which the lines lead
up: that of the bereaved father, who would not, if he could, renew
the past joy at the risk of renewing the past sorrow. Others might
have chosen that theme; might have adorned into simplicity and
elaborated into naïveté a similar recital. But in what mind save
Wordsworth's would the couplets which close each of the three
stanzas have arisen: the exquisite truth of the look of the child's
hair in the dew; the innocent intensity of Matthew's gaze; the spring-
ing buoyancy of that last simile,- fresh and vivid as of old was
ocean's many-twinkling smile," - and the magical melody, which,
with its few rustic notes, translates the scene and transfigures it into
poetry's ideal world?
I have said that Wordsworth's simpler poems were largely
concerned with the English Lake Country; with the race and the
environment which it was his mission both to represent and to con-
secrate. For a Cumbrian born within a few miles of Wordsworth's
home, and a few years before his death, the inward picture of that
country's past, present, future, cannot rise without a touch of pain.
« Yea, all that now enchants thee," — said Wordsworth once of how
much smaller an invasion than has actually occurred ! -
(
« Yea, all that now enchants thee, from the day
On which it should be touched, would melt, and melt away. ”
The best remaining hope is still in Wordsworth; it is the hope
that his abiding spirit may exert an ever deeper influence upon those
who look upon the land which he loved. The visitors to the Lake
Country, indeed, are not now mainly such intruders as he most feared.
## p. 16196 (#542) ##########################################
16196
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
In growing proportion they are men and women who have a right to
be there; the right involved in real power of appreciation, in real
effort of voyage and journey made to reach the reverenced shrine.
And even now to Wordsworth it might perhaps have seemed that his
lakes and hills might yet subserve a new virtue wider than the old.
Here is what we in England have of fairest, of most sacred, to offer.
Let us offer it to all our kin. Let our great race, whose tribes are
mighty nations, find here an unchallenged sanctuary, and a central
memory of peace.
There can be nothing incongruous in any passage from simplicity
to greatness; and we find in Wordsworth's poems that transition
often occurring without conscious change of tone. This is especially
noticeable in the Prelude,' – a kind of epic on the poet's own edu-
cation; where the sense of tedium and egotism which such a subject
inspires is constantly yielding to our sense of the narrator's candor
and dignity, and to the psychological interest of the exposition of a
character than which I know none of better augury for the future of
mankind.
The Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle,' again, stands mid-
way between Wordsworth's simple style and his grand style. It rises
from rustic naïveté into chivalric ardor, and from chivalric ardor into
the benign tranquillity of the environing eternal world.
How charged with the spirit of the mountains is the harper's story
of the childhood of the Shepherd Lord!
a
(And both the undying fish that swim
Through Bowscale Tarn did wait on him;
The pair were servants of his eye
In their immortality;
And glancing, gleaming, dark or bright,
Moved to and fro for his delight. ”
on
How swiftly that minstrel passes, as one high note, to his
heroic cry!
«Armor rusting in his halls
On the blood of Clifford calls:
"Quell the Scot, exclaims the Lance,
(Bear me to the heart of France,
Is the longing of the Shield – »
(
At last the poet himself resumes the strain; and how sublime in
its simplicity is that return and uprising from the wild tale of war
and tumult to the true victory and the imperishable peace!
“Alas, the impassioned minstrel did not know
That for a tranquil soul the lay was framed,
## p. 16197 (#543) ##########################################
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
16197
Who, long compelled in humble walks to go,
Was softened into feeling, soothed, and tamed.
«Love had he found in huts where poor men lie.
His daily teachers had been woods and rills,
The silence that is in the starry sky,
The sleep that is among the lonely hills. )
But there was matter enough near home to call forth all Words-
worth's martial impulses, and to raise his style to its last eleva-
tion, a pure clear tone of heroic grandeur. During the prime of the
poet's powers, England was engaged in her most desperate struggle,
with her worst and mightiest foe. It is a strange fact that Words-
worth's (Sonnets Dedicated to Liberty' - the lofty appeals of a
grave recluse — should form the most permanent record in our liter-
ature of the Napoleonic war. Except Campbell's two songs, and Ten-
nyson's great ode on the death of the Duke of Wellington, half a
century later, they stand practically alone. The contest, indeed, was
one well fitted for treatment by this bard of “a few strong instincts
and a few plain rules. ” It was typified in mighty figures on either
hand. Napoleon's career afforded a poetic example — impressive as
that of Xerxes to the Greeks - of lawless and intoxicated power.
And on the other side - on the other side it happens by a singular
destiny that England, with a thousand years of noble history behind
her, has chosen for her best loved, for her national hero, not an Ar-
minius from the age of legend, not a Henri Quatre from the age of
chivalry, but a man whom the fathers of men still living have seen
and known. Close at hand for Wordsworth lay the crowning example
of impassioned self-devotedness, of heroic honor.
And indeed between these two men, so different in outward fates,
— between the “adored, the incomparable Nelson,” and the homely
poet, “retired as noontide dew," — there was a moral likeness so pro-
found that the ideal of the recluse was realized in the public life of
the hero, while on the other hand the hero himself is only seen as
completely heroic when his impetuous life stands out for us from the
solemn background of the poet's calm. Surely these two natures
taken together make the perfect Englishman. Nor is there any por-
trait fitter than that of 'The Happy Warrior' to go forth to all lands
as representing the British character at its height - a figure not ill-
matching with “Plutarch's men. ” *
*I have transcribed these last sentences from my previous work. I may
now (1897) add the mention of yet another felicity. The fame and the name
of Nelson have been felt to be matters for no one nation's pride alone; and
the career of the great Admiral has been narrated, in a spirit concordant with
Nelson's and Wordsworth's own, by the first of naval historians, a citizen of
the United States.
## p. 16198 (#544) ##########################################
16198
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
We have briefly traced Wordsworth's mode of response to his
local and to his national environment. His poetry has reflected first,
the charm of Cumberland, and then the patriotism and moral energy
of the whole English folk. And in each case that poetry has been
for us no mere spectacle, - no brilliant effort of mastery over lan-
guage, on which we gaze admiring but unchanged,— but rather an
impulse and an intuition; stirring us to a new emotion by the con-
vincing avowal of emotion intenser than our own. Even more pene-
trating, more enlightening, was Wordsworth's response to the widest,
the cosmic environment. It was a sense sublime,” in those oft
quoted words with which his solemn message began, “of something
far more deeply interfused”;- of the interaction, the interpenetra-
tion, as we may now express it, of a spiritual with this material
world. His intuition had unified for him the sum of things; he had
learnt, that is to say, to see earth's confused phenomena no longer
“in disconnection dull and spiritless, but — like Plato before him—
as the lovely transitory veil or image of a pre-existent and imperish-
able world. The prenatal recollection, or the meditative ecstasy, had
stablished him in an inward peace; had poured for him a magic
gladness through the cuckoo's song; had lent to his great odes their
lofty accent, as of a spirit who has looked on the universe with
insight beyond our own, and has seen that it was good.
To these upsoarings of Wordsworth's spirit many a soul in need
has clung.
Insensibly implied, obscurely apprehended, they have
given to his poetry a sustaining, a vitalizing power; nay, that poetry
has seemed to many to sound the introit into an age of new revela-
tion.
Yet to such heights this mortal frame can bear man seldom, or on
them permit him to linger long. In the Evening Ode' of 1818 we
find the seer standing at the close of his own apocalypse; lamenting
that celestial light, "full early lost and fruitlessly deplored”; sinking
back with constancy into an earthly life, prolonged through another
generation of men, but in which the vision came to him no more.
1
“Or if some vestige of those gleams
Survived, 'twas only in his dreams. »
It was during the calm declining years which followed that the
power of Wordsworth went out upon that new generation. His
poems indeed were never popular with the popularity of Byron or of
Scott. It was rather the leaders of thought who reverenced him, and
who imposed their reverence on that larger public which even yet,
perhaps, has scarcely recognized his in most charm.
Meanwhile the aging man pursued his quiet way. He still went
“ booing about,” — as his peasant neighbors called it, - murmuring his
(
## p. 16199 (#545) ##########################################
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
16199
verses on the green hill terraces near Rydal Mount. He still made
on foot his grave Excursions,' to meet the friends who had gathered
near him from love at once of the country and of its poet. Some
of those friends he had aided — it was a task which delighted him-
to choose the site and shape the surroundings of a home among the
hills. More than one seat in the Lake Country among them one
home of pre-eminent beauty — have owed to Wordsworth no small
part of their ordered charm. In this way too the poet is with us
still: his presence has a strange reality as we look on some majestic
prospect of interwinding lake and mountain, which his design has
made more beautifully visible for the children's children of those he
loved; as we stand, perhaps, in some shadowed garden ground where
his will has had its way,— has framed Helvellyn's far-off summit in
an arch of tossing green, and embayed in towering forest trees the
long lawns of a silent valley, fit haunt for lofty aspiration and for
brooding calm.
The group which thus surrounded him was not unconscious of
his worth. To two adult generations he was already dear; and one
young child at least, whom hereditary friendships introduced to his
notice, felt in that hallowed presence as a child might have felt in
Arcadia, encountering tutelary Pan.
For the poet himself these lingering years were full of grave
retrospection, of humble self-judgment, of hopeful looking to the end.
« Worldly-minded I am not,” he wrote to an intimate friend near his
life's close; "on the contrary, my wish to benefit those within my
humble sphere strengthens seemingly in exact proportion to my
inability to realize those wishes. What I lament most is that the
spirituality of my nature does not expand and rise the nearer I
approach the grave, as yours does, and as it fares with my beloved
partner. ”
The aged poet might feel the loss of some vividness of emotion;
but his thoughts dwelt more and more constantly on the beloved
ones who had gone before him, and on the true and unseen world.
One of the images which recurs oftenest to his friends is that of the
old man as he would stand against the window of the dining-room
at Rydal Mount, and read the Psalms and Lessons for the day; of
the tall bowed figure and the silvery hair; of the deep voice which
always faltered when among the prayers he came to the words
which give thanks for those who have departed this life in Thy
faith and fear. »
«Retirement then might hourly look
Upon a soothing scene;
Age steal to his allotted nook
Contented and serene:
## p. 16200 (#546) ##########################################
16200
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
With heart as calm as lakes that sleep,
In frosty moonlight glistening,
Or mountain torrents where they creep
Along a channel smooth and deep,
To their own far-off murmurs listening. ”
Among all Virgil's categories of the Blessed, it is the pi vates who
are the truest friends of man. We need not be ashamed to linger on
them fondly; to imagine analogies between the impression which one
or another poet makes on us with the sights or sounds, the scents or
savors, of the great open world. Shakespeare (one may say) is like
breezy daylight; and Dante like the furnace glow. Lucretius is like
che storm, and Æschylus like the thunder, and Homer like the mov-
ing sea. Pindar is like wine; and Wordsworth like water, - which
Pindar said was best. Often that drink seems fat enough: but let
the wounded soldier crawl to the well-spring, and he knows that water
is best indeed; it is the very life of men.
1
1
Fungen
was
[NOTE. —William Wordsworth born of old North Country
stock, on the 7th of April, 1770, at Cockermouth in the Cumberland
highlands. Neither at school nor at college was he distinguished as a
scholar. Filled with enthusiasm for the French Revolution, he spent
a year in Paris, whence he was driven by the Reign of Terror. From
1796 until his death he lived almost continuously in the Lake Coun-
try; the record of his secluded, uneventful, and happy life being
found in his poems. He died at Rydal Mount, on the 23d of April,
1850. ]
LINES COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE
TINTERN ABBEY
ON REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE DURING A TOUR
F"
IVE years have passed; five summers, with the length
Of five long winters! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain springs
With a soft inland murmur. Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
That on a wild secluded scene impress
## p. 16201 (#547) ##########################################
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
16201
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
The day is come when I again repose
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view
These plots of cottage ground, these orchard tufts,
Which at this season, with their unripe fruits,
Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves
'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see
These hedge-rows, - hardly hedge-rows,— little lines
Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral farms,
Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke
Sent up in silence from among the trees!
With some uncertain notice, as might seem
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,
Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire
The hermit sits alone.
These beauteous forms,
Through a long absence, have not been to me
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;
And passing even into my purer mind,
With tranquil restoration : feelings too
Of unremembered pleasure; such perhaps
As have no slight or trivial influence
On that best portion of a good man's life,–
His little, nameless, unremembered acts
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
To them I may have owed another gift,
Of aspect more sublime: that blessed mood
In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world,
Is lightened; that serene and blessed mood,
In which the affections gently lead us on,
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame
And even the motion of our human blood
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul;
While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things.
## p. 16202 (#548) ##########################################
16202
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
If this
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft -
In darkness and amid the many shapes
Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart-
How oft in spirit have I turned to thee,
O sylvan Wye!
be the first to pity and aid you, now that you are down. So
would it be with you if the case were reversed; for a soldier is
generous to a soldier.
It was not your own heart that spoke
then; it was the small venom of a woman, that here, as every-
where through the South, is playing its rancorous part.
The sick man gazed out through the window, seeing for the
first time the far-spreading ranks of the dead. He was very
weak, and the keeper's words had touched him; his eyes were
suffused with tears. But Miss Ward rose with a flashing glance.
She turned her back full upon the keeper and ignored his very
existence. "I will take you home immediately, Ward — this very
evening,” she said.
"A nice, comfortable place for a sick man,” commented the
keeper scornfully. "I am going out now, De Rosset, to prepare
your supper: you had better have one good meal before you go. ”
He disappeared; but as he went he heard the sick man say,
deprecatingly: "It isn't very comfortable over at the old house
now, indeed it isn't, Betty; I suffered — " and the girl's passionate
outburst in reply. Then he closed his door and set to work.
When he returned half an hour later, Ward was lying back
exhausted on the pillows, and his cousin sat leaning her head
upon her hand; she had been weeping, and she looked very deso-
late, he noticed, sitting there in what was to her an enemy's
country. Hunger is a strong master, however, especially when
allied to weakness; and the sick man ate with eagerness.
“I must go back," said the girl, rising. "A wagon will be
sent out for you, Ward; Pomp will help you. ”
But Ward had gained a little strength as well as obstinacy
with the nourishing food. "Not to-night,” he said.
“Yes, to-night. ”
“But I cannot go to-night; you are unreasonable, Bettina.
To-morrow will do as well, if go I must. ”
“If go you must! You do not want to go, then — to go to
our own home — and with me Her voice broke; she turned
toward the door.
The keeper stepped forward. (This is all nonsense, Miss
Ward,” he said, “and you know it.
,
Your cousin is in no state
(
## p. 16182 (#528) ##########################################
16182
CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON
»
to be moved. Wait a week or two, and he can go in safety.
But do not dare to offer me your money again; my kindness
was to the soldier, not to the man, and as such he can accept it.
Come out and see him as often as you please. I shall not in-
trude upon you. Pomp, take the lady home. ”
And the lady went.
Then began a remarkable existence for the four: a Confed-
erate soldier lying ill in the keeper's cottage of a national cem-
etery; a rampant little rebel coming out daily to a place which
was to her anathema-maranatha; a cynical, misanthropic keeper
sleeping on the floor and enduring every variety of discomfort
for a man he never saw before,- a man belonging to an idle,
arrogant class he detested; and an old black freedman allowing
himself to be taught the alphabet in order to gain permission
to wait on his master- - master no longer in law — with all the
devotion of his loving old heart. For the keeper had announced
to Pomp that he must learn his alphabet or go: after all these
years of theory, he, as a New-Englander, could not stand by and
see precious knowledge shut from the black man.
So he opened
it, and mighty dull work he found it.
Ward De Rosset did not rally as rapidly as they expected.
The white-haired doctor from the town rode out on horseback,
pacing slowly up the graveled roadway with a scowl on his brow,
casting, as he dismounted, a furtive glance down toward the
parade-ground. His horse and his coat were alike old and worn;
and his broad shoulders were bent with long service in the mis-
erably provided Confederate hospitals, where he had striven to
do his duty through every day and every night of those shad-
owed years. Cursing the incompetency in high places, cursing
the mismanagement of the entire medical department of the
Confederate army, cursing the recklessness and indifference which
left the men suffering for want of proper hospitals and hospital
stores, he yet went on resolutely doing his best with the poor
means in his control, until the last. Then he came home, he and
his old horse, and went the rounds again - he prescribing for
whooping-cough or measles, and Dobbin waiting outside; the only
difference was that fees were small and good meals scarce for
both, not only for the man but for the beast. The doctor sat
down and chatted awhile kindly with De Rosset, whose father
and uncle had been dear friends of his in the bright, prosperous
days; then he left a few harmless medicines and rose to go,–
his gaze resting a moment on Miss Ward, then on Pomp, as if he
## p. 16183 (#529) ##########################################
CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON
16183
was
were hesitating. But he said nothing until on the walk outside
he met the keeper, and recognized a person to whom he could
tell the truth. « There is nothing to be done: he may recover,
he may not; it is a question of strength merely. He needs no
medicines; only nourishing food, rest, and careful tendance. ”
“He shall have them,” answered the keeper briefly. And then
the old gentleman mounted his horse and rode away,— his first
and last visit to a national cemetery.
National! » he said to himself-national! »
All talk of moving De Rosset ceased, but Miss Ward moved
into the old house. There was not much to move: herself, her
one trunk, and Marí, a black attendant, whose name probably
began life as Maria, since the accent still dwelt on the curtailed
last syllable. The keeper went there once, and once only; and
then
an errand for the sick man, whose fancies came
sometimes at inconvenient hours — when Pomp had gone to town,
for instance. On this occasion the keeper entered the mockery
of a gate and knocked at the front door, from which the bars
had been removed; the piazza still showed its decaying planks,
but quick-growing summer vines had been planted, and were now
encircling the old pillars and veiling all defects with their green-
ery. It was a woman's pathetic effort to cover up what can-
not be covered, — poverty. The blinds on one side were open,
and white curtains waved to and fro in the breeze; into this
room he was ushered by Marí. Matting lay on the floor, streaked
here and there ominously by the dampness from the near ground.
The furniture was of dark mahogany, handsome in its day: chairs;
a heavy pier-table with low-down glass, into which no one by
any possibility could look unless he had eyes in his ankles; a
sofa with a stiff round pillow of hair-cloth under each curved
end; and a mirror with a compartment framed off at the top,
containing a picture of shepherds and shepherdesses, and lambs
with blue ribbons around their necks, all enjoying themselves
in the most natural and lifelike manner. Flowers stood on the
high mantelpiece, but their fragrance could not overcome the
faint odor of the damp straw-matting. On a table were books:
a life of General Lee, and three or four shabby little volumes
printed at the South during the war,— waifs of prose and poetry
of that highly wrought, richly colored style which seems indige-
nous to Southern soil.
"Some way, the whole thing reminds me of a funeral,”
thought the keeper.
-
## p. 16184 (#530) ##########################################
16184
CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON
Miss Ward entered, and the room bloomed at once; at least
that is what a lover would have said. Rodman, however, merely
noticed that she bloomed, and not the room, and he said to him-
self that she would not bloom long if she continued to live in
such a moldy place. Their conversation in these days was excess-
ively polite, shortened to the extreme minimum possible, and con-
ducted without the aid of the eyes, at least on one side. Rodman
had discovered that Miss Ward never looked at him, and so he
did not look at her,- that is, not often; he was human, how-
ever, and she was delightfully pretty. On this occasion they
exchanged exactly five sentences, and then he departed, but not
before his quick eyes had discovered that the rest of the house
was in even worse condition than this parlor; which, by the
way, Miss Ward considered quite a grand apartment: she had
been down near the coast, trying to teach school; and there the
desolation was far greater than here, both armies having passed
back and forward over the ground, foragers out, and the torch at
work more than once.
Will there ever come a change for the better ? ” thought the
keeper, as he walked homeward. «What an enormous stone has
got to be rolled up-hill! But at least, John Rodman, you need
not go to work at it; you are not called upon to lend your
shoulder. "
None the less, however, did he call out Pomp that very after-
noon and sternly teach him “E” and “F,” using the smooth
white sand for a blackboard, and a stick for chalk. Pomp's primer
was a government placard hanging on the wall of the office. It
read as follows:
IN THIS CEMETERY REPOSE THE REMAINS
OF
FOURTEEN THOUSAND THREE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-ONE UNITED
STATES SOLDIERS
Tell me not in mournful numbers
Life is but an empty dream;
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul!
## p. 16185 (#531) ##########################################
CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON
16185
»
« The only known instance of the government's condescend-
ing to poetry,” the keeper had thought, when he first read this
placard. It was placed there for the instruction and edification
of visitors; but no visitors coming, he took the liberty of using
it as a primer for Pomp. The large letters served the purpose
admirably, and Pomp learned the entire quotation; what he
thought of it has not transpired. Miss Ward came over daily
to see her cousin. At first she brought him soups and various
concoctions from her own kitchen,- the leaky cavern, once the
dining-room, where the soldier had taken refuge after his last
dismissal from hospital: but the keeper's soups were richer, and
free from the taint of smoke; his martial laws of neatness even
disorderly old Pomp dared not disobey, and the sick man soon
learned the difference. He thanked the girl, who came bringing
the dishes over carefully in her own dimpled hands, and then,
when she was gone, he sent them untasted away. By chance
Miss Ward learned this, and wept bitter tears over it; she con-
tinued to come, but her poor little soups and jellies she brought
no more.
One morning in May the keeper was working near the flag-
staff, when his eyes fell upon a procession coming down the road
which led from the town, and turning toward the cemetery. No
one ever came that way: what could it mean?
entered the gate, and showed itself to be negroes walking two
and two, -old uncles and aunties, young men and girls, and even
little children, all dressed in their best; a very poor best, some-
times gravely ludicrous imitations of “ole mars'or “ole miss',”
sometimes mere rags bravely patched together and adorned with
a strip of black calico or rosette of black ribbon; not one was
without a badge of mourning. All carried flowers, common blos-
soms from the little gardens behind the cabins that stretched
around the town on the outskirts,— the new forlorn cabins with
their chimneys of piled stones and ragged patches of corn; each
little darkey had his bouquet and marched solemnly along, rolling
his eyes around, but without even the beginning of a smile, while
the elders moved forward with gravity, the bubbling, irrepress-
ible gayety of the negro subdued by the new-born dignity of the
freedman.
« Memorial Day,” thought the keeper: "I had forgotten it. ”
“Will you do us de hono', sah, to take de head ob de pro-
cessio', sah ? " said the leader with a ceremonious bow. Now, the
It drew near,
((
## p. 16186 (#532) ##########################################
16186
CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON
keeper had not much sympathy with the strewing of flowers,
North or South: he had seen the beautiful ceremony more than
once turned into a political demonstration. Here, however, in
this small, isolated, interior town, there was nothing of that kind:
the whole population of white faces laid their roses and wept
true tears on the graves of their lost ones in the village church-
yard when the Southern Memorial Day came round; and just as
naturally the whole population of black faces went out to the
national cemetery with their flowers on the day when, through-
out the North, spring blossoms were laid on the graves of the
soldiers, from the little Maine village to the stretching ranks
of Arlington, from Greenwood to the far Western burial-places of
San Francisco. The keeper joined the procession and led the
way to the parade-ground. As they approached the trenches, the
leader began singing, and all joined. "Swing low, sweet chariot,”
sang the freedmen, and their hymn rose and fell with strange,
sweet harmony, - one of those wild, unwritten melodies which
the North heard with surprise and marveling when, after the
war, bands of singers came to their cities and sang the songs of
slavery, in order to gain for their children the coveted education.
«Swing low, sweet chariot,” sang the freedmen; and two by
two they passed along, strewing the graves with flowers till all
the green was dotted with color. It was a pathetic sight to see
some of the old men and women, ignorant field-hands, bent, dull-
eyed, and past the possibility of education even in its simplest
forms, carefully placing their poor flowers to the best advantage.
They knew dimly that the men who lay beneath those mounds
had done something wonderful for them and for their children;
and so they came bringing their blossoms, with little intelligence
but with much love.
The ceremony over, they retired. As he turned, the keeper
caught a glimpse of Miss Ward's face at the window.
« Hope we's not makin' too free, sah,” said the leader, as the
procession, with many a bow and scrape, took leave, “but we's
kep' de day now two years, sah, befo' you came, sah, and we's
teachin' de chil'en to keep it, sah. ”
The keeper returned to the cottage. “Not a white face,” he
said.
«Certainly not,” replied Miss Ward, crisply.
“I know some graves at the North, Miss Ward-graves of
Southern soldiers; and I know some Northern women who do not
(C
## p. 16187 (#533) ##########################################
CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON
16187
scorn to lay a few flowers on the lonely mounds as they pass by
with their blossoms on our Memorial Day. ”
“ You are fortunate. They must be angels. We have no
angels here. "
“I am inclined to believe you are right,” said the keeper.
That night old Pomp, who had remained invisible in the
kitchen during the ceremony, stole away in the twilight and
came back with a few flowers. Rodman saw him going down
toward the parade-ground, and watched. The old man had but
a few blossoms: he arranged them hastily on the mounds with
many a furtive glance toward the house, and then stole back,
satisfied; he had performed his part.
Ward De Rosset lay on his pallet, apparently unchanged; he
seemed neither stronger nor weaker. He had grown childishly
dependent upon his host, and wearied for him, as the Scotch say;
but Rodman withstood his fancies, and gave him only the even-
ings, when Miss Bettina was not there. One afternoon, however,
it rained so violently that he was forced to seek shelter: he set
himself to work on the ledgers; he was on the ninth thousand
now. But the sick man heard his step in the outer room, and
called in his weak voice, “Rodman, Rodman. ” After a time he
went in, and it ended in his staying; for the patient was nervous
and irritable, and he pitied the nurse, who seemed able to please
him in nothing. De Rosset turned with a sigh of relief toward
the strong hands that lifted him readily, toward the composed
manner, toward the man's voice that seemed to bring a breeze
from outside into the close room; animated, cheered, he talked
volubly. The keeper listened, answered once in a while, and qui-
etly took the rest of the afternoon into his own hands.
Miss Ward yielded to the silent change, leaned back, and closed
her eyes. She looked exhausted and for the first time pallid;
the loosened dark hair curled in little rings about her temples,
and her lips were parted as though she was too tired to close
them — for hers were not the thin, straight lips that shut tight
naturally, like the straight line of a closed box. The sick man
talked on.
Come, Rodman,” he said after a while, “I have read that
lying verse of yours over at least ten thousand and fifty-nine
times; please tell me its history: I want to have something
definite to think of when I read it for the ten thousand and
sixtieth. ”
## p. 16188 (#534) ##########################################
16188
CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON
« Toujours femme varie,
Bien fou qui s'y fie;
Une femme souvent
N'est qu'une plume au vent,”
read the keeper slowly, with his execrable English accent. “Well,
I don't know that I have any objection to telling the story. I
am not sure but that it will do me good to hear it all over
myself in plain language again. ”
“Then it concerns yourself,” said De Rosset: “so much the
better. I hope it will be, as the children say, the truth, and
long. "
“It will be the truth, but not long. When the war broke out
I was twenty-eight years old, living with my mother on our farm
in New England. My father and two brothers had died and left
me the homestead; otherwise I should have broken away and
sought fortune farther westward, where the lands are better
and life is more free. But mother loved the house, the fields,
and every crooked tree. She was alone, and so I stayed with
her. In the centre of the village green stood the square white
meeting-house; and near by, the small cottage where the pastor
lived. The minister's daughter Mary was my promised wife.
Mary was a slender creature, with a profusion of pale flaxen
hair, large serious blue eyes, and small, delicate features; she was
timid almost to a fault; her voice was low and gentle. She was
not eighteen, and we were to wait a year. The war came, and
I volunteered, of course, and marched away. We wrote to each
other often: my letters were full of the camp and skirmishes;
hers told of the village, — how the widow Brown had fallen ill,
and how it was feared that Squire Stafford's boys were lapsing
into evil ways. Then came the day when my regiment marched
to the field of its slaughter, and soon after our shattered rem-
nant went home. Mary cried over me, and came out every day
to the farm-house with her bunches of violets; she read aloud
to me from her good little books, and I used to lie and watch
her profile bending over the page, with the light falling on her
flaxen hair low down against the small white throat. Then my
wound healed, and I went again, this time for three years; and
Mary's father blessed me, and said that when peace came he
would call me son, but not before, for these were no times for
marrying or giving in marriage.
a good man, a red-
hot abolitionist, and a roaring lion as regards temperance; but
He was
## p. 16189 (#535) ##########################################
CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON
16189
nature had made him so small in body that no one was much
frightened when he roared. I said that I went for three years;
but eight years have passed, and I have never been back to the
village. First mother died. Then Mary turned false. I sold the
farm by letter, and lost the money three months afterward in an
unfortunate investment. My health failed. Like many another
Northern soldier, I remembered the healing climate of the South;
its soft airs came back to me when the snow lay deep on the
fields, and the sharp wind whistled around the poor tavern where
the moneyless, half-crippled volunteer sat coughing by the fire.
I applied for this place and obtained it. That is all. ”
“But it is not all,” said the sick man, raising himself on his
elbow; "you have not told half yet, nor anything at all about
the French verse. ”
« Oh — that ? There was a little Frenchman staying at the
hotel; he had formerly been a dancing-master, and was full of
dry, withered conceits, although he looked like a thin and bilious
old ape dressed as a man. He taught me, or tried to teach me,
various wise sayings; among them this one, which pleased my
fancy so much that I gave him twenty-five cents to write it out
in large text for me. ”
« « Toujours femme varie,) ) repeated De Rosset; but you
“
don't really think so, do you, Rodman ? »
«I do. But they cannot help it: it is their nature. - I beg
your pardon, Miss Ward. I was speaking as though you were
not here. ”
Miss Ward's eyelids barely acknowledged his existence; that
was all.
But some time after she remarked to her cousin that
it was only in New England that one found that pale flaxen
hair.
June was waning, when suddenly the summons came. Ward
De Rosset died. He was unconscious toward the last, and
death, in the guise of sleep, bore away his soul. They carried
him home to the old house; and from there the funeral started,
- a few family carriages, dingy and battered, following the
hearse, for death revived the old neighborhood feeling; that
honor at least they could pay,- the sonless mothers and the
widows who lived shut up in the old houses with everything
falling into ruin around them, brooding over the past. The
keeper watched the small procession as it passed his gate on
the way to the church-yard in the village. “There he goes, poor
>
(
## p. 16190 (#536) ##########################################
16190
CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON
H
C
»
>>
fellow, his sufferings over at last,” he said; and then he set the
cottage in order and began the old solitary life again.
He saw Miss Ward but once.
It was a breathless evening in August, when the moonlight
flooded the level country. He had started out to stroll across the
waste; but the mood changed, and climbing over the eastern wall
he had walked back to the flagstaff, and now lay at its foot gaz-
ing up into the infinite sky. A step sounded on the gravel walk;
he turned his face that way, and recognized Miss Ward. With
confident step she passed the dark cottage, and brushed his arm
with her robe as he lay unseen in the shadow. She went down
toward the parade-ground, and his eyes followed her. Softly out-
lined in the moonlight, she moved to and fro among the mounds,
pausing often, and once he thought she knelt. Then slowly she
returned, and he raised himself and waited; she saw him, started,
then paused.
“I thought you were away,” she said: “Pomp told me so. ”
« You set him to watch me ? »
“Yes. I wished to come here once, and I did not wish to
meet you. "
“Why did you wish to come ? »
« Because Ward was here — and because — because never
mind. It is enough that I wished to walk once among these
mounds. ”
"And pray there ? ”
« Well - and if I did! ” said the girl defiantly.
Rodman stood facing her, with his arms folded; his eyes
rested on her face; he said nothing.
"I am going away to-morrow," began Miss Ward again, as-
suming with an effort her old, pulseless manner. “I have sold
the place, and I shall never return, I think; I am going far away. ”
«Where? ”
« To Tennessee. ”
“That is not so very far,” said the keeper smiling.
“There I shall begin a new existence,” pursued the voice,
ignoring the comment.
“ You have scarcely begun the old: you are hardly more than
a child now. What are you going to do in Tennessee ? ”
Teach. ”
"Have you relatives there? ”
“No. ”
## p. 16191 (#537) ##########################################
CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON
16191
"A miserable life - a hard, lonely, loveless life,” said Rodman.
"God help the woman who must be that dreary thing, a teacher
from necessity! »
Miss Ward turned swiftly, but the keeper kept by her side.
He saw the tears glittering on her eyelashes, and his voice soft-
ened. “Do not leave me in anger," he said; “I should not have
spoken so, although indeed it was the truth. Walk back with
me to the cottage, and take your last look at the room where
poor Ward died, and then I will go with you to your home. ”
“No: Pomp is waiting at the gate," said the girl, almost
inarticulately.
“Very well; to the gate then. ”
They went toward the cottage in silence; the keeper threw
open the door.
“Go in,” he said. “I will wait outside. ”
The girl entered and went into the inner room, throwing her.
self down upon her knees at the bedside. «O Ward, Ward ! »
she sobbed; "I am all alone in the world now, Ward — all
alone ! She buried her face in her hands, and gave way to a
passion of tears; and the keeper could not help but hear as he
waited outside. Then the desolate little creature rose and came
forth; putting on, as she did so, her poor armor of pride. The
keeper had not moved from the doorstep. Now he turned his
face. “Before you go-go away for ever from this place — will
you write your name in my register,” he said “the visitors'
register? The government had it prepared for the throngs who
would visit these graves; but with the exception of the blacks,
who cannot write, no one has come, and the register is empty.
Will you write your name? Yet do not write it unless you
can think gently of the men who lie there under the grass. I
believe you do think gently of them, else why have you come of
your own accord to stand by the side of their graves ? » As he
said this, he looked fixedly at her.
Miss Ward did not answer; but neither did she write.
“Very well,” said the keeper: "come away.
come away. You will not, I
see. ”
« I cannot! Shall I, Bettina Ward, set my name down in
black and white as a visitor to this cemetery, where lie fourteen
thousand of the soldiers who killed my father, my three broth-
ers, my cousins; who brought desolation upon all our house, and
ruin upon all our neighborhood, all our State, and all our coun-
try ? - for the South is our country, and not your North. Shall
(C
»
## p. 16192 (#538) ##########################################
16192
CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON
a
I forget these things ? Never! Sooner let my right hand wither
by my side! I was but a child; yet I remember the tears of
my mother, and the grief of all around us. There was not a
house where there was not one dead. ”
“It is true," answered the keeper: "at the South, all went. ”
They walked down to the gate together in silence.
"Good-by,” said John, holding out his hand; you will give
me yours or not as you choose, but I will not have it as
favor. ”
She gave it.
“I hope that life will grow brighter to you as the years pass.
May God bless you! ”
He dropped her hand; she turned, and passed through the
gateway; then he sprang after her.
«Nothing can change you,” he said; “I know it, I have
known it all along: you are part of your country, part of the
time, part of the bitter hour through which she is passing.
Nothing can change you; if it could, you would not be what
you are, and I should not -
But you cannot change. Good-by,
Bettina, poor little child - good-by. Follow your path out into
the world. Yet do not think, dear, that I have not seen — have
not understood. ”
He bent and kissed her hand; then he was gone, and she went
on alone.
A week later the keeper strolled over toward the old house.
It was twilight; but the new
was still at work. He
was one of those sandy-haired, energetic Maine men, who, prob-
abiy on the principle of extremes, were often found through the
South, making new homes for themselves in the pleasant land.
"Pulling down the old house, are you? " said the keeper, lean-
ing idly on the gate, which was already flanked by a new fence.
« Yes,” replied the Maine man, pausing: “it was only an old
shell, just ready to tumble on our heads. You're the keeper over
yonder, ain't you ? ” (He already knew everybody within a circle
of five miles. )
“Yes. I think I should like those vines if you have no use
for them,” said Rodman, pointing to the uprooted greenery that
once screened the old piazza.
“Wuth about twenty-five cents, I guess," said the Maine man,
handing them over.
Owner
>
((
## p. 16193 (#539) ##########################################
16193
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
(1770-1850)
BY FREDERIC W. H. MYERS
TIS no easy matter for a disciple of Wordsworth's to write
a brief estimate of his work which shall fall into its due
place in a collection of the great writers of the world :* the
claim which must needs be made for him is so high, the drawbacks
are so obvious. Between prosiness and puerility, the ordinary reader
may feel as though he had been invited to a banquet, and regaled
with bread and water.
Much indeed which might be thought prosy or puerile can be put
aside at once without loss. Wordsworth wrote poetry for nearly half
a century. For about ten years (1798-1808) he was at his best, and for
ten years more (1808–1818) he was still from time to time inspired;
after that date the poems worthy of him were short and few. t
A great mass of valuable work remains; mainly in poems indi-
vidually brief, and difficult to classify except in chronological order.
For the sake of clear treatment in a brief essay, I may divide these
into three stages, roughly chronological. First will come the simple
poems, in the style of Lyrical Ballads'; then the poems in inter-
mediate style, of mixed simplicity and grandeur; and lastly the
poems in the grand style, such as Laodamia' and many of the son-
nets,-a style in which he continued at times to be able to write
* In 1881 I published a Life of Wordsworth) (now attainable in a cheap
shilling edition), in Mr. John Morley's series of English Men of Letters)
(Macmillan & Co. , London and New York). I was there able to give a
fuller introduction to the study of Wordsworth than space here allows; and
the reader who may turn to that book will find some of its ideas and expres-
sions repeated in the course of this essay, among other thoughts which the
years since elapsed have suggested, on a theme on which, in spite of all that
has been written, there is so much yet left to feel and to say.
+ The reader may, I think, omit the following poems: Juvenile Pieces,
(Thorn, Idiot Boy,' Borderers, Vaudracour and Julia, Artegal and
Elidure, (White Doe of Rylstone, (Lament of Mary Queen of Scots,' (Sons
of Burns,' (Vernal Ode, (Thanksgiving Ode, (Invocation to Earth,' Memo-
rials of Tour on Continent) (1820), and most of the "Ecclesiastical Sketches,'
(Sonnets on Duddon,' and (Excursion. '
XXVII-1013
(
(
## p. 16194 (#540) ##########################################
16194
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
when his early gift of exquisite simplicity had left him. The simple
poems are largely concerned with the Lake Country, and with rustic
emotion. As the style merges into grandeur, it deals rather with
themes of legendary or national dignity. And through all styles
alike runs an undercurrent of prophetic conviction as to the relation
of the visible world to a world unseen. *
I pass at once to a brief consideration of each group in turn.
Wordsworth, as is well known, began by preaching both by precept
and example the duty of throwing aside the so-called dignity and the
so-called language of poetry, and of appealing in the speech of real
life to the primary emotions of unsophisticated men. But his instruc-
tions sometimes resembled the conjurer's mystifying explanations of
artifices, which, however attentively we may listen, we can none the
better understand. Plainly one must not bring one's objects on the
stage in an obvious basket of “poetical diction”; but how produce a
canary from one's pocket-handkerchief at the moment desired? As
a matter of actual history the gift of poetical melody,—“the charm of
words, a charm no words can say,” — has been of all artistic gifts the
rarest and the most unteachable; simplicity of aim makes it no easier,
and few men - and they but rarely — have breathed into phrases of
absolute naïveté that touch of haunting joy.
«Sweet Emma Moreland of yonder town
Met me walking on yonder way,” —
lines such as these may sound easy enough; yet I doubt whether
even Tennyson ever caught quite that note again. And to me
Wordsworth's
poems on
(Matthew,' on Lucy,' the Cuckoo,' the
"Solitary Reaper, and the like, seem more marvelous, more excep-
tional as poetical tours de force, than even his sonnets; although I
agree with those who maintain that he has left us the finest collec-
tion of sonnets which any English poet has to show.
-
*1 may mention the following poems as examples of the different styles
alluded to above, - styles which of course run into each other:- Simple style:
(We are Seven); Lucy Gray); Poet's Epitaph); Pet Lamb); (Poor Susan);
Poems on Matthew; “Expostulation) and < Tables Turned); Fragment); (Stray
Pleasures); Poems on Lucy; My Heart Leaps Up); (Louisa'; (Sparrow's
Nest); Daffodils ); (Highland Girl); (Phantom of Delight); (Solitary Reaper);
Nightingale); Cuckoo. ' Transition to grand style: (Tintern Abbey);
(Brougham Castle); Leech-Gatherer); (AMiction of Margaret); "There was a
Boy); Peele Castle); Death of Fox); Nutting”; (Prelude. Grand style
(Happy Warrior); (Yew-Trees); (Laodamia); Dion); (Ode on Immortality `;
"Ode to Duty); "Wisdom and Spirit); (Patriotic and Other Sonnets ); Even-
ing Ode. )
## p. 16195 (#541) ##########################################
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
16195
I quote in illustration three stanzas of the type which in Words-
worth's early days was a mark for general derision:-
“And turning from her grave, I met
Beside the church-yard yew,
A blooming girl, whose hair was wet
With points of morning dew.
«A basket on her head she bare ;
Her brow was smooth and white:
To see a child so very fair,
It was a pure delight!
«No fountain from its rocky cave
E'er tripped with foot so free;
She seemed as happy as a wave
That dances on the sea. )
Something here is imitable; something, I think, beyond imitation.
In “The Two April Mornings,' from which these stanzas are taken,
there is of course a pathetic attitude of mind to which the lines lead
up: that of the bereaved father, who would not, if he could, renew
the past joy at the risk of renewing the past sorrow. Others might
have chosen that theme; might have adorned into simplicity and
elaborated into naïveté a similar recital. But in what mind save
Wordsworth's would the couplets which close each of the three
stanzas have arisen: the exquisite truth of the look of the child's
hair in the dew; the innocent intensity of Matthew's gaze; the spring-
ing buoyancy of that last simile,- fresh and vivid as of old was
ocean's many-twinkling smile," - and the magical melody, which,
with its few rustic notes, translates the scene and transfigures it into
poetry's ideal world?
I have said that Wordsworth's simpler poems were largely
concerned with the English Lake Country; with the race and the
environment which it was his mission both to represent and to con-
secrate. For a Cumbrian born within a few miles of Wordsworth's
home, and a few years before his death, the inward picture of that
country's past, present, future, cannot rise without a touch of pain.
« Yea, all that now enchants thee," — said Wordsworth once of how
much smaller an invasion than has actually occurred ! -
(
« Yea, all that now enchants thee, from the day
On which it should be touched, would melt, and melt away. ”
The best remaining hope is still in Wordsworth; it is the hope
that his abiding spirit may exert an ever deeper influence upon those
who look upon the land which he loved. The visitors to the Lake
Country, indeed, are not now mainly such intruders as he most feared.
## p. 16196 (#542) ##########################################
16196
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
In growing proportion they are men and women who have a right to
be there; the right involved in real power of appreciation, in real
effort of voyage and journey made to reach the reverenced shrine.
And even now to Wordsworth it might perhaps have seemed that his
lakes and hills might yet subserve a new virtue wider than the old.
Here is what we in England have of fairest, of most sacred, to offer.
Let us offer it to all our kin. Let our great race, whose tribes are
mighty nations, find here an unchallenged sanctuary, and a central
memory of peace.
There can be nothing incongruous in any passage from simplicity
to greatness; and we find in Wordsworth's poems that transition
often occurring without conscious change of tone. This is especially
noticeable in the Prelude,' – a kind of epic on the poet's own edu-
cation; where the sense of tedium and egotism which such a subject
inspires is constantly yielding to our sense of the narrator's candor
and dignity, and to the psychological interest of the exposition of a
character than which I know none of better augury for the future of
mankind.
The Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle,' again, stands mid-
way between Wordsworth's simple style and his grand style. It rises
from rustic naïveté into chivalric ardor, and from chivalric ardor into
the benign tranquillity of the environing eternal world.
How charged with the spirit of the mountains is the harper's story
of the childhood of the Shepherd Lord!
a
(And both the undying fish that swim
Through Bowscale Tarn did wait on him;
The pair were servants of his eye
In their immortality;
And glancing, gleaming, dark or bright,
Moved to and fro for his delight. ”
on
How swiftly that minstrel passes, as one high note, to his
heroic cry!
«Armor rusting in his halls
On the blood of Clifford calls:
"Quell the Scot, exclaims the Lance,
(Bear me to the heart of France,
Is the longing of the Shield – »
(
At last the poet himself resumes the strain; and how sublime in
its simplicity is that return and uprising from the wild tale of war
and tumult to the true victory and the imperishable peace!
“Alas, the impassioned minstrel did not know
That for a tranquil soul the lay was framed,
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Who, long compelled in humble walks to go,
Was softened into feeling, soothed, and tamed.
«Love had he found in huts where poor men lie.
His daily teachers had been woods and rills,
The silence that is in the starry sky,
The sleep that is among the lonely hills. )
But there was matter enough near home to call forth all Words-
worth's martial impulses, and to raise his style to its last eleva-
tion, a pure clear tone of heroic grandeur. During the prime of the
poet's powers, England was engaged in her most desperate struggle,
with her worst and mightiest foe. It is a strange fact that Words-
worth's (Sonnets Dedicated to Liberty' - the lofty appeals of a
grave recluse — should form the most permanent record in our liter-
ature of the Napoleonic war. Except Campbell's two songs, and Ten-
nyson's great ode on the death of the Duke of Wellington, half a
century later, they stand practically alone. The contest, indeed, was
one well fitted for treatment by this bard of “a few strong instincts
and a few plain rules. ” It was typified in mighty figures on either
hand. Napoleon's career afforded a poetic example — impressive as
that of Xerxes to the Greeks - of lawless and intoxicated power.
And on the other side - on the other side it happens by a singular
destiny that England, with a thousand years of noble history behind
her, has chosen for her best loved, for her national hero, not an Ar-
minius from the age of legend, not a Henri Quatre from the age of
chivalry, but a man whom the fathers of men still living have seen
and known. Close at hand for Wordsworth lay the crowning example
of impassioned self-devotedness, of heroic honor.
And indeed between these two men, so different in outward fates,
— between the “adored, the incomparable Nelson,” and the homely
poet, “retired as noontide dew," — there was a moral likeness so pro-
found that the ideal of the recluse was realized in the public life of
the hero, while on the other hand the hero himself is only seen as
completely heroic when his impetuous life stands out for us from the
solemn background of the poet's calm. Surely these two natures
taken together make the perfect Englishman. Nor is there any por-
trait fitter than that of 'The Happy Warrior' to go forth to all lands
as representing the British character at its height - a figure not ill-
matching with “Plutarch's men. ” *
*I have transcribed these last sentences from my previous work. I may
now (1897) add the mention of yet another felicity. The fame and the name
of Nelson have been felt to be matters for no one nation's pride alone; and
the career of the great Admiral has been narrated, in a spirit concordant with
Nelson's and Wordsworth's own, by the first of naval historians, a citizen of
the United States.
## p. 16198 (#544) ##########################################
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WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
We have briefly traced Wordsworth's mode of response to his
local and to his national environment. His poetry has reflected first,
the charm of Cumberland, and then the patriotism and moral energy
of the whole English folk. And in each case that poetry has been
for us no mere spectacle, - no brilliant effort of mastery over lan-
guage, on which we gaze admiring but unchanged,— but rather an
impulse and an intuition; stirring us to a new emotion by the con-
vincing avowal of emotion intenser than our own. Even more pene-
trating, more enlightening, was Wordsworth's response to the widest,
the cosmic environment. It was a sense sublime,” in those oft
quoted words with which his solemn message began, “of something
far more deeply interfused”;- of the interaction, the interpenetra-
tion, as we may now express it, of a spiritual with this material
world. His intuition had unified for him the sum of things; he had
learnt, that is to say, to see earth's confused phenomena no longer
“in disconnection dull and spiritless, but — like Plato before him—
as the lovely transitory veil or image of a pre-existent and imperish-
able world. The prenatal recollection, or the meditative ecstasy, had
stablished him in an inward peace; had poured for him a magic
gladness through the cuckoo's song; had lent to his great odes their
lofty accent, as of a spirit who has looked on the universe with
insight beyond our own, and has seen that it was good.
To these upsoarings of Wordsworth's spirit many a soul in need
has clung.
Insensibly implied, obscurely apprehended, they have
given to his poetry a sustaining, a vitalizing power; nay, that poetry
has seemed to many to sound the introit into an age of new revela-
tion.
Yet to such heights this mortal frame can bear man seldom, or on
them permit him to linger long. In the Evening Ode' of 1818 we
find the seer standing at the close of his own apocalypse; lamenting
that celestial light, "full early lost and fruitlessly deplored”; sinking
back with constancy into an earthly life, prolonged through another
generation of men, but in which the vision came to him no more.
1
“Or if some vestige of those gleams
Survived, 'twas only in his dreams. »
It was during the calm declining years which followed that the
power of Wordsworth went out upon that new generation. His
poems indeed were never popular with the popularity of Byron or of
Scott. It was rather the leaders of thought who reverenced him, and
who imposed their reverence on that larger public which even yet,
perhaps, has scarcely recognized his in most charm.
Meanwhile the aging man pursued his quiet way. He still went
“ booing about,” — as his peasant neighbors called it, - murmuring his
(
## p. 16199 (#545) ##########################################
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
16199
verses on the green hill terraces near Rydal Mount. He still made
on foot his grave Excursions,' to meet the friends who had gathered
near him from love at once of the country and of its poet. Some
of those friends he had aided — it was a task which delighted him-
to choose the site and shape the surroundings of a home among the
hills. More than one seat in the Lake Country among them one
home of pre-eminent beauty — have owed to Wordsworth no small
part of their ordered charm. In this way too the poet is with us
still: his presence has a strange reality as we look on some majestic
prospect of interwinding lake and mountain, which his design has
made more beautifully visible for the children's children of those he
loved; as we stand, perhaps, in some shadowed garden ground where
his will has had its way,— has framed Helvellyn's far-off summit in
an arch of tossing green, and embayed in towering forest trees the
long lawns of a silent valley, fit haunt for lofty aspiration and for
brooding calm.
The group which thus surrounded him was not unconscious of
his worth. To two adult generations he was already dear; and one
young child at least, whom hereditary friendships introduced to his
notice, felt in that hallowed presence as a child might have felt in
Arcadia, encountering tutelary Pan.
For the poet himself these lingering years were full of grave
retrospection, of humble self-judgment, of hopeful looking to the end.
« Worldly-minded I am not,” he wrote to an intimate friend near his
life's close; "on the contrary, my wish to benefit those within my
humble sphere strengthens seemingly in exact proportion to my
inability to realize those wishes. What I lament most is that the
spirituality of my nature does not expand and rise the nearer I
approach the grave, as yours does, and as it fares with my beloved
partner. ”
The aged poet might feel the loss of some vividness of emotion;
but his thoughts dwelt more and more constantly on the beloved
ones who had gone before him, and on the true and unseen world.
One of the images which recurs oftenest to his friends is that of the
old man as he would stand against the window of the dining-room
at Rydal Mount, and read the Psalms and Lessons for the day; of
the tall bowed figure and the silvery hair; of the deep voice which
always faltered when among the prayers he came to the words
which give thanks for those who have departed this life in Thy
faith and fear. »
«Retirement then might hourly look
Upon a soothing scene;
Age steal to his allotted nook
Contented and serene:
## p. 16200 (#546) ##########################################
16200
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
With heart as calm as lakes that sleep,
In frosty moonlight glistening,
Or mountain torrents where they creep
Along a channel smooth and deep,
To their own far-off murmurs listening. ”
Among all Virgil's categories of the Blessed, it is the pi vates who
are the truest friends of man. We need not be ashamed to linger on
them fondly; to imagine analogies between the impression which one
or another poet makes on us with the sights or sounds, the scents or
savors, of the great open world. Shakespeare (one may say) is like
breezy daylight; and Dante like the furnace glow. Lucretius is like
che storm, and Æschylus like the thunder, and Homer like the mov-
ing sea. Pindar is like wine; and Wordsworth like water, - which
Pindar said was best. Often that drink seems fat enough: but let
the wounded soldier crawl to the well-spring, and he knows that water
is best indeed; it is the very life of men.
1
1
Fungen
was
[NOTE. —William Wordsworth born of old North Country
stock, on the 7th of April, 1770, at Cockermouth in the Cumberland
highlands. Neither at school nor at college was he distinguished as a
scholar. Filled with enthusiasm for the French Revolution, he spent
a year in Paris, whence he was driven by the Reign of Terror. From
1796 until his death he lived almost continuously in the Lake Coun-
try; the record of his secluded, uneventful, and happy life being
found in his poems. He died at Rydal Mount, on the 23d of April,
1850. ]
LINES COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE
TINTERN ABBEY
ON REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE DURING A TOUR
F"
IVE years have passed; five summers, with the length
Of five long winters! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain springs
With a soft inland murmur. Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
That on a wild secluded scene impress
## p. 16201 (#547) ##########################################
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
16201
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
The day is come when I again repose
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view
These plots of cottage ground, these orchard tufts,
Which at this season, with their unripe fruits,
Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves
'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see
These hedge-rows, - hardly hedge-rows,— little lines
Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral farms,
Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke
Sent up in silence from among the trees!
With some uncertain notice, as might seem
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,
Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire
The hermit sits alone.
These beauteous forms,
Through a long absence, have not been to me
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;
And passing even into my purer mind,
With tranquil restoration : feelings too
Of unremembered pleasure; such perhaps
As have no slight or trivial influence
On that best portion of a good man's life,–
His little, nameless, unremembered acts
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
To them I may have owed another gift,
Of aspect more sublime: that blessed mood
In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world,
Is lightened; that serene and blessed mood,
In which the affections gently lead us on,
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame
And even the motion of our human blood
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul;
While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things.
## p. 16202 (#548) ##########################################
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WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
If this
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft -
In darkness and amid the many shapes
Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart-
How oft in spirit have I turned to thee,
O sylvan Wye!
