No More Learning

He would even
1 Letters, ed. Frazer, J. G. , 1912, vol. 1, p. 282.


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86
[CH.
William Cowper
have thought them unChristian and reprehensible. Where
the great soul of Wordsworth broods over the world of sense,
conscious of how it opens and affects the world of the spirit,
Cowper hardly even asks how it is that these loved scenes
console and enlarge the mind. He is not a philosopher, and he
is not a mystic. For him, it is enough that the things he sees are
beautiful and dear; he does not ask for anything more. But the
nearness of his object, his familiarity with it and his fine taste
in expression result in poetry which, if not, in itself, great, is
wonderfully pure and sweet, and prepared the way for pro-
founder work by others. While his simplicity and exactness
in description mark him off from all preceding nature poets, even
from Thomson, the spirit of his poetry differentiates him equally
from Crabbe, who, though even more minute and faithful in detail,
always regarded nature as a setting for the emotions of man.
There are passages in The Task which sound a nobler music than
that quoted above. One is the invocation to evening in The
Winter Evening, beginning :
Come, Evening, once again, season of peace;
Return, sweet Evening, and continue long!
The earlier part of this passage is very like Collins. The whole of it,
in spite of certain characteristic words—'ostentatious,''modest'--
is a little too fanciful and a little too elaborate to be entirely in
Cowper's peculiar manner. He is most himself when he is most
closely concerned with the scenes and people that, in his restricted
life, he had come to know and love. The six books of The Task
(entitled The Sofa, The Time-piece, The Garden, The Winter
Evening, The Winter Morning Walk and The Winter Walk at
Noon) contain many passages of sympathetic description that have
become classical. Such are the lines on the rural sounds' and
those on hay-carting in The Sofa ; the man cutting hay from the
stack, the woodman and his dog in The Winter Morning Walk ;
the postman and the waggoner in The Winter Evening; the fall
of snow, in the same book. Each is the product of the poet's own
observation ; each helped to prove, in an age which needed the
lesson, that simplicity and truth have their place in poetry, and
that commonplace things are fit subjects for the poet. Cowper's
simplicity is not the simplicity of Lyrical Ballads, any more than it
is the glittering artifice of Pope. He is Miltonic throughout; but
he speaks with perfect sincerity, keeping ‘his eye on the object. '
There are, no doubt, stretches of didactic verse in The


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IV]
Nature Poetry
87
Task. That was almost necessary to Cowper in a poem of this
length. But it is more important to observe how, in this poem,
one quality, that has endeared Cowper to thousands of readers and
was by no means without its effect on public opinion, finds its chief
expression in his works. After concluding The Sofa with the
famous and beautiful passage beginning :
God made the country, and man made the town;
be opens The Time-piece with a cry for some refuge where the
news of man's oppression, deceit and cruelty might never reach
him. The love of man for man, the love of man for animals, for the
meanest thing that lives—this is the principal moral message of
The Task. Doubtless, this kind of 'sentimentalism' was in the
air,' at the time. It belonged, to some extent, to Cowper's section
of the church ; it was spread far and wide by Rousseau. Yet it
was inborn in Cowper's tender, joyful nature--a nature that was
playfully serene when free from its tyrant melancholy; and Cowper
remains the chief exponent of it in English poetry.
When originally published in 1785, The Task was followed in
the same volume by three shorter poems, an epistle to Cowper's
friend, Joseph Hill, Tirocinium, to which reference was made
above, and The Diverting History of John Gilpin. In Tirocinium,
the attack on the brutality and immorality of public schools may
have been just and is certainly vigorous ; but this is not the kind
of poetical composition in which Cowper excelled. Of John Gilpin,
there is little need to speak at length. Lady Austen told Cowper
the story. He lay awake at night laughing over it, and made of
it a ballad in a style of fun peculiarly his own, but not to be
found elsewhere outside his letters. The more closely one looks
into the poem, the finer seems the characterisation, and the more
delicate and artful the precise simplicity of its manner. Subse-
quent editions included twelve more short poems in the volume,
among them The Rose, admired by Sainte-Beuve, and the lines
On the Receipt of my Mother's Picture out of Norfolk Cowper's
mother had died when he was six years old. As he tells us in this
poem, nearly half a century afterwards he remembered distinctly
and minutely the event and his feelings, and the poem is one of
the most pathetic and moving in any language. Thanks to the
poet's use of detail, the woman and her little son live again before
us, and the tenderness of the whole is unsurpassed. One other of
the shorter poems, The Dog and the Water-lily, deserves mention
for the light it throws on Cowper's gentle, animal-loving life ;


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88
[CH.
William Cowper
and the collection included, also, one or two fables that link him
with Prior, Gay and Northcote.
In 1786, Cowper and Mrs Unwin had moved from dreary
Olney to a cheerful house and neighbourhood at Weston, not
far off, and had enlarged their circle of acquaintances, thanks,
partly, to his cousin Harriet (the sister of Theodora), now Lady
Hesketh. Cowper's life continued to be happy; and, during these
pleasant years, he wrote a number of short poems, which were
not published till after his death. Among them were several
playful or serious personal addresses, much in the tone of the
letters. Others were little narratives or expressions of everyday
experience, like The Colubriad, an account of a viper which
threatened the poet's cat and her kittens, and the epitaph on the
poet's hare, Old Tiney, surliest of his kind. The remainder
included a few religious poems, several epigrams and translations,
one or two tales and some poems on the slave trade, written to
order and not showing Cowper at his best. Among these posthu-
mous works four stand prominent: the stanzas On the Loss of
the Royal George, the sonnet To Mrs Unwin, the poem To Mary
and The Poplar Field. The sonnet is one of Cowper's finest
achievements; the poem To Mary is redeemed by its tenderness
from a certain monotony in the form. The Poplar Field
contains the famous and exquisite second line of the couplet
a
The poplars are felled; farewell to the shade
And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade
which shows Cowper to have had possibilities in lyric poetry
never fulfilled by him. Yet, it seems almost unjust to say this
in view of On the Loss of the Royal George. Written to oblige
Lady Austen, who wanted words set to the march in Scipio, this
poem is one of the noblest dirges ever composed. By the directest,
simplest means imaginable, Cowper attains an effect of noble
grandeur. The plain statement reaches the sublime.
Cowper was not content to write short poems. In order to
stave off its besetting depression, his mind needed regular occupa-
tion; and, in 1785, soon after he had finished correcting the proofs
of The Task, he began,'merely to divert attention,' turning Homer's
Tiad into blank verse. The diversion grew into a plan to trans-
late the whole of Homer and publish the work by subscription.
Cowper came to his task well equipped. He had known his Homer
from boyhood ; and how well he knew and appreciated him may
be learned from two letters to Lady Hesketh, written in December


## p. 89 (#111) #############################################

IV]
Translations
89
1785 and January 1786, which are worth quoting as examples of
judicious and penetrating criticism.
Except the Bible, there never was in the world a book so remarkable for
that species of the sublime that owes its very existence to simplicity, as
the works of Homer. He is always nervous, plain, natural. . . Homer is,
on occasions that call for such a style, the easiest and most familiar of all
writers. . . Homer's accuracy of description, and his exquisite judgement never,
never failed him. He never, I believe, in a single instance sacrificed beauty
to embellishment. He does not deal in hyperbole . . . accordingly, when he
describes nature, whether in man or in animal, or whether nature inanimate,
you may always trust him for the most consummate fidelity. It is his great
glory that he omits no striking part of his subject, and that he never inserts
a tittle that does not belong to it. Oh! how unlike some describers that I
have met with, of modern days, who smother you with words, words, words,
and then think that they have copied nature; when all the while nature was
an object either not looked at, or not sufficiently.
>
Much of this is applicable to Cowper himself; and the writer of
the passage might be held to have been peculiarly well fitted to
translate Homer. Moreover, Cowper not only knew and loved
Homer (though, indeed, he regretted that this most blameless
writer' was 'not an enlightened man'), but he knew Pope's
translation, which he had compared word for word with the original.
To him, Pope's 'faults and failings' were like so many buoys
upon a dangerous coast”; and, side by side with his appreciation
of Homer, there runs, in these letters to Lady Hesketh, some
very penetrating examination of the difference between Homer
and the ‘two pretty poems under Homer's titles' written by Pope.
So far as criticism goes, therefore, Cowper promised well as a
translator of Homer. He knew what to aim at, and what to avoid.
The work was finished, well subscribed and published in 1791 ;
and, today, no one need read it except those who have to write
about it.
The reasons of Cowper's failure are two. In the first place
though precision and truth of detail are characteristics of both
poets, Cowper's tender, shrinking mind was separated by centuries
and leagues from Homer's. It was not his to understand the joy
of battle, the fascination of wounds, the fierce, raw passions, still
largely animal, of primitive heroes and heroines, nor to surrender
his convictions to the turbulent folk whom Homer regarded as
gods and goddesses. In the second place, it is one thing to
realise that Homer is 'nervous, plain, natural, and another to
achieve those qualities, in learned and sonorous blank verse.
Cowper's Miltonic measures are hardly less unlike Homer than is
Pope's riming jingle. The movement is completely altered.
.
It


## p. 90 (#112) #############################################

90
[ch.
William Cowper
is ample and stately; it has all the nobility which was one of the
qualities demanded by Matthew Arnold in his lectures On Trans-
lating Homer. It is, also, faithful. Pope had perverted his
original in order to find occasion for the brilliant effects of anti-
thesis and epigram in which he excelled. Chapman, an Elizabethan
brimful of ideas and curiosity and a spirit of literary adventure,
had perverted his original through ebullience of sentiment and
fancy. Cowper, priding himself on adhering closely to his original,
adhered only in part. He knew exactly what Homer meant to
say; he appreciated, in a great measure, Homer's manner of saying
it; but his head was full of Milton. He believed Milton's style to
resemble Homer's; and, by modelling his blank verse on Milton's,
he achieves inversions, pauses and pomposities which are wholly
unlike the smooth and simple rapidity of Homer. This is not
to say that there are not excellent passages in Cowper's Homer,
nor that the whole work is not a lofty achievement in scholarship
and poetry. But, in avoiding the cleverness of Pope, Cowper fell
into the opposite extreme. Homer is grand and lively, Cowper's
Homer is grand and dull. As translator of the hymns of Mme
Guyon, of certain odes and satires of Horace, of Greek songs and
the Latin poems of his admired Milton, Cowper was more suc-
cessful, especially in the case of Horace, with whom, despite the
difference between a genial pagan and an evangelical Christian,
he had much in common. Perhaps the least disputable title to
remembrance which Cowper's Homer possesses is that it kept the
poet busy and happy, staving off, for a while, his persistent foe,
despair.
Despair was to have him in the end. Mrs Unwin sickened and
died. The strain of attendance upon her proved too much for
Cowper's mental and physical strength ; and one of the saddest
stories in the world is that of Cowper at and after the death of his
heroic friend. Popularity, success, affection, royal favour (in the
form of a pension acquired for him partly by the eager, blundering
,
pertinacity of his friend, Hayley 1)-nothing could relieve him. His
last original work was a powerful but ghastly poem called The
Castaway. He died on 25 April 1800.
Cowper, though not among the great poets of England, holds
a unique place, partly by virtue of the personality which shines in
every line of his poetry, partly by virtue of the sincerity and
simplicity which, 'keeping its eye on the object,' saw beauty and
i Caldicott, H. Rowlands S. , "How Cowper got his pension, The Cornhill Maga-
zine, no. 202, April 1913, p. 493.


## p. 91 (#113) #############################################

IV]
Letters
91
consolation in common things, till then neglected, but eagerly
seized upon by his successors and transformed into material for
their profoundest and noblest art. There is another field in which he
holds still a unique position—the field of letter-writing. It seems
an error to speak, in connection with Cowper, of the art of letter-
writing. If art implies the consideration of their effect upon the
public, no letters were ever written with less art. In a letter to
William Unwin, Cowper says
a
It is possible I might have indulged myself in the pleasure of writing to
you, without waiting for a letter from you, but for a reason which you will not
easily guess. Your mother communicated to me the satisfaction you expressed
in my correspondence, that you thought me entertaining and clever, and so
forth:-now you must know, I love praise dearly, especially from the judicious,
and those who have so much delicacy themselves as not to offend mine in
giving it. But then, I found this consequence attending, or likely to attend
the eulogium you bestowed ;-if my friend thought me witty before, he shall
think me ten times more witty hereafter;-where I joked once, I will joke
five times, and for one sensible remark I will send him a dozen. Now this
foolish vanity would have spoiled me quite, and would have made me as dis-
gusting a letter-writer as Pope, who seems to have thought that unless a
sentence was well turned, and every period pointed with some conceit, it was
not worth the carriage. Accordingly he is to me, except in very few instances,
the most disagreeable maker of epistles that ever I met with. I was willing,
therefore, to wait till the impression your commendation had made upon the
foolish part of me was worn off, that I might scribble away as usual, and
write my uppermost thoughts, and those only.
With the exception of Charles Lamb, all the other great English
letter-writers_Gray, Walpole, Pope, Byron—wrote with an eye to
the printed collection. Cowper wrote partly for his correspondent,
chiefly for himself. His are, in his own phrase, 'talking letters. '
He chats about anything that happens to be in his mind. If he
is suffering from his mental complaint, he writes a letter un-
matched for gloom, a letter that envelopes even a modern reader
in a black mist of misery. A few pages later, and he is playful,
gay, almost jaunty. His mind was so sweet, and his interest
in the little details of life so keen, that the most trivial occur-
rence—a feat in carpentering, a bed of tulips, the visit of a
parliamentary candidate-can interest his reader still. Acute
reasoning, sound sense, fine judgment fall into their places with
whimsical nonsense, hearty laughter and almost boyish affection.
He will break off a criticism on Homer to bid Lady Hesketh
'give me a great corking pin that I may stick your faith upon my
sleeve. There-it is done. ' The whole of his nature, gay and
gloomy, narrow in opinion and wide in sympathy, ever fixed on


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92
[CH. IV
William Cowper
heavenly things and ever keenly alive to mundane things, is pre-
served for us in these inimitably vivid letters; and the same
taste and scholarship which give point and permanence even to
his least elaborated poems have won for these naïve examples
of transparent self-revelation an undying value. The more they
are read, the better will Cowper be understood and loved.


## p. 93 (#115) #############################################

CHAPTER V
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
WORDSWORTH's surprise and resentment would surely have
been provoked had he been told that, at half a century's distance
and from an European point of view, his work would seem, on
the whole, though with several omissions and additions, to be
a continuation of the movement initiated by Rousseau. It is,
nevertheless, certain that it might be described as an English
variety of Rousseauism, revised and corrected, in some parts,
by the opposite influence of Edmund Burke. In Wordsworth, we
find Rousseau's wellknown fundamental tenets : he has the same
semi-mystical faith in the goodness of nature as well as in the
excellence of the child; his ideas on education are almost
identical; there are apparent a similar diffidence in respect of the
merely intellectual processes of the mind, and an equal trust in
the good that may accrue to man from the cultivation of his
senses and feelings. The differences between the two, mainly
occasional and of a political nature, seem secondary by the side
of these profound analogies. For this reason, Wordsworth must
be placed by the general historian among the numerous ósons of
Rousseau,' who form the main battalion of romanticism ; though,
if we merely regard the ideas he expressed and propagated, his per-
sonality may, thereby, lose some of its originality and distinctness.
But, resemblance does not necessarily mean repetition and imi-
tation. Moreover, men's ideas are their least individual possessions.
The manner in which a man, and, above all, a poet, becomes
possessed of his creed, the stamp he puts upon it, are the things
that really matter. Now, Wordsworth formed his thoughts and
convictions in the light of the circumstances of his own life,
whereby they assumed a reality wanting in those of many of his
contemporaries. If he thought like others, he always thought by
himself. He gives us the impression that, had he lived alone on a


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94
William Wordsworth
[CH.
bookless earth, he would have reached the same conclusions. His
deep influence on a limited, but incomparably loyal, number of
readers owes less to his beliefs than to his minute, persevering
analysis of every step he made towards them. He appeals to our
confidence by his constant recourse to his personal experience.
He prides himself on being the least inventive of great poets.
He belittles fancy. It is true that he claimed imagination as his
supreme gift, but, at the same time, he bestowed on the word
imagination a new meaning, almost entirely opposed to the ordinary
one. He gave the name to his accurate, faithful and loving observa-
tion of nature. In his loftier moods, he used 'imagination as a
synonym of 'intuition,' of seeing into, and even through, reality,
but he never admitted a divorce between it and reality. The
gift of feigning, of arbitrarily combining the features of a legend
or story, which had long been held to be the first poetical pre-
rogative, was almost entirely denied him, and he thanked God for
its absence. His hold over many thoughtful and, generally, mature
minds is due to his having avowedly, and often, also, practically,
made truth his primary object, beauty being only second. Those
who had ingenuously turned to his poems for the mere charm
of verse were grateful to him inasmuch as they had received, in
addition, their first lessons in philosophy. They had gone to him
for pleasure and they came back with a train of reflection that
followed them through the round of their daily tasks. They
were taught by him a new way of looking at men and nature.
Wordsworth achieved this result by dint of one-sided pressure,
by tenaciousness of aim. Not that his ideas remained the same
from beginning to end. Few men, on the contrary, changed more
thoroughly. His mind may be represented as continuously shifting
along a half circle, so that, finally, he stood at the opposite end
of the diameter. The young revolutionist evolved into a grey-
haired conservative, the semi-atheist and pantheist into a pattern
of conformity. But, all the time, he kept true to his fixed centre,
the search for the greatest good. His very contradictions point
to one engrossing pursuit. His life was an unbroken series of
slow movements which brought him from one extreme to the
other, though his eyes were ever bent in the same direction.
Because he never ceased to have the same object in view, he was
himself imperfectly conscious of the change in his position.
Wordsworth was born in 1770 at Cockermouth, in the north
of the lake country, the second child of a fairly prosperous


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v]
Childhood
95
6
attorney-at-law and of Anne Cookson, daughter of a Penrith
mercer. Seen from the outside, without the optimistic prism of
The Prelude, his childhood does not seem to have been any
more privileged, while his youth appears decidedly more vexed
and troubled, than those of the common run of men. The child,
surely, had pleasant hours with his brothers and sister while
playing about the terrace of the family garden which overlooked
the Derwent, or when bathing in the river. There were bitter
hours, however, when he was taken to his mother's family at
Penrith, where harsh grandparents often treated the little ones
with reproach and insult. ' William was particularly unruly and,
in consequence, had most to bear from the Cooksons. Hence, we
hear of acts of defiance and even of a childish attempt at suicide.
When he was eight years old, his mother died, and, parting
from his father, who never recovered his cheerfulness after his
bereavement, Wordsworth was sent to Hawkshead grammar school.
A very homely one-room house in a very poor village is the place
where he was taught. He lodged with one of the old village dames,
who, however kind they might be to boys, could only give them
coarse and scanty fare. For his companions, he chiefly had
farmers' sons, destined for the church, who brought with them
the rough manners of their home life. In spite of the delight
he found in games, open air life and rambles about hill and lake,
it must be admitted that Hawkshead was a very mixed paradise.
Then came his father's death, when the boy was thirteen. The
orphan's condition was precarious. Almost all the money left by
his father was in the hands of Sir James Lowther, to whom Words-
worth's father had been steward, and Sir James would never
hear of paying it back so long as he lived, nor could he be
compelled to reimburse. It is true that enough remained to
allow William to pursue his studies, and a boy does not take money
questions much to heart. But there were wretched holidays at
Penrith, in his grandparents' sullen home. Of the frequent dis-
tress of the children in that house, we have a vivid picture in
the earliest letters of little Dorothy, the poet's only sister, written
in the last year spent by William at Hawkshead. Dorothy, whose
sweet, affectionate nature cannot be suspected of unjustified
complaints, could scarcely bear the loveless constraint she had
to undergo. No more could her brothers : ‘Many a time have
William, John, Christopher and myself shed tears together of the
bitterest sorrow. We have no father to protect, no mother to
guide us,' and so forth.


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96
[CH.
William Wordsworth
From Hawkshead, Wordsworth went to Cambridge in October
1787 and remained there at St John's college till the beginning
of 1791. He took little interest either in the intellectual or
social life of the university. He never opened a mathematical
book and thus lost all chance of obtaining a fellowship. Even his
literary studies were pursued irregularly, without any attention
being paid to the prescribed course. He did not feel any abhor-
rence of the students' life, which, at that time, consisted of
alternate sloth and wildness. He first shared in it, but soon grew
weary of it and lived more or less by himself. In his university
years, his only deep enjoyments were the long rambles in which
he indulged during vacations. Meanwhile, discussions with his
uncles must, at times, have made life rather distasteful to him.
He had no money in prospect. All his small patrimony had been
spent on his university education ; yet he showed himself vacil-
lating and reluctant when required to make choice of a career.
None was to his taste. The army, the church, the law, tutorial
work, were all contemplated and discarded in turn. He showed
no strong bent except for wandering and writing poetry. He was,
indeed, a young man likely to make his elders anxious. In July
1790, just at the time when he ought to have been working
hard for his approaching examinations, he took it into his head
to start for the Alps with a fellow student, on foot, equipped
much like a pedlar—an escapade without precedent. As soon
as he had taken his B. A. , without distinction, he set fortune at
defiance, and settled in London for a season, doing nothing in
particular, 'pitching a vagrant tent among the unfenced regions
of society. After this, other wanderings and abortive schemes
of regular work followed for more than three years, till he threw
aside all idea of a fixed career and settled down to resolute poverty.
Such apparent restlessness and indolence could not but be
attended by many a pang of remorse. He suffered from his
growing estrangement from his relations. He was ill satisfied
with himself and uneasy about the future, and these feelings
(perhaps darkened by some passages of vexed love) found an
outlet in his juvenile poems, all of which are tinged with
melancholy.
It seems strange that such a childhood and youth should,
afterwards, have furnished him with the optimistic basis of The
Prelude. Beyond doubt, this poem was meant to be a selection
of all the circumstances in his early life that told for joy and hope.
Hence, a heightening of bright colours, and a voluntary omission


## p. 97 (#119) #############################################

v]
The French Revolution
97
of more sombre hues, in the picture he made of his youth. But
the contrast between the dry facts of his early life and his rapture
over the same period is, also, owing to a deeper truth. The joy
he celebrates in The Prelude springs from sources hidden from
all eyes, scarcely suspected by the child himself. Whatever
shadows might pass over his days, abundant strength and happi-
ness lay beneath the surface. He was not callous to grief, but,
somehow, felt all the time that grief was transient, hope permanent,
in his breast. His enjoyment of nature gave him those intense
delights which are usually unnoticed in the tale of a life. So did
his already passionate love of verse. Thus, The Prelude is all
true, though it does not present us with the whole truth.
Of the young man's passion for nature, his early poems, both
published in 1793, furnish direct proof. They are the most minute
and copious inventories of the aspects he saw, of the noises he
heard, in his native lakes (An Evening Walk) or in his wanderings
through Switzerland (Descriptive Sketches). Such acuteness and
copiousness of observation were only possible in the case of a
devotee. However contorted and knotty the verse may be, however
artificial the diction, the poet's fervour is as manifest here as in
the most eloquent of his subsequent effusions. Though he follows
in the train of a succession of descriptive poets, he outdoes them
all in abundance of precise touches.
But his practice of descriptive poetry was interrupted for
several years, at the very time when he was giving the finishing
touch to these poems. The influence of the French revolution
on this part of his life cannot be overrated. Characteristically, he
was rather late in becoming an adept. He uttered no paean on the
fall of the Bastille. To move him, it was necessary that his senses
should be aroused. Now, the revolution turned her most enticing
smile towards him. It so happened that he had first landed at
Calais on the eve of the federation of 1790; so, the unparalleled
mirth of that time seemed a festivity prepared for his welcome.
The glee and hopefulness of the season turned into a charming
benevolence, which he tasted with all the relish of a student on
a holiday trip. Then came his prolonged stay in France, chiefly
at Orleans and at Blois, from November 1791 to December 1792, in
times already darkened by civil mistrust and violence. But, chance
would have it that he should be eyewitness to heartstirring
scenes, such as the enlisting of volunteers and the proclamation
of the republic. Above all, he had the good fortune to make
friends with one of the true heroes of the day, captain Michel
7
E. L XI.
CH, V.


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98
[CH.
William Wordsworth
Beaupuy, whose chivalric nature and generous enthusiasm for the
new order warmed the young Englishman. Exquisite is the
portrait drawn of Beaupuy in The Prelude. The fine traits of
his character are all confirmed by what has since become
known of his career, with this reservation that, through an
irresistible tendency to idealise, Wordsworth may have toned
down some of the features. Beaupuy was the revolutionary
apostle described by the poet, but there was less of the philosopher
and more of the soldier in his composition. It is clear from his
letters and diaries that he was an ingenuous and soldier-like
reasoner, and, also, that he could utter an oath or two when in a
passion. Anyhow, he found Wordsworth a bewildered foreigner
and left him a determined revolutionist, one might almost say a
French republican. A spirit of revolt and indignation against all
social iniquities pervaded Wordsworth for years, together with a
sympathy, which never left him, for the poorer and humbler
members of the community. When he came back to England,
he drew near the Jacobins without becoming one of them; but
he was a decided reformer. Alienated from his own country when
she went to war with France, he heartily hated king, regent and
ministry. His letter to the bishop of Llandaff and his poem Guilt
and Sorrow (or Incidents on Salisbury Plain) are the best
testimonies of his feelings. Society appeared to him responsible
for the wretchedness, and even the crimes, of individuals—his
pity went to vagrants and murderers. His abhorrence of war
was shown in insistent and gruesome pictures of war scenes.
When the French revolution passed into the Terror, and
especially when the republic changed a defensive into an aggressive
war, Wordsworth lost his trust in immediate social reform. He
turned more and more to abstract meditation on man and
society, chiefly under the guidance of William Godwin-a period
of dry intellectualism that went against the grain. He suffered
from the suppression of his feelings, from being momentarily
deaf to the language of the sense. ' Besides, his analysis
of men's motives soon convinced him that the evils he fought
against were not so much the results of social forms as of some-
thing inherent in man's nature. A man of commanding intellect
may be wantonly cruel and vicious ; he may use all the powers
of logic for his detestable ends ; reason is non-moral; the wicked
'spin motives out of their own bowels. Hence, a wellnigh
absolute, though transient, pessimism, which vented itself in
his play The Borderers. If the traditional bonds of morality are
6


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Dorothy Wordsworth
99
relaxed, the fixed rules of our actions or the intuitive guidance
of the feelings repudiated, then full scope is given to bold, in-
telligent, bad men; then are the wellmeaning blinded and
betrayed to abominable deeds. Then is the Terror possible.
Scarcely any hope of betterment is left. The kindhearted Girondin
Marmaduke will be an easy prey to the villainous Montagnard
Oswald.
When he wrote this tragedy, Wordsworth had already put an
end to his solitary, wandering life and settled at Racedown in
Dorsetshire with his sister Dorothy (autumn of 1795). There, they
both lived a frugal life, on the meagre income from a legacy of
£900 left to the poet by a dying friend. This settlement was the
crowning of a longcherished scheme. Brother and sister were
passionately attached to each other. Dorothy's letters make their
mutual love known to us and let us into depths of Wordsworth's
nature, scarcely revealed by his poems. She speaks of 'a vehe-
mence of affection' in him that his readers might not suspect, so
careful he usually was, in Hazlitt's words, 'to calm the throbbing
pulses of his own heart by keeping his eye ever fixed on the face
of nature. ' By this discipline, did he, in those years, slowly conquer
his besetting thoughts of despondency. Wordsworth and Dorothy
were equally fond of natural scenery. Their delight in each other
and their daily rambles were the first agents in the young dis-
illusionised republican's recovery. Dorothy made him turn his
eyes again to the landscape and take an interest in the peasants
near their home. But the poet's mind remained gloomy for a
time, as is shown by his pastoral The Ruined Cottage (or The
Story of Margaret), which afterwards found its place in the first
book of The Excursion. A heartrending narrative, if read without
the comforting comments of the pedlar afterwards added to it, a
perfect poem, too, such as Wordsworth never surpassed, it points
out both the exceeding tenderness often met with in the hearts
of the poor and the cruelty of fate aggravated by the existing social
order. No doctrine, poetic or philosophical, is perceptible in this
poem of simple, chastened beauty. It does not give any token of
the message with which Wordsworth was soon to think himself en-
trusted. His sense of a message only became clear to him after he
had, in the summer of 1797, removed from Racedown to Alfoxden, so
as to live in daily converse with Coleridge, who was then dwelling
at Nether Stowey, in Somersetshire. Till then, the two poets
had only exchanged a few visits, after the end of 1795, the first
results of which had merely been to encourage Wordsworth to
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Іоо
William Wordsworth
[CH.
6
poetical composition. He had felt raised and exhilarated by
Coleridge's entire, almost extravagant, admiration for his Salis-
bury Plain and Borderers. But, when they had become close
neighbours and intimate friends, Coleridge's innate transcen-
dentalism began to affect Wordsworth. It is impossible to define
exactly the share of each in the elaboration of those poetical and
moral tenets which they seemed, for a time, to hold in common,
unconscious of the deep differences between them. Yet, on the
whole, one may say that Wordsworth's share consisted in his
more precise observations of nature and common life. Coleridge,
with the capacious soul,' influenced his friend by his metaphysical
gifts, 'the power he possessed of throwing out in profusion grand,
central truths from which might be evolved the most comprehen-
sive systems. An omnivorous reader, with an inclination towards
mystic doctrines, Coleridge talked eloquently to Wordsworth on
Plato and the neo-Platonists, Berkeley's idealism, the pantheistic
system and serene necessitarianism of Spinoza, the intuitional
religion of the theosophists—a new world to one who had not yet
gone beyond the rationalism of the eighteenth century and who
always found his most congenial food in the associationism of
Hartley. Now, Wordsworth, without binding himself to any one
master, was to take hints from all in building up his own doctrine.
But he was not an intellectual dilettante; all he absorbed from
without had to be reconciled to his personal experience and
turned to a practical aim. He would show men the way to wisdom
and happiness. He would, from his country retreat, give out his
views of nature, man and society. He justified this lofty ambition
to himself because he was conscious, personally, of having issued
out of error into truth, out of despondency into hopefulness. He
thought he knew the reasons why most men in his generation had
fallen into pessimism and misanthropy. He now believed in the
restorative power of nature, in the essential goodness of a man's
heart when unadulterated by the pride of intellect, in the greatness
of the senses which could drink in infinite joys and profound lessons
of wisdom. Thus did he plan his Recluse, as early as March 1798,
'the first great philosophical poem in existence,' as Coleridge
anticipated, which was to employ his highest energies for seventeen
years. Though never completed, the monument exists in frag-
ments of imposing magnitude the first book of The Recluse,
properly so called, written in 1800; The Prelude, written between
1798 and 1805, an autobiography meant as the ante-chapel to
the huge gothic cathedral; and The Excursion, which, though it


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Lyrical Ballads
IOI
includes passages composed as early as 1797, was not finished
before 1814. Such intervals of time account better than any
other reason for the incompleteness of the edifice, for the poet's
ideas changed so much while he was engaged upon his work that no
systematic presentation of doctrine, as was first intended, could
possibly be achieved. Only the initial impulse remained—the poet's
sense of a duty put on him from on high, his earnest wish to benefit
his fellow men morally and to make them happier. The reasons for
his optimism might and did vary; but the optimistic attitude was pre-
served to the end, securing the unity of the poet's career.
But, during his stay with Coleridge in Somersetshire, Words-
worth did not only lay the foundations of his Recluse. The same
intercourse gave birth to less ambitious and more immediate
verse, to the famous Lyrical Ballads of 1798, a small volume of
short poems by Coleridge and himself. It is well known how,
after some fruitless attempts at collaboration, the two friends
agreed to divide the field of poetry. To the share of Coleridge
fell such subjects as were supernatural, or, at any rate, romantic,
which he was to inform with a human interest and a semblance
of truth. Wordsworth's part was to be the events of everyday
life, by preference in its humblest form ; the characters and
incidents of his poems were to be such as will be found in every
village and its vicinity where there is a meditative and feeling
mind to seek after them, or to notice them when they present
themselves. ' Thus did Coleridge sing The Ancient Mariner, while
Wordsworth told the tales Goody Blake and Simon Lee. Nothing
can better show Wordsworth's minute realism, how necessary it
was to him to hold a little of his mother earth within his fingers.
His homely ballads are so many humble practical illustrations of the
philosophy he was at this very time promulgating in lofty blank
verse, for instance, in his lyrical hymn of thanks to nature, Tintern
Abbey. The ballads have 'a something corporeal, a matter-of-
factness, which Coleridge could not help lamenting. They are
not only clad in humble garb, but, to a certain extent, are
more scientific than poetic in their aim. There survived so much
of Wordsworth's former rationalism that he almost gave the pre-
cedence to psychology over poetry in these experiments. The
preface of the 1800 edition of the Ballads really looks like the
programme of a man of science. He is inspired by a wish to
know more, and make more known, of the human heart. He goes
so far as to call poetry 'the history and science of the feelings. '
Perfect unity is not characteristic of this period so much as


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102
[CH.
William Wordsworth
11
a gladsome energy exerted in several directions. “He never wrote
with such glee. His new reading of nature and of man fills
him with delight-together with the life he now leads between
the most wonderful of friends and the most devoted of inspired
sisters. He had such superfluous joy that he could afford to
suffer with those he saw suffer,' that he was 'bold to look on
painful things. He believed in the deep power of joy,' by
means of which 'we see into the life of things. ' He made joy
the chief attribute of poetry, proclaimed poets 'the happiest of
men. ' He rejoiced in his own boldness, found vent for his sur-
viving republicanism in a sweeping, democratic reform of poetical
style-putting down the time-honoured hierarchy of words,
abolishing the traditional distinction between high and low, in
subjects and diction.
These trustful feelings, this spontaneous optimism, expressive
of his unimpaired vitality, sustained him throughout the years
from 1798 to 1805, during which period his best and most original
poetry was written, whether at Alfoxden, or in Germany, where
he stayed with his sister from September 1798 to April 1799, or
in the glorious humility of Dove cottage, at Grasmere, in the lake
country, where he settled with Dorothy in the last days of the
century and where Coleridge was again his frequent visitant, or in
his wanderings over Scotland, with both Coleridge and Dorothy,
from August to October 1803. A period of plain living and high
thinking,' made famous by great verse.
One may fix on 1805 as the year in, or about, which this
period of Wordsworth's poetical life closes. He had now, if not
published, at least written, nearly all that is supreme in his
works-his only book of The Recluse, all The Prelude, the best
parts of The Excursion, besides many of the best and boldest
of his short poems, ballads and sonnets. His great Odeon
Immortality was all but finished. Had he died then, in his
thirty-sixth year, having lived as long as Byron and much longer
than Shelley or Keats, he would have left a fame almost as high
as he was to attain, though of a different character. His freshness
of thought and style being taken together, his works would have
stamped him as one of the most daring among the poets of his
day. The sedate and sometimes conventional moralising which
has been associated with his name comes into existence in his
later productions. But it should be added that, for ten years,
he was to achieve, in a new direction, some verse that 'one would
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His Marriage
103
Outward events and the circumstances of his own life had some-
thing to do with the change that took place in him about 1805.
Politically, it was caused by the beginning of the French empire,
the crowning of Napoleon by the pope, 'a sad reverse for all
mankind'; hence, the final overthrow of Wordsworth's sympathies
for the revolution, the decisive proof (so he thought) that his
former ideal was false and treacherous. This led him to suspect
more and more all that, in his ideas, still savoured of revolt ; it
caused him to rally more closely round the principles of order
and repent his former wishes of social change. The gray tints
of mistrust slowly overlaid the glowing enthusiasms of yore. It
is true that Wordsworth's feelings were roused, chiefly by the
Spanish war, to a patriotic fervour that found expression in many
a vigorous sonnet and even turned him into a pamphleteer. His
eloquent and ponderous Convention of Cintra (1809) shows the
fighting spirit that was in him. But it had the inconvenience of
leading him from verse to prose, from poetry to dialectics, and
thus generated an oratorical habit that was to infect many parts
of his Excursion.
Then, in his very home, there happened changes that, whether
fortunate or sad, impressed on his soul new habits and tendencies.
As early as 1802, he bad married a Westmorland girl, Mary
Hutchinson, in whom he found one of the greatest blessings of his
life. The quieting influence of this meek Mary, by degrees, though
not at once, was added to, or even took the place of, the more
impulsive and exciting companionship of Dorothy. Mrs Words-
worth's nature told for submission and repose. Besides, the mere
fact of his being married checked gradually, though it did not
suppress altogether, what might be called the guiltless Bohemianism
of his youth. The duties and cares of the father of a large family
grew upon him. Five children were born to the pair between 1803
and 1810, two of whom were to die almost simultaneously in 1812.
As early as 1806, the increase of his family had led to a temporary,
then to a definitive, abandonment of the narrow Dove cottage, to
which clung many of his most poetical memories.
Before robbing him of two of his children, death had already
struck Wordsworth a blow that went near his heart, one that ever
after saddened his life—the loss of his brother John, a sailor ship-
wrecked in February 1805. How deeply he was affected by it is
known, not only by his poems, but from the letters of the Grasmere
household and the journal of Dorothy. There was another cause
of grievous sorrow in the state of the brother of his soul,


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104
William Wordsworth
[CH.
Coleridge, now a prey to opium and drink, whose growing distress
of body and mind was, for years, a depressing, heartrending sight
for his friend, and whose endless idle laments haunted Wordsworth's
sleep as well as his waking thoughts. Whether absent or present,
Coleridge had become an increasing source of anxiety to Words-
worth. Wordsworth's infinite patience and forbearance, in these
circumstances, cannot be too highly praised. But nothing availed.
The friends had to part in 1810, Coleridge betaking himself to
London. More painful than all the rest, Coleridge, in one of his
irresponsible moods, turned in anger against Wordsworth. An
estrangement followed which was never wholly healed, and which
left a lifelong scar in Wordsworth's heart.
Yet, the change in Wordsworth's poetry had still deeper causes
than all these. Though he had little of Coleridge's self-abandon-
ment, he could not help feeling a decay of his strictly poetical
powers—of that imagination and joy on which, till then, he had
erected the structure of his verse. When Coleridge had written
his ode Dejection in 1802, Wordsworth could immediately re-
tort with his optimistic Leech-Gatherer. But, now, he, also, felt
the wane of his 'shaping spirit of imagination. ' The earth no
longer offered him the splendour it had for him in his youth. A
glory had departed from the earth. He had, very early, felt the
fading of that glory, but had long checked the onset of the un-
imaginative years to come by fondly dwelling on the memories of his
childhood. In 1805, he had so copiously drawn from the treasure-
house for his Prelude that the store was becoming exhausted. He
understood the meaning of the depression of his vital spirits : he
was travelling further away from the springs of energy, drawing
nearer to old age and death. This is a sad thought to all
men-it was doubly so to him who had rested all his faith
on the freshness of the senses and feelings, and on their glad-
some guidance.
In want of comfort, he turned to duty. Wordsworth’s Ode to
Duty (1805), produced at the turning-point of his career, is full of
import and significance. It throws a light both on the years that
went before and on those that were to follow. It also reveals an
aspect of the poet's nature not usually apparent. It is common to
speak of him as one of the teachers of duty, and to refer to this
ode (or to its title) as a proof. Now, he distinctly resigns himself
to the control of duty because, at his time of life, a man can do
no better. He abjures with regret the faith that, till then, had
been his and in which duty had no place, the dear belief that joy


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Ode to Duty
105
6
6
and love can guide man to all good—or, rather, he does not
renounce it, but still mutters a hope that better days may come
when, joy and love reigning supreme, duty can be dispensed with.
As for himself, he would still cling to the same creed if he preserved
spirit enough to bear the shocks of change and enjoy his ‘un-
chartered freedom. ' He retires into the arms of duty as a weary
warrior of old might end bis days in the quiet shelter of a
monastery He still feels an uncertain convert: Thee I now
would serve more strictly, if I may. The 'stern lawgiver,' at first
sight, inspires him with more fear than love. He only reconciles
himself with the awful Power' when he has realised that duty
wears a smile on her face, that she is beautiful, that, after all, she
may be identical with love and joy:
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds,
And fragrance in thy footing treads;
Thou dost preserve the Stars from wrong,
And the most ancient Heavens through thee are fresh and strong.
a noble stanza, the loftiest of a poem signalised by the almost
plaintive appeal that is heard throughout and by the longing,
lingering look cast behind.
The Ode to Duty seems to have been written just before the
death of his brother John. He expressly says that he is still
'untried,' and moved by 'no disturbance of soul. ' When the trial
came that darkened the world for him, Wordsworth made it his
chief task to struggle against grief. He resolutely bade farewell
to the heart that lives alone, housed in a dream. ' He welcomed
'fortitude and patient cheer. He called his former creed an
illusion.