Not the least memorable part of their tour was a visit to Sir—then Mr.—Walter Scott, who was then unknown to fame as a novelist, but who, as Sheriff of Selkirk, and considered a very clever and amiable man, was universally respected. With him they visited Melrose and other places of interest. Miss Wordsworth writes: "Walked up to Ferniehurst—an old hall, in a secluded situation, now inhabited by farmers; the neighbouring ground had the wildness of a forest, being irregularly scattered over with fine old trees. The wind was tossing their branches, and sunshine dancing among the leaves, and I happened to exclaim, 'What a life there is in trees!' on which Mr. Scott observed that the words reminded him of a young lady who had been born and educated on an island of the Orcades, and came to spend a summer at Kelso, and in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh. She used to say that in the new world into which she was come nothing had disappointed her so much as trees and woods; she complained that they were lifeless, silent, and, compared with the grandeur of the ever-changing ocean, even insipid. At first I was surprised, but the next moment I felt that the impression was natural. Mr. Scott said that she was a very sensible young woman, and had read much. She talked with endless rapture and feeling of the power and greatness of the ocean; and, with the same passionate attachment, returned to her native island without any probability of quitting it again. The Valley of the Jed is very solitary immediately under Ferniehurst; we walked down the river, wading almost up to the knees in fern, which in many parts overspread the forest-ground. It made me think of our walks at Alfoxden, and of our own park—though at Ferniehurst is no park at present—and the slim fawns that we used to startle from their couching-places, among the fern at the top of the hill."

The journal contains many short passages which might be quoted to show its poetic character. The following are selected almost at random: "I can always walk over a moor with a light foot; I seem to be drawn more closely to Nature in such places than anywhere else; or, rather, I feel more strongly the power of Nature over me, and am better satisfied with myself, for being able to find enjoyment in what, unfortunately to many persons, is either dismal or insipid." "The opposite bank of the river is left in its natural wildness, and nothing was to be seen higher up but the deep dell, its steep banks being covered with fine trees, a beautiful relief or contrast to the garden, which is one of the most elaborate old things ever seen—a little hanging garden of Babylon." Again, she writes: "The greatest charm of a brook or river is in the liberty to pursue it through its windings; you can then take it in whatever mood you like—silent or noisy, sportive or quiet. The beauties of the brook or river must be sought, and the pleasure is in going in search of them; those of the lake or of the sea come to you of themselves." "The sky was grey and heavy—floating mists on the hillsides, which softened the objects, and where we lost sight of the lake it appeared so near to the sky that they almost touched one another, giving a visionary beauty to the prospect." From the reflection of the crimson clouds the water appeared of a deep red, like melted rubies, yet with a mixture of a grey or blackish hue; the gorgeous light of the sky, with the singular colour of the lake, made the scene exceedingly romantic; yet it was more melancholy than cheerful. With all the power of light from the clouds there was an overcasting of the gloom of evening—a twilight upon the hills."

This tour was rich in its results, not only in the sister's journal but also in the poems of the brother, to which it gave birth. Alluding to these a contributor to Blackwood, so long ago as 1835, says: "Wordsworth in Scotland as in England and Switzerland, and Italy and the Tyrol, is still Wordsworth. Here, too, he reaps:—

'The harvests of a quiet eye

That broods and sleeps on his own heart.'"

His thoughts, and feelings, and visions, and dreams, and fancies, and imaginations, are all his own, by some divine right which no other mortal shares along with him; and, true as they all are to nature, are all distinguished by some indefinable, but delightful charm peculiar to his own being, which assuredly is the most purely spiritual that ever was enshrined in human dust. Safe in his originality he fears not to travel the same ground that has been travelled by thousands—and beaten, and barren, and naked as it may seem to be—he is sure to detect some loveliest family of wild flowers that had lurked unseen in some unsuspected crevices—to soothe his ears with a transient murmur, the spirit of the wilderness awakens—the bee that had dropped on the moss as if benumbed by frost—the small moorland bird revivified by sunshine, sent from heaven for the poet's sake, goes twittering in circles in the air above his head, nor is afraid that its nest will be trodden by his harmless feet; and should a sudden summer shower affront the sunshine, it is that a rainbow may come and go for his delight, and leave its transitory splendours in some immortal song. On the great features of Nature—lochs and mountains, among which he has lived his days—he looks with a serene but sovereign eye, as if he held them all in fee, and they stood there to administer to the delight—we must not say the pride—of him, 'Sole king of rocky Cumberland;' and true it is that from the assemblage of their summits, in the sunset, impulses of deeper mood have come to him in solitude than ever visited the heart of any other poet.... The true Highland spirit is there; but another spirit, too, which Wordsworth carries with him wherever he goes in the sanctuary of his own genius, and which colours all it breathes on—lending lovelier light to the fair, and more awful gloom to the great, and ensouling what else were but cold death."

[CHAPTER X.]
LIFE AT GRASMERE. CAPTAIN WORDSWORTH.

A visit paid by Coleridge to Grasmere, shortly after the Scottish tour, is thus alluded to in a letter written by him to his friend, Mr. Thomas Wedgewood, in January, 1804. He says:—"I left my home December 20th, 1803, intending to stay a day and a half at Grasmere and then walk to Kendal, whither I had sent all my clothes and viatica, from thence to go to London, and to see whether or no I could arrange my pecuniary matters, so as, leaving Mrs. Coleridge all that was necessary to her comforts, to go myself to Madeira, having a persuasion strong as the life within me, that one winter spent in a really warm, genial climate, would completely restore me.... I stayed at Grasmere (Mr. Wordsworth's) a month; three-fourths of the time bedridden; and deeply do I feel the enthusiastic kindness of Wordsworth's wife and sister, who sat up by me, the one or the other, in order to awaken me at the first symptoms of distressful feeling; and even when they went to rest continued often and often to weep and watch for me even in their dreams."

The death of her brother, Captain John Wordsworth, in the early part of 1805, was a great sorrow to Miss Wordsworth, as well as to the other members of the family. Captain Wordsworth was a younger brother of the poet, and a great favourite with him and his sister. In consequence of their early orphaned condition, and subsequent separation, they had not enjoyed much of each other's society until the time of Wordsworth's residence at Grasmere. Previously to this, and since the two brothers had been at school together at Hawkshead, they had only occasionally seen each other.