Memoirs of William Wordsworth

by George S. Phillips

——‘injuries
Made him more gracious.’

And so utterly had he submitted his own will, or separate interests, to the transcendant voice of his country, which, in the main, he believed to be now speaking authentically for the first time since the foundation of Christendom, that, even against the motions of his own heart, he adopted the hatreds of the young Republic, growing cruel in his purposes towards the ancient oppressors, out of very excess of love for the oppressed; and against the voice of his own order, as well as in stern oblivion of every early friendship, he became the champion of democracy in the struggle everywhere commencing with prejudice, or feudal privileges. Nay, he went so far upon the line of this new crusade against the evils of the world, that he even accepted—with a conscientious defiance of his own inevitable homage to the erring spirit of loyalty embarked upon that cause—a commission in the Republican armies preparing to move against La Vendee; and finally in that cause, as commander-in-chief, he laid down his life.”

RETURNS TO ENGLAND.

Before this last event occurred, however, in the autumn of 1792, Wordsworth had left France for London, where he remained, more or less, for upwards of a year; and it was during this time, that he wrote the unpublished letter to the Bishop of Llandaff, respecting the political opinions of his lordship, contained in an appendix to one of his sermons, a portion of which letter has already been quoted. And although Wordsworth still cleaves to his democratic ideas, and announces them fearlessly to the bishop, he by no means sympathises, as will be seen, with the mad actors in the Revolution. On the contrary, he is pained to agony when he hears of the atrocities committed in the name of liberty; and when, in the year 1794, crossing the sands of Morecomb Bay, during one of his visits to Cumberland, he asked of a horseman who was passing, “What news?” and received for answer, that “Robespierre had perished,” “a passion seized him, a transport of almost epileptic fervour prompted him, as he stood alone upon the perilous waste of sands, to shout aloud anthems of thanksgiving, for this great vindication of Eternal justice.”

Wordsworth was shocked, however, when England, after the death of the king, on January 21st, 1793, declared war with France; and now resolved to withdraw his mind, as much as possible, from the disappointed hopes which politics had brought him as their harvest, and devote himself to poetry. Accordingly, he left London, and once more commenced his ramblings, and poetic labours. He passed a part of the summer of 1793 in the Isle of Wight, hoping to find repose there; but the booming of terrible cannon, every evening, at Portsmouth, and the consciousness that a fleet was equipping in that port against France, made him sad, and full of misgivings as to the result of the enterprise. He soon left the beautiful island, therefore, and wandered, on foot, all over the vast plain of Salisbury—visiting the old and melancholy temple of the ancient Druids—and passing thence by Bristol and Tintern to North Wales. It was during this tour, on Salisbury Plain, that he commenced his poem entitled “Guilt and Sorrow;” a production of considerable vigour and ability.

Having now, in 1793, completed his twenty-third year, his friends again urged him to receive holy orders; but, feeling that he was not inwardly prepared for this important step, he again refused. The principle manifested in this refusal, is all the more worthy and memorable, because the poet had, at this time, no hearthstone, no place that he could call his. His time was employed, therefore, in travelling about, from place to place, and from friend to friend; now to good Robert Jones, in Wales,—the man whom De Quincy conjectures to have had no brains, and for which I owe the said De Quincy a grudge, notwithstanding that I think more highly of him than any other man now living in these realms,—and now to Mr. Rawson’s, of Millhouse, Halifax, who had married Wordsworth’s cousin, Miss Threlkeld, the lady who brought up Dorothy Wordsworth, the dearly beloved sister of the poet. In 1794, Wordsworth writes to his friend Mathews “that his sister is under the same roof with him; but that he is doing nothing, and knows not what will become of him.” All his path lay dark and gloomy before him. He was recommended to study the law, but he absolutely refused; and the Fates seemed to be sporting with him. His love for Dorothy grew in him every day, and it was in the year I am now speaking of, that she, having accompanied him by coach from Halifax to Kendal, walked with him from the latter place to Grasmere—eighteen miles, and from thence to Keswick—fifteen miles further, where they put up at a farm-house, called Windybrow, and became thenceforth all-in-all to each other.

But the grand question for Wordsworth now to solve was, how he should earn his daily bread. His poetry brought no grist to the mill; and he had no friends to fall back on. In this condition, he wrote to his friend Mathews, who was connected with the London Press, to get him employment upon one of the daily or weekly papers, but without success. He projected, likewise, several literary journals, with the same bad fortune.

At last, however, Providence had ordained that a young man, named Raisley Calvert, should die, and leave the poet £900. Poor fellow! He seems to have been born for this special purpose. Wordsworth had known him previous to his illness, and the young man was so impressed with the genius and capabilities of the poet, that he bequeathed his little fortune to him, in order that he might have leisure to develope them. This was in 1795, whilst the negociations respecting the newspaper employment were still pending. It was at Mrs. Sowerby’s hostel, at the sign of the “Robin Hood,” in Penrith, where poor Calvert lay sick—where Wordsworth nursed and tended him,—and where also he died.

This bequest was of the last importance to Wordsworth, for it rescued him from poverty and distress, and enabled him to live.

All the avenues of the world were closed against him; for he was, by nature and education, unfitted for the tradesman’s service, or the clerk’s office, or the schoolman’s desk. He was a solitary dreamer; a lonely, meditative man, who thought golden thoughts, and built starry ladders to heaven, and did all sorts of strange things, similar in character, which unfortunately could not be sold as wares in the public market-place. And it was necessary, if Wordsworth was to be any thing, that he should continue this foolish habit of dreaming, of rhyming, and writing, into which he had so singularly fallen. For in her education of the poet, Nature—who is a wise teacher and developer—always adopts one regular method, although she frequently varies the process: and this method consists in impressing the mind with her manifold forms, colours, sounds, and works, that they may hereafter be reproduced in the glorious imagination of the poet, and shine, like rich mosaics, in the wisdom of his teaching. But for the friend alluded to, however, our poet could never have afforded to have gone through his initiation in the mysteries of poetry, but must have squatted down as a school-master in some suitable town (which De Quincy says he once thought of doing), and have turned professor of flogging Greek into pigmy humanities. Or, perhaps, the Poet of Rydal might have been little better than a scribe-engro, if I may coin a word from George Borrows’ “Romany,” and have ended his life as a political or literary hack, in some Times’ omnibus, or other vehicle of less note and more principle.