“June 17.—W. added to the ‘Ode’ he is writing [‘On the Immortality of the Soul’].
“June 19.—Read Churchill’s ‘Rosciad.’
“July 9.—W. and I set forth to Keswick, on our road to Gallow Hill (to the Hutchinsons’, near Malton, York). On Monday, the 11th, went to Eusemere (the Clarksons’). 13th, walked to Emont Bridge, thence by Greta Bridge. The sun shone cheerfully, and a glorious ride we had over the moors; every building bathed in golden light; we saw round us miles beyond miles, Darlington spire, &c. Thence to Thirsk; on foot to the Hamilton Hills—Rivaux. I went down to look at the ruins; thrushes singing, cattle feeding amongst the ruins of the abbey; green hillocks about the ruins—these hillocks scattered over with grovelets of wild roses, and covered with wild flowers: could have staid in this green quiet spot till evening, without a thought of moving, but W. was waiting for me....
July 30.—Left London between five and six o’clock of the morning, outside the Dover coach. A beautiful morning. The city, St. Paul’s, with the river—a multitude of little boats—made a beautiful sight, as we crossed Westminster Bridge [Wordsworth’s sonnet “On Westminster Bridge” was written on the roof of the Dover coach]; the houses, not overhung by their clouds of smoke, were spread out endlessly; yet the sun shone so brightly, with such a pure light, that there was something like the purity of one of Nature’s own grand spectacles.... Arrived at Calais at four in the morning of July 31st.
Delightful walks in the evening; seeing far off in the west the coast of England, like a cloud, crested with Dover Castle, the evening star, and the glory of the sky: the reflections in the water were more beautiful than the sky itself; purple waves, brighter than precious stones, for ever melting away on the sands.
August 29.—Left Calais, at twelve o’clock in the morning, for Dover ... bathed, and sat on the Dover Cliffs, and looked upon France; we could see the shores almost as plain as if it were but an English lake. Mounted the coach at half-past four; arrived in London at six, August 30. Stayed in London till 22nd September: arrived at Gallow Hill on Friday, September 24th.
On Monday, October 4th, 1802, W. was married, at Brompton church, to Mary Hutchinson.... We arrived at Grasmere, at six in the evening, on October 6th, 1802.”
And that the reader may hereafter have a clear perception of the persons of the poetic household at Grasmere, I will now go to De Quincy, who has drawn portraits of them, which, in the absence of any similar literary venture, are invaluable. Speaking of Mrs. Wordsworth, he says,—she was a tall young woman, with the most winning expression of benignity upon her features that he had ever beheld; her manner frank, and unembarrassed. “She was neither handsome or comely, according to the rigour of criticism, and was generally pronounced plain-looking, but the absence of the practical power and fascination which lie in beauty, were compensated by sweetness all but angelic, simplicity the most entire, womanly self-respect, and purity of heart, speaking through all her looks, acts, and movements. She rarely spoke; so that Mr. Slave-trade Clarkson used to say of her, that she could only say God bless you. Certainly her intellect was not of an active order; but in a quiescent, reposing, meditative way, she appeared always to have a social enjoyment from her own thoughts; and it would have been strange indeed, if she, who enjoyed such eminent advantages of training, from the daily society of her husband and his sister; not only hearing the best parts of English literature daily read, or quoted by short fragments, but also hearing them very often critically discussed in a style of great originality and truth, and by the light of strong poetic feeling,—strange would it have been had any person, dull as the weeds of Lethe in the native constitution of mind, failed to acquire the power of judging for herself, and putting forth some functions of activity. But undoubtedly that was not her element: to feel and to enjoy a luxurious repose of mind—there was her forte and her peculiar privilege; and how much better this was adapted to her husband’s taste, how much more suited to uphold the comfort of his daily life, than a blue-stocking loquacity, or even a legitimate talent for discussion and analytic skill may be inferred from his celebrated verses, beginning:
‘She was a phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;’
and ending with this matchless winding up of