THE CIRCLE WIDENED.--MRS. WORDSWORTH.
The year 1802 was a memorable one to Miss Wordsworth no less than to her brother. With interests so inseparable, the happiness of one was that of the other. After the somewhat agitated period of his early life, when he was for a time in danger of shipwreck, and his noble-hearted sister came to his rescue and helped to steer his course into the placid waters of content and well-grounded hope, Wordsworth was in all respects remarkably fortunate, and his life more than usually serene and happy.
Next to the blessing which he possessed in his sister, Wordsworth was largely indebted to his admirable wife. In October of this year he had the good fortune to marry his cousin, Mary Hutchinson, of Penrith--a lady whom it would be almost presumption to "even dare to praise." As his early friend (and they had in childhood attended the same dame's school together) they had strong sympathies in common, with, at the same time, much of that contrast of temperament which, in married life, renders one the complement of the other, and contributes not a little to the completion and unity of the dual life. The marriage of those whom "friendship has early paired" can hardly be otherwise than serenely happy; beginning their life, as they thus do, each with the same store of early memories, they have a common history into which to engraft their new experiences and hopes. Speaking of his marriage, the poet's nephew says: "It was full of blessings to himself, as ministering to the exercise of his tender affections, in the discipline and delight which married life supplies. The boon bestowed upon him in the marriage union was admirably adapted to shed a cheering and soothing influence upon his mind." In a poem, entitled "A Farewell," Wordsworth has thus expressed the thoughts with which he left his cottage with his sister to bring home the bride and friend:--
"Farewell, thou little Nook of mountain-ground, Thou rocky corner in the lowest stair Of that magnificent temple which doth bound One side of our whole vale with grandeur rare; Sweet garden-orchard, eminently fair, The loveliest spot that man hath ever found, Farewell!--we leave thee to Heaven's peaceful care, Thee, and the Cottage which thou dost surround.
Fields, goods, and far-off chattels we have none: These narrow bounds contain our private store Of things earth makes, and sun doth shine upon; Here are they in our sight--we have no more.
"Sunshine and shower be with you, bud and bell!
For two months now in vain we shall be sought; We leave you here in solitude to dwell With these our latest gifts of tender thought; Thou, like the morning, in thy saffron coat, Bright gowan, and marsh-marigold, farewell!
Whom from the borders of the Lake we brought, And placed together near our rocky Well.
"We go for One to whom ye will be dear; And she will prize this Bower, this Indian shed, Our own contrivance, Building without peer!
--A gentle Maid, whose heart is lowly bred, Whose pleasures are in wild fields gathered, With joyousness, and with a thoughtful cheer, Will come to you--to you herself will wed-- And love the blessed life that we lead here.
"Dear Spot! which we have watched with tender heed, Bringing thee chosen plants and blossoms blown Among the distant mountains, flower and weed, Which thou hast taken to thee as thy own, Making all kindness registered and known; Thou for our sakes, though Nature's child indeed, Fair in thyself and beautiful alone, Hast taken gifts which thou dost little need.
"Help us to tell Her tales of years gone by, And this sweet spring, the best beloved and best; Joy will be flown in its mortality; Something must stay to tell us of the rest.
Here, thronged with primroses, the steep rock's breast Glittered at evening like a starry sky; And in this bush our sparrow built her nest, Of which I sang one song that will not die.
"Oh happy Garden! whose seclusion deep Hath been so friendly to industrious hours; And to soft slumbers, that did gently steep Our spirits, carrying with them dreams of flowers, And wild notes warbled among leafy bowers; Two burning months let summer overleap, And, coming back with Her who will be ours, Into thy bosom we again shall creep."
I cannot refrain from also quoting here the exquisite picture of Mrs.
Wordsworth, written after the experience of two years of married life.
"She was a Phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely Apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament: Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair, Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful Dawn; A dancing Shape, an Image gay, To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.
"I saw her upon nearer view, A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin-liberty; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A Creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
"And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A Being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveller between life and death; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect Woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light."
Without the exultant spirits or rare mental endowment of Miss Wordsworth, the poet's wife was eminently fitted for his companionship, one which lasted during the fifty following years. Mr. Lockhart speaks of her as having one of the most benignant tempers that ever diffused peace and cheerfulness through a home. Although not written till some years after, perhaps the present is the most fitting place in which to quote De Quincey's description of Mrs. Wordsworth:[2]
"I saw sufficiently to be aware of two ladies just entering the room, through a doorway opening upon a little staircase. The foremost, a tallish young woman, with the most winning expression of benignity upon her features, advanced to me, presenting her hand with so frank an air, that all embarrassment must have fled in a moment before the native goodness of her manner. This was Mrs. Wordsworth, cousin of the poet, and, for the last five years or more, his wife. She was now mother of two children, a son and a daughter; and she furnished a remarkable proof how possible it is for a woman, neither handsome nor even comely, according to the rigour of criticism--nay, generally pronounced very plain--to exercise all the practical fascination of beauty, through the mere compensatory charms of sweetness all but angelic, of simplicity the most entire, womanly self-respect and purity of heart speaking through all her looks, acts, and movements. _Words_, I was going to have added; but her words were few. In reality, she talked so little, that Mr.
Slave-Trade Clarkson used to allege against 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 genial 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, failed to acquire some power of judging for herself, and putting forth some functions of activity. But, undoubtedly, that was not her element: to feel and to enjoy in 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 adapted to uphold the comfort of his daily life, than a blue-stocking loquacity, or even a legitimate talent for discussion, may be inferred from his verses, beginning--
'She was a Phantom of delight, When first she gleamed upon my sight.'
...I will add to this abstract of her _moral_ portrait, these few concluding traits of her appearance in a physical sense. Her figure was tolerably good. In complexion she was fair, and there was something peculiarly pleasing even in this accident of the skin, for it was accompanied by an animated expression of health, a blessing which, in fact, she possessed uninterruptedly. Her eyes, the reader may already know, were
'Like stars of Twilight fair, Like Twilight, too, her dark brown hair, But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful Dawn.'
Yet strange it is to tell that, in these eyes of vesper gentleness, there was a considerable obliquity of vision; and much beyond that slight obliquity which is often supposed to be an attractive foible in the countenance: this _ought_ to have been displeasing or repulsive; yet, in fact, it was not. Indeed all faults, had they been ten times more and greater, would have been neutralised by that supreme expression of her features, to the unity of which every lineament in the fixed parts, and every undulation in the moving parts of her countenance, concurred, viz., a sunny benignity--a radiant graciousness--such as in this world I never saw surpassed."
It will be observed that De Quincey here speaks rather slightingly of Mrs. Wordsworth's intellect, almost in such a way as suggests a desire to "damn with faint praise." Notwithstanding the unique charm of his style and power of language, of which his extensive learning and reading had made him such a master, his pen, even when portraying his most cherished friends, seems to be slightly touched with an envious venom.
That Mrs. Wordsworth's intellect was of no mean order there are in her life abundant traces. The dignified repose and simplicity of her manner, doubtless, formed a striking contrast to that of the impassioned and ardent Dorothy. But it could hardly be other than a lofty intellect that added two of the most exquisite and thoughtful lines to one of the poet's most charming of pieces. Who, having once read, does not remember the lines on the daffodils?--
"I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
"Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay; Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
"The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed, and gazed, but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought;
"For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, _They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude_; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils."
The lines in italics, suggested by Mrs. Wordsworth, here form the kernel of truth, the central gem around which the lesser beauties are clustered.
What a true "inmate of the heart" the poet's wife was, and continued to be, to him, we well know. Among other tributes to her soothing and sustaining aid might be mentioned the dedication to her of the "White Doe of Rylstone," and many other pieces. Happy is the man who, after twenty years of married companionship, can thus write of his wife:--
"Oh, DEARER far than light and life are dear, Full oft our human foresight I deplore; Trembling, through my unworthiness, with fear That friends, by death disjoined, may meet no more!
"Misgivings, hard to vanquish or control, Mix with the day, and cross the hour of rest; While all the future, for thy purer soul, With 'sober certainties' of love is blest,
"That sigh of thine, not meant for human ear, Tells that these words thy humbleness offend; Yet bear me up--else faltering in the rear Of a steep march; support me to the end.
"Peace settles where the intellect is meek, And Love is dutiful in thought and deed; Through Thee Communion with that Love I seek: The faith Heaven strengthens where _He_ moulds the Creed."
And when many following years had passed over them, and they had together grown old, their love and devotion, which had increased with their years, retained that freshness and fervour of youth which enables aged hearts to rejoice in all things young and beautiful:--
"Morn into noon did pass, noon into eve, And the old day was welcome as the young, As welcome, and as beautiful--in sooth More beautiful, as being a thing more holy: Thanks to thy virtues, to the eternal youth Of all thy goodness, never melancholy; To thy large heart and humble mind, that cast Into one vision, future, present, past."
The marriage of the poet only introduced into the circle another kindred spirit, and did not to any extent deprive him of the society of his sister, who, as before, continued to reside with him, finding a genial companion in one who had long been a cherished friend. Shall we not then say that Wordsworth was in his companionships at this period happy in a degree to which most of his brother bards have been strangers? With these two high-souled and appreciative women to encircle him with their love and minister to him, to stimulate to lofty thought and high endeavour, what wonder that his life and work attained a fulness and completion seldom reached?
_On Reading Miss Wordsworth's Recollections of a Journey in Scotland, in 1803, with her Brother and Coleridge._
"I close the book, I shut my eyes, I see the Three before me rise,-- Loving sister, famous brother, Each one mirrored in the other; Brooding William, artless Dora, Who was to her very core a Lover of dear Nature's face, In its perfect loveliness,-- Lover of her glens and flowers, Of her sunlit clouds and showers, Of her hills and of her streams, Of her moonlight--when she dreams; Of her tears and of her smiles, Of her quaint delicious wiles; Telling what best pleasures lie In the loving, unspoiled eye, In the reverential heart, That in great Nature sees God's art.
"And him--the man 'of large discourse,'
Of pregnant thought, of critic force, That grey-eyed sage, who was not wise In wisdom that in doing lies, But who had 'thoughts that wander through Eternity,'--the old and new.
Who, when he rises on our sight, Spite of his failings, shines all bright, With something of an angel-light.
"We close the book with thankful heart, Father of Lights, to Thee, who art Of every good and perfect gift The Giver,--unto Thee we lift Our souls in prayer, that all may see Thy hand, Thy heart, in all they see."
ANON. IN _The Spectator_.
FOOTNOTES:
[2] For the copious description here given of Mrs. Wordsworth, and that, on a subsequent page, of Miss Wordsworth, I am indebted to the contributions of De Quincey to "Tait's Edinburgh Magazine," which afterwards formed part of his collected works.