visiting the Hoares at Hampstead. Diary : * Haydon records in his "May 22d, 1842.-Wordsworth called to-day, and we went to church together. There was no seat to be got at the chapel near us, belonging to the rectory of Paddington, and we sat among publicans and sinners. I determined to try him, so advised our staying, as we could hear more easily. He agreed like a Christian; and I was much interested in seeing his venerable white head close to a servant in livery, and on the same level. The servant in livery fell asleep, and so did Wordsworth." More interesting is the record in the Journal of Caroline Fox: "Hampstead, June 4, 1842.t-Gurney Hoare brought us the good news that William Wordsworth was staying at old Mrs. Hoare's; so thither he took us. He is a man of middle height and not of very striking appearance, the lower part of the face retreating a little; his eye of a somewhat French diplomatic character, with heavy eyelids, and none of the flashing which one connects with poetic genius. When speaking earnestly, his manner and voice become extremely energetic; and the peculiar emphasis, and even accent, he throws into some of his words add considerably to their force. He evidently loves the monologue style of conversation, but shows great candour in giving due consideration to any remarks which others may make. His manner is simple, his general appearance that of the abstract thinker, whom his subject gradually warms into poetry. Now for some of these subjects: Mamma spoke of the beauty of Rydal, and asked whether it did not rather spoil him for common scenery. 'Oh no,' he said, 'it rather opens my eyes to see the beauty there is in all *Vol. iii. p. 218. + Journals of Caroline Fox, vol. i. pp. 302-6. God is everywhere, and thus nothing is common or devoid of beauty. No, madam, it is the feeling that instructs the seeing. Wherever there is a heart to feel, there is also an eye to see. Even in a city you have light and shade, reflections, probably views of the water and trees, and a blue sky above you, and can you want for beauty with all these? People often pity me while residing in a city, but they need not, for I can enjoy its characteristic beauties as well as any.' I said that Lamb's rhapsody on London might not then have been sent to him in a spirit necessarily ironical. 'Oh no,' he answered, and Lamb's abuse of the country and his declared detestation of it was all affected; he enjoyed it and entered into its beauties; besides, Lamb had too kindly and sympathetic a nature to detest anything.' Barclay asked him about Hartley Coleridge. He thinks that there is much talent but no genius in his poetry, and calls him an eminently clever man. One thing he has learnt that poetry is no pastime, but a serious earnest work, demanding unspeakable study. 'Hartley has no originality; whenever he attempts it, it is altogether a mistake; he is so fond of quaintness and contrariety, which is quite out of keeping with a true poet; and then he is of that class of extreme radicals who can never mention a Bishop or a King, from King David downward, without some atrabilious prefix or other. Surely this is excessively narrow and excessively vain, to put yourself in opposition to the opinions and institutions which have so long existed with such acknowledged benefit; there must be something in them to have attracted the sympathies of ages and generations. I hold that the degree in which poets dwell in sympathy with the past marks exactly the degree of their poetical faculty. Shelley, you see, was one of these, and what did his poetry come to?' 'But,' said I, 'some would not be true to themselves unless they gave a voice to their yearnings after the ideal rather than the actual.' Ah, but I object to the perpetual ill-humour with things around them,' he replied; and ill-humour is no spiritual condition which can turn to poetry. Shakspeare never declaimed against Kings or Bishops, but took the world as he found it.' He spoke of S. T. Coleridge, and the want of will which characterised both him and Hartley; the amazing effort which it was to him to will anything was indescribable; but he acknowledged the great genius of his poetry. Talked of superstition, and its connection with a young state of society; 'Why, we are all children; how little we know! I feel myself more a child than ever, for I am now in bondage to habits and prejudices from which I used to be free.' Barclay quoted Emerson's advice to imitate the independence of the schoolboy, who is sure of his dinner, which greatly pleased him. 'No We got, I forget how, to the subject of the Divine permission of Evil, which he said he has always felt the hardest problem of man's being. When four years old he had quaked on his bed in sharp conflict of spirit on this subject. thing but Faith can keep you quiet with such awful problems pressing on you,-faith that what you know not now, you will know in God's good time. It is curious, in that verse of St. Paul's, about Faith, Hope, and Charity (or love), that Charity should be placed the highest of the three; it must be because it is so universal and limitless in its operations; but faith is the highest individual experience, because it conquers the pride of the understanding-man's greatest foe. Oh, how this mechanical age does battle against the faith: it is altogether calculated to puff up the pride of the understanding, while it contains no counteracting principle which can regulate the feelings. The love of the beautiful is lost in notions of shallow utility, and men little think that the thoughts which are embodied in form around them, and on which the peasant's shoon can trample, are worth more than all their steam-engines and railroads.' But this cannot last, there must be a reaction,' said I. 6 'No,' he said, it cannot last; God loves His earth, and it cannot last. I have raised my voice loudly against it, particularly in the poem on the treaty of Cintra; and others have taken it up, and under many forms have given the world to know that there are thoughts in man by which he holds communion with his God, of far higher moment than any outward act or circumstance whatever."" Returning to Haydon's Diary we find the following memoranda: "June 14th, 1842.†-Out on business; saw dear Wordsworth, who promised to sit at three. Wordsworth sat and looked venerable, but I was tired with the heat and very heavy, and he had an inflamed lid, and could only sit in one light-a light I detest, for it hurts my eyes. I made a successful sketch. He comes again to-morrow. We talked of our merry dinner with C. Lamb and John Keats. He then fell asleep, and so did I nearly, it was so hot but I suppose we are getting dozy. 16th.-Wordsworth breakfasted early with me, and we had a good sitting. He was remarkably well, and in better spirits, and we had a good set-to. I had told him Canova said of Fuseli, 'Ve ne sono in gli arte due cose, il fuoco e la fiamma.' 'He forgot the third,' said Wordsworth, and that is il fumo, of which he had plenty.' His knowledge of Art is extraordinary. He detects errors in hands like a connoisseur or artist. We spent a very pleasant morning. We talked again of our old friends, and to ascertain his real height I measured him, and found him, to my wonder, eight heads high, or 5 ft. 97 in., and of very fine, heroic pro * See the two sonnets written in 1808, vol. iv. pp. 207-8. portions. He made me write them down, in order, he said, to show Mrs. Wordsworth my opinion of his proportions. The time came, and he went wishing me prosperity, and blessing me with all his honest heart." Wordsworth returned to the north in the beginning of June. In July he received the following letter from the author of The Christian Year, who had been travelling in the Lake District, and had received some directions from Wordsworth what to see and to do. "Lodore, July 18, 1842. MY DEAR SIR,—I return the tract you lent me with many thanks, and should hope that it might be of good use in directing men's attention to those old views at which they point, and in helping to convince them that they are not the capricious dream of a modern party. We cannot tell how to thank you enough for your great kindness to us, and Mrs. Wordsworth's! Among other things, your mention of Lodore has proved of the greatest use to us; we came on straight here from Keswick, and found everything very comfortable, and the masses of mountain around us have been putting on great variety of colours to entertain us. We went twice to church yesterday by water, and admired the new church on the whole very much. To-day we have been to Seathwaite, and sitting under the four yew-trees, and my wife liked it so well, and feels so strong, that we are going to get ponies, and try to pass into Wastdale to-morrow, if the weather continues fine. There is something of adventure in this, which reconciles us to entering the dale at the wrong end. We halted at Wytheburn on Saturday, and she made a little sketch for the Waggoner's sake. Indeed, you are our constant companion here, both in prose and verse, and I only wish I had more eyes, and mind, and time to profit by your help. With our best compliments and thanks to Mrs. Wordsworth, believe me, my dear sir, respectfully and gratefully yours, J. KEBLE." |